2

HOMER AND HEROIC HISTORY

Jonas Grethlein

‘Homer is to be taken seriously.’1 Inspired by new excavations in Hisarlιk, Joachim Latacz has recently renewed the argument for the value of the Iliad as a source for a war that a Greek alliance had waged against Troy around 1200 BCE. While this thesis was granted plenty of attention in the mass media, Latacz did not meet with much approval from his peers, who reacted just as sceptically as more than a hundred years ago Wilamowitz had responded to attempts at identifying details of the Iliad’s topography in Hisarlιk in the wake of Schliemann’s excavations: ‘One does not rant about it, but one does not take it seriously either.’² In antiquity, on the other hand, the Trojan War and the return of Odysseus were considered historical events. Of course, beginning with Xenophanes, Hecataeus and Pindar, Homer was criticised for exaggerations, but not even Thucydides, hailed as the father of critical historiography, cast doubt on the historicity of the Trojan War. In the Archaeology, he even considers the numbers given for the ship crews in the Catalogue of Ships to calculate the size of the expedition to Troy (1.10.2–5). Not only were Achilles, Helen and Odysseus deemed historical, but the epic presentation of the past was crucial for historical thinking in ancient Greece. The Homeric heroes figured prominently in art, politics and education.³ Epic also left a strong imprint on other commemorative genres such as tragedy, epinician poetry and historiography. Given the reign of teleological models for the ‘grip of the past’ on the Greeks, it bears pointing out that the establishment of historiography did not eliminate memory in epic.

The Iliad and Odyssey not only present canonical accounts of what Greeks took for their archaic past. Embedded in the narratives of the Trojan War and Odysseus’nostos, we also find a previous past. Both the narrator and the characters frequently refer to what we could call the ‘epic plupast’, the past that preceded the main action of the song.4 The ‘epic plupast’ can be read as a mise en abyme, that is to say the embedded past of the heroes figures as a mirror to the heroic past presented in epic poetry.⁵ In the first two sections of this chapter, I will use an examination of the ‘epic plupast’ as a way of approaching the epic presentation of the past. The first will explore the relation between past and present, the second will be concerned with the mediality of memory. Then, in a third section, I will directly discuss the view of history underlying the epic, in particular the issue of theodicy. Finally, I will look beyond Homer to historiography and argue that even where Greek historians define themselves against epic they share common ground with it.

I  PAST AND PRESENT

When Aeneas encounters Achilles on the Trojan plain, he boasts about his genealogy, which he traces back over six generations to Dardanus (Il. 20.213–41). The temporal reach of this analepsis is exceptional; in most cases the embedded past stretches back only one or two generations. This limited extent of the ‘epic plupast’ ties in nicely with the anthropological observation that in oral societies memory only includes the most recent generations, which are directly linked to the mythical origin.6 It is striking, however, that in Homer the very recent past is already separated from the present by a gap. At the beginning of the Iliad, Nestor invokes his age in order to lend authority to his voice in the conflict between Achilles and Agamemnon (1.259–64):

ἀλλὰ πίθεσθ’· ἄμφω δέ νεωτὲρω ἐστὸν ἐμεῖο.

ἤδη γάρ ποτ’ ἐγὼ καὶ ἀρείοσιν ἠέ περ ὑμῖν

ἀνδράσιν ὡμίλησα, καὶ οὔ ποτέ μ’ οἵ γ’ ἀθέριζον.

οὐ γάρ πω τοίους ἲδον ἀνέρας, οὐδέ ἲδωμαι,

οἷον Πειρίθοόν τε Δρύαντά τε ποιμένα λαῶν

Καινέα τ’ Ἐξάδιόν τε καὶ ἀντίθεον Πολύφημον.

Yet be persuaded. Both of you are younger than I am.

Yes, and in my time I have dealt with better men than

you are, and never once did they disregard me. Never

yet have I seen nor shall see again such men as these were,

men like Peirithoös, and Dryas, shepherd of the people,

Kaineus and Exadios, godlike Polyphemos.

and (1.271–2):

καὶ μαχόμην κατ’ ἔμ’ αὐτὸν ἐγώ· κείνοισι δ’ ἂν οὔ τις

τῶν οἳ νῦν βροτοί εἰσιν ἐπιχθόνιοι μαχέοιτο.

And I fought single-handed, yet against such men no one

of the mortals now alive upon earth could do battle.

The heroes mentioned form part of the generation previous to the Greeks fighting at Troy, but they seem to belong to a different world. This tendency to distance the recent past also comes to the fore in Phoenix’s speech in the embassy scene. Introducing the exemplum of Meleager, Phoenix remarks (9.527–8):

μέμνημαι τόδε ἔργον ἐγ πάλαι, οὔ τι νέον γε,

ὡς ἦν, ἐν δ’ ὑμῖν ἐρέω πάντεσσι φίλοισιν.

For I remember this action of old, it is not a new thing,

and how it went; you are all my friends, I will tell it among you.

Phoenix presents his story as belonging to an age long gone, but according to the epic genealogy Meleager is only one generation older than the heroes of the Trojan War.

The distancing of the ‘epic plupast’ mirrors the distance of the epic past which is not linked to the present of the performance. There are only vague references to ‘later men’ or to a deluge which will erase all traces of the walls built by the Greeks (Il. 12.3–33), but otherwise the epic past unfolds as a time sui generis. The Homeric heroes are larger than life just as the heroes of the ‘epic plupast’ tower over Ajax and his peers. The spear of Peleus is so heavy that only Achilles can wield it (Il. 16.140–4; 19.387–91) and Nestor’s cup can only be lifted by Nestor himself, relic of a previous generation of heroes (Il. 11.632–7). In the same vein, Diomedes, Ajax, Hector and Aeneas throw stones that ‘men as they are today’ could not even move (Il. 5.302–4; 12.381–3; 12.445–9; 20.285–7).

The gap between epic past and present of performance ought not to be mistaken for the difference which we feel separates our time from the past. Since around 1800 CE western historical thinking has centred on an awareness of the autonomy of epochs which is nicely captured in the opening words of The Go-Between: ‘The past is a foreign country.’7 The ideas of progress and development created an awareness of the differences between ages. The epics, on the other hand, do not envisage a development which leads from the heroic age to the present. As the references to ‘men as they are today’ reveal, the difference between epic past and the present is rather quantitative than qualitative.

Some features which are often taken as bearing an awareness of specific features of Mycenaean culture can be explained more satisfyingly along other lines.⁸ Scholars have, for example, seen in the bronze weapons used by Homeric heroes an awareness that iron came into wider use only after the breakdown of the Mycenaean culture. However, if the bronze weapons in the epic are owed to such a historical consciousness, the Homeric references to iron, notably for agricultural tools, are hard to explain.⁹ Particularly challenging is the club of Areithous, which dates from a time even before Nestor’s, but is nonetheless made of iron (Il. 7.141).¹⁰ Thus, the use of bronze weapons does not attest a consistent awareness of specific differences between epochs, but seems rather owed to the shininess of bronze which is apt to express the glamour of heroic combat.

Despite the distancing, the ‘epic plupast’ is strongly linked to the epic past. Demodocus and Phemius sing of the past in order to delight the heroes, but the passages quoted so far suggest that often present interests prompt the heroes to turn to their past. The ‘epic plupast’ is in the firm grip of the epic past. There are three major modes in which the heroes link their past to the present. First, there can be a causal link. Odysseus, for example, tells his hosts of his travels in order to explain how he has come to them. While causal links between past and present seem to be limited to the heroes’ own experiences, two other modes are used to reach back further while still tying the past to the present.11 In tradition, the past is linked to the present by the idea of continuity. This is most obvious in genealogies like the one already mentioned: Aeneas unfolds the history of his family after Achilles has slighted him. He invokes the glory of his ancestors, their wealth and close contact with the gods, in order to buttress his own position and to demonstrate that he and his opponent are on a par.¹² Tradition can also be adduced as a standard to which heroes have to live up – noblesse oblige. For example, Athena as well as Agamemnon reminds Diomedes of the model of his father (Il. 4.372–5; 5.801–11). Hector invokes his and his father’s fame when he rejects Andromache’s request to stay at home (Il. 6.444–6). In the same scene, he projects this family tradition into the future and prays that his son will be a mighty ruler of Troy (Il. 6.476–81).

The third and arguably most prominent mode which links the ‘epic plupast’ to the epic past is the exemplum.¹³ While tradition establishes a continuum that reaches from the past to the present, exempla directly juxtapose a past event with the present. The heroes frequently evoke parallels from the past, as does Phoenix when he tries to persuade Achilles to join the ranks of the Greeks again by telling the story of Meleager (Il. 9.524–99): Meleager too had been caught by anger and had withdrawn from the defence of his polis. He rejected the gifts he was offered, returned to battle only at the last minute and thereby gambled away his gifts. While Phoenix argues ex negativo – Achilles ought to abandon his anger while he is still offered gifts – exempla in Homer tend to be positive because of the superiority of previous generations. The gap allows conclusions to be drawn a maiore ad minus. The prominence of exempla also underscores my argument that in Homer the past is not perceived to be qualitatively different from the present. Whereas our focus on historical developments and specific features of epochs undermines the historia magistra vitae topos,¹⁴ in Homer the quantitative difference provides exempla with special authority.

The three modes in which the Homeric heroes link their past to the present also apply to the Greeks’ reception of the epic past. I have already mentioned that the heroic world is presented as a time sui generis, but the Greeks linked it to their present by causality, through tradition and in exempla. Herodotus, for instance, mentions the abduction of Helen as an element in the chain of rapes which, according to Persian wise men, led to the Persian Wars (1.4). Aristocrats were prone to trace back their ancestry to Homeric heroes, as did Miltiades, who held Philaus, the son of Ajax, to be the founder of his family,15 and Andocides, who claimed to be descended from Odysseus and Hermes.¹⁶ Not only individuals but also communities invoked their epic heritage to strengthen their positions in the here and now. Aristotle and Plutarch, for instance, report that the Athenians drew on the Iliad to back up their claims to Salamis.¹⁷

Finally, the Homeric epics provided the Greeks with a treasure chest of exempla. The exemplary use of the epic past could serve not only legitimising functions, as when Alexander stylises himself as Achilles redivivus,¹⁸ but also a better understanding of the present. The frequent comparisons of the Persian Wars with the capture of Troy are owed to the need for a template for recent experiences as well as to the desire for glorification.¹⁹ However, the significance of the heroic past could be challenged in political controversies. In Thucydides, the Athenians start their speech at a meeting in Sparta with a reflection on how to present their claims most effectively (1.73.2): ‘Now as for the remote past (τὰ . . . πάνυ παλαιά), what need is there to speak of events for which the audience would have the evidence of hearsay accounts rather than their personal experience?’ While the reason for the rejection of myths is reminiscent of Thucydides’ own methodological reflections,20 the explicit privileging of history over myth is amply paralleled in our corpus of fourth-century oratory. Isocrates, for example, considers possible exempla for successfully mastering difficult situations (6.42):

Now if I were to recount the wars of old which they fought against the Amazons or the Thracians or the Peloponnesians who under the leadership of Eurystheus invaded Attica, no doubt I should be thought to speak on matters ancient and remote from the present situation; but in their war against the Persians, who does not know from what hardships they arose to great good fortune?

While the bigger-than-life frame gave myths special authority for questions of identity and moral conduct, it seems to have undermined their value in more pragmatic interactions.²¹

The ‘epic plupast’, it can be summed up, mirrors essential features of the epic past. The world of the heroes is separated from the present by a gap just as the ‘epic plupast’ is distanced from the Homeric world. At the same time, its superiority provides it with particular weight. The epic was used to endow tradition with authority and provided exempla which legitimised claims or permitted a better understanding of the present.

II  MEDIA OF MEMORY

Besides shedding light on the relation between epic past and present of performance, the ‘heroic plupast’ also illustrates the mediality of epic memory. The quaestio Homerica is still highly controversial, with continental scholars tending towards a unitarian approach and many Anglo-American classicists favouring oralist models, but nobody will seriously deny that the Iliad and Odyssey rest on oral traditions and that in the archaic and classical ages the epics circulated in the form of performances. Poetic performances embedded in the Homeric narratives have therefore been fruitfully examined as cases of mise en abyme.22 The Odyssey in particular contains such implicit reflections: in Ithaca, the bard Phemios sings of the return of the Achaeans (Od.1.325–7), and the Phaeacian singer Demodocus presents the quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles (Od. 8.72–82), Ares’ affair with Aphrodite (Od. 8.266–366) and the ruse of the wooden horse (Od.8.499–520). In addition, Odysseus, whose narrative of his adventures fills Books 9–13, is compared to a singer by Alcinous and Eumaius (Od. 11.367–9; 17.518–21).²³

It is generally assumed that the Homeric epics were performed at such festivals as the Panathenaia.²⁴ At the same time, the songs embedded in the Odyssey suggest banquets as a further occasion for epic performances. Needless to say, such ἀναθήματα δαιτός (Od. 1.152; 21.430)²⁵ cannot have embraced the entire text of our Iliad and Odyssey, but the recital of such episodes as the Doloneia or the toxou thesis seems possible.²⁶ It is also tempting to find encapsulated in the reaction of the heroes to the rhapsodic recitals a reflection on the reception of the epics.²⁷ As the patronymic of Phemius, Terpiades (Od. 22.330), indicates, bardic performances are supposed to bring the audience pleasure (e.g. Od. 8.367–9).²⁸ However, when Phemius sings of the return of the Greeks from Troy, Penelope asks him to ‘leave off singing this sad / song, which always afflicts the dear heart deep inside me’ (Od. 1.340–1). In the same way, the songs of his quarrel with Achilles and the wooden horse cause Odysseus so much pain that he breaks into tears (Od. 8.33–6, 521–31). Both are too much involved in the sorrows sung of and thereby prove Aristotle’s later observation that a certain degree of distance is necessary for the poetic arousal of pity and indulgence.29 If one is also willing to take Odysseus’ Cretan stories into account, then the Odyssey contains a reflection not only on its performance and reception, but also on the poetics of epic, particularly the delicate balance between fictional and factual elements, as for example Simon Goldhill has shown.³⁰

In this section, I would like to highlight another aspect which has received less attention: the ‘epic plupast’ is preserved not only in song and narrative, but also in material objects, or, to be more precise, in many cases it is relics which trigger stories about the past.³¹ Mostly through gift-exchange, but also through inheritance and theft,³² material objects change their owners and thereby accumulate stories, as illustrated by the example of Odysseus’ bow, which prompts the narrator to a lengthy flashback (Od. 21.11–41): Odysseus received the bow from Iphitus, whom he met in the house of Ortilochus. Their guest-friendship was cut short when Iphitus was received and killed by another guest-friend, Heracles, who was keen on his horses. The digression on the bow illustrates the subtle narrative use which the Homeric narrator makes of the ‘biography of goods’:³³ as a gift from a guest-friend, the bow will serve Odysseus well in his punishment of the suitors who have breached the laws of hospitality.³⁴ Furthermore, the story of Iphitus and Heracles refracts the topic of hospitality.³⁵ The commemorative function of gift-exchange comes to the fore when Alcinous gives a cup to Odysseus ‘so that all his days he may remember me / as he makes libation at home to Zeus and the other immortals’ (Od. 8.432–3).

Not only circulating commodities but also monuments evoke the memory of the past. This is most obvious for tombs, such as the tomb of Ilus which is used for assemblies (Il. 10.414–16) and thereby inscribes the memory of Priam’s grandfather into everyday reality. Hector reflects on, and inverts, the commemorative function of tombs when he speculates about the tomb of his future opponent which will spread his fame (Il. 7.87–91):36

καί ποτέ τις εἲπησι καὶ ὀψιγόνων ἀνθρώπων,

νηῒ πολυκλήδι πλέων ἐπὶ οἲνοπα πόντον·

‘ἀνδρὸς μὲν τόδε σῆμα πάλαι κατατεθνηῶτος,

ὅν ποτ’ ἀριστεύοντα κατέκτανε φαίδιμος Ἕκτωρ.’

ὥς ποτέ τις ἐρέει, τὸ δ’ ἐμὸν κλὸος οὔ ποτ’ ὀλεῖται.

And some day one of the men to come will say, as he sees it,

one who in his benched ship sails on the wine-blue water:

‘This is the mound of a man who died long ago in battle,

who was one of the bravest, and glorious Hector killed him.’

So will he speak some day, and my glory will not be forgotten.

There are also buildings which have not been erected for commemorative purposes, but nonetheless carry stories about the past. The walls of Troy are a particularly interesting case in point: one wall bears the memory of Poseidon’s and Apollo’s servitude to Laomedon (Il. 7.451–3; cf. Il. 21.441–7). Another wall testifies to their revenge: Laomedon did not pay the gods for their service, and Poseidon sent a sea-monster to him. In order to rid the city of this plague, Heracles erected a wall (Il. 20.144–8). When he did not receive the promised reward of Laomedon’s partly divine horses, he sacked the city in revenge.³⁷ During their siege, the Greeks are building yet another wall which will attest to the Trojan War. Taken together, the walls serve as an ‘archaeological history’ of Troy.

This embedded ‘archaeology of the past’ illustrates the relation between epic and relics. Many scholars are still under the spell of the idea that the Homeric epics have preserved knowledge of historical events in the Mycenaean age. However, comparisons of the epics with archaeological evidence have demonstrated that, by and large, the heroic world mirrors and refracts the reality of the early archaic age just as comparative evidence about oral traditions undermines the thesis of a stable tradition through the Dark Ages.38 Most of the Mycenaean elements in Homer, such as the boar-tusk helmet and Nestor’s cup, are material objects. They do not prove a continuous epic tradition from the Mycenaean to the archaic ages, but were probably inspired by relics still visible in the archaic age.³⁹ The reuse of Mycenaean gems and the intensification of hero cult in archaic Greece attest to a strong interest in old objects.⁴⁰ I would even argue that Mycenaean ruins and finds such as weapons were a major source of inspiration for the rise of Greek epic.⁴¹ The relevance of ruins and old objects for the construction of a heroic world in Greek epic is mirrored by the strong material side of the ‘epic plupast’.

Let me push this interpretation further by suggesting that the Homeric epic uses the ‘archaeology of the past’ to throw into relief its own commemorative function.⁴² The wall built by the Greeks at Troy is so great that Poseidon is afraid that it will outshine his wall. At the same time, the wall of the Greeks will be damaged during combat (Il.12.256–62; 14.55–6; 15.361–6) and, as the narrator remarks in a long prolepsis, will eventually be annihilated by a deluge (12.3–33). The instability of memory preserved by material objects comes to the fore also in other passages. For example, before the chariot race Nestor shows his son Antilochus a sign which will help him to steer his course (Il. 23.326–33). Not even ‘Mr Memory’ is able to tell whether the stump with two white stones leaned against it is the ‘grave-mark of someone who died long ago’ or ‘was set as a racing goal by men who lived before our time’ (Il. 23.331–3).⁴³ Monuments such as walls and tombs are unreliable and limited as bearers of memory and thereby highlight the claim of epic to establish ‘imperishable fame’ in the medium of song.

III  THEODICY

In the first two sections of this chapter, I have used the ‘epic plupast’ to explore the relation between past and present and the mediality of memory in Homer. I would now like to approach directly the epic presentation of the past and examine how Homer envisages human life in time. In mentioning heroic suffering and divine agency, the proems of Iliad and Odyssey highlight two important aspects of their narratives and raise the question of theodicy. Are the sorrows of Achilles & Co. embedded in a system of divine justice? According to the traditional view, the Odyssey presents a more advanced conception than the Iliad:44 whereas the gods appear as arbitrary and amoral in the earlier poem, the later one features gods concerned about righteous conduct and is therefore a step towards the cosmic order we find in Hesiod. Such evolutionary models of divine justice in Greek literature, however, have been forcefully challenged by Hugh Lloyd-Jones.⁴⁵ More recently, William Allan has made a case that the Iliad and Odyssey share a common belief about human and divine justice which also underlies the hexameter corpus of Hesiod, the Epic Cycle and the Homeric Hymns.⁴⁶ Allan assembles on the one hand passages from the Iliad which testify to a divine concern with moral issues; on the other, he shows that in the Odyssey the gods have not lost their unpredictable and troubling side.

There are indeed passages in the Iliad which view the fall of Troy as punishment for Paris’ crime. A particularly interesting case in point, not discussed by Allan, is a prayer of Menelaus in Il. 3.351–4:

Ζεῦ ἂνα, δὸς τείσασθαι, ὅ με πρότερος κάκ’ ἔοργεν,

δῖον Ἀλέξανδρον, καὶ ἐμῆις ὑπὸ χερσὶ δάμασσον,

ὄφρα τις ἐρρίγησι καὶ ὀψιγόνων ἀνθρώπων

ξεινοδόκον κακὰ ῥέξαι, ὅ κεν φιλότητα παράσχηι.

Zeus, lord, grant me to punish the man who first did me injury,

brilliant Alexandrus, and beat him down under my hands’ strength

that any one of the men to come may shudder to think of

doing evil to a kindly host, who has given him friendship.

The reference to ‘men to come’ gives the passage a meta-poetic touch and suggests reading the Iliad as testimony to the workings of divine retribution.

At the same time, the programmatic statement of Zeus at the beginning of the Odyssey, while foregrounding the idea of divine punishment, does not exclude the gods also sending sorrows to humans who have committed no crimes (Od. 1.32–4):47

ὢ πόποι, οἷον δή νυ θεοὺς βροτοὶ αἰτιόωνται.

ἐξ ἡμέων γάρ φασι κάκ’ ἔμμεναι· οἱ δὲ καὶ αὐτοὶ

σφῇσιν ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὑπὲρ μόρον ἄλγε’ ἔχουσιν.

Oh for shame, how the mortals put the blame upon us

gods, for they say evils come from us, but it is they, rather,

who by their own recklessness win sorrow beyond what is given.

There are entire episodes in the Odyssey which are hard to explain for advocates of a new moral order: the Phaeacians who receive Odysseus in accordance with the laws of hospitality definitely do not deserve Poseidon transforming their escort into stone.⁴⁸ The same god’s revenge for the blinding of Polyphemus seems barely justified given that Odysseus was about to serve as the Cyclops’ breakfast.⁴⁹ The destruction of Odysseus’ companions after their sojourn on Thrinacia is at least ambiguous. They refrain from touching the cattle of Helios for a long time and lay hands on them only when, forced to stay by adverse winds, they start starving.⁵⁰

While agreeing with Allan that the moral universes of the Iliad and Odyssey are both not only more multifaceted than the traditional juxtaposition has it, but also share basic patterns of belief, I think his reading ignores crucial aspects of the Iliad and thereby plays down weighty differences from the Odyssey. These differences are due not to another view of the divine, let alone to progress in theology, but to the story and discourse of the epics. To start with the level of the story, whilst the Iliad centres on the mortality of its hero, Achilles, and paradoxically foregrounds his death by only adumbrating it,51 the Odyssey deals with the survival of its hero. Odysseus is subjected to the most dire experiences, from being tossed around by the sea to watching Polyphemus eat his companions, and further trials await him after the end of the poem,⁵² but nonetheless he returns, is reunited with his family and recaptures his regal position on Ithaca.

In addition to this point, which is well known and has led to the juxtaposition of the two Homeric epics as tragic and comic,⁵³ the narrative form of presentation also contributes to the difference between them. There are passages in the Iliad which suggest taking the fall of Troy as punishment for the abduction of Helen (see above), but this falls short of explaining the pains inflicted upon the Greeks. More importantly, the narrative of the Iliad highlights not so much the moral aspect of suffering as the force of contingency. The condicio heroica is presented as an exacerbated version of the condicio humana. Not only do the heroes frequently reflect on their fragility, most prominently Glaucus in the simile of the leaves (Il. 6.146–9) and Achilles in the parable of the jars (Il. 24.524–33), but also the narrative presentation of combat underscores how little control the heroes have over their lives. The merciless rule of chance on the battlefield comes to the fore in the topos of the ‘missing hit’.⁵⁴ A hero aims at an opponent, whom he misses, but hits another, who becomes an unintended victim (Il. 8.300–8):

ἦ ῥα, καὶ ἄλλον ὀϊστὸν ἀπὸ νευρῆφιν ἲαλλεν

Ἕκτορος ἀντικρύ, βαλέειν δέ ἑ ἵετο θυμός·

καὶ τοῦ μέν ῥ’ ἀφάμαρθ’, ὅ δ’ ἀμύμονα Γοργυθίωνα

υἱὸν ἐῢν Πριάμοιο κατὰ στῆθος βάλεν ἰῶι,

τόν ῥ’ ἐξ Αἰσύμηθεν ὀπυιομένη τέκε μήτηρ

καλὴ Καστιάνειρα δέμας εἰκυῖα θεῆισιν·

μήκων δ’ ὣς ἑτέρωσε κάρη βάλεν, ἥ τ’ ἐνὶ κήπωι

καρπῶι βριθομένη νοτίηισί τε εἰαρινῆισιν·

ὣς ἑτέρωσ’ ἤμυσε κάρη πήληκι βαρυνθέν.

He spoke, and let fly another shaft from the bowstring,

straight for Hector, and all his heart was straining to hit him;

but missed his man, and struck down instead a strong son of Priam,

Gorgythion the blameless, hit in the chest by an arrow;

Gorgythion whose mother was lovely Castianeira,

Priam’s bride from Aisyme, with the form of a goddess.

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.

While the ‘missing hit’ calls attention to the fragility of human life, the flashback to the birth of Gorgythion and the flower simile underscore the rupture of death.

There are many similar obituaries in the Iliad which add pathos to the battle scenes.55 Particularly tragic is the obituary which throws into relief the mors immatura of Iphidamas (11.241–7):

ὣς ὃ μὲν αὖθι πεσὼν κοιμήσατο χάλκεον ὕπνον,

οἰκτρός, ἀπό μνηστῆς ἀλόχου ἀστοῖσιν ἀρήγων

κουριδίης, ἧς οὔ τι χάριν ἲδε· πολλὰ δ’ ἔδωκεν·

πρῶθ’ ἑκατὸν βοῦς δῶκεν, ἔπειτα δὲ χείλι’ ἔπέστη,

αἶγας ὁμοῦ καὶ ὄϊς, τά οἱ ἄσπετα ποιμαίνοντο.

δὴ τότε γ’ Ἀτρεΐδης Ἀγαμέμνων ἐξενάριξεν,

βῆ δὲ φέρων ἀν’ ὅμιλον ᾈχαιῶν τεύχεα καλά.

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.

First he had given a hundred oxen, then promised a thousand

head of goats and sheep, which were herded for him in abundance.

Now Agamemnon, son of Atreus, stripped him and went back

to the throng of the Achaeans bearing the splendid armour.

The flashback to the recent wedding underscores the mors immatura. Marriage as the institution for procreation strongly contrasts with death, the end of his life. Instead of receiving his due after giving such a rich dowry, Iphidamas becomes himself object of another exchange when Agamemnon takes his armour.

Although not all of the 240 deaths in the Iliad are presented with the same elaboration, Griffin’s study of ‘Homeric pathos and objectivity’ impressively demonstrates the variety of comments by which the Homeric narrator throws into relief the horrors of death.56 It is therefore most striking that there is not a single obituary in the Odyssey.⁵⁷ The Odyssey does not lack deaths, but while the companions of Odysseus tend to remain anonymous,⁵⁸ the dying suitors obviously do not deserve such narrative highlighting. Whereas the Iliad, in accordance with its focus on the mortality of its hero, uses the fate of small heroes to ponder on the rupture of death, the Odyssey does not elaborate on the death of Odysseus’ companions and depicts the killing of the suitors primarily as a punishment.

Other than analepses, the narrator of the Iliad also uses prolepses to underscore human fragility, as the presentation of the major heroes illustrates.⁵⁹ Time and again, narratorial foreshadowing or divine predictions reveal the vanity of the heroes’ aspirations, which will be thwarted by an unexpected death. For example, as early as Book 11, when Achilles sends Patroclus to Nestor, a sombre comment by the narrator alerts us to his impending death (Il. 11.602–4):

αἶψα δ’ ἐταῖρον ἑὸν Πατροκλῆα προσέειπεν,

φθεγξάμενος παρὰ νηός· ὃ δὲ κλισίηθεν ἀκούσας

ἔκμολεν ἶσος Ἄρηϊ· κακοῦ δ’ ἄρα οἱ πέλεν ἀρχή.

At once he spoke to his own companion in arms, Patroclus,

calling from the ship, and he heard it from inside the shelter, and came out

like the war god, and this was the beginning of his evil.

Later, Patroclus, full of confidence that he will rout the Trojans, asks Achilles for his armour (Il. 16.46–7):

ὣς φάτο λισσόμενος, μέγα νέπιος· ἦ γὰρ ἔμελλεν

οἷ αὐτῶι θάνατόν τε κακὸν καὶ κῆρα λιτέσθαι.

So he spoke supplicating in his great innocence; this was

his own death and evil destruction he was entreating.

The contrast between Patroclus’ zeal and the impending of his death is borne out again in Il. 16.684–7:

Πάτροκλος δ’ ἵπποισι καὶ Αὐτομέδοντι κελεύσας

Τρῶας καὶ Λυκίους μετεκίαθε, καὶ μέγ’ ἀάσθη,

νήπιος· εὲ δὲ ἔπος Πηληϊάδαο φύλαξεν,

ἦ τ’ ἂν ὑπὲκφυγε κῆρα κακὴν μέλανος θανάτοιο.

But Patroclus, with a shout to Automedon and his horses,

went after Trojans and Lycians in a huge blind fury.

Besotted: had he only kept the command of Peleiades

he might have got clear away from the evil spirit of black death.

Patroclus is killed by Hector, who earlier had predicted the fall of Troy and his own death (Il. 6.859–61), but is now victim of the same illusions as Patroclus.60 When Hector strips his opponent of his armour, boasting about his strength, Zeus envisions his death and comments on his ignorance (Il. 17.201–3):

ἆ δείλ’, οὐδέ τί τοι θάνατος καταθύμιός ἐστιν,

ὃς δή τοι σχεδὸν εἶσι· σὺ δ’ ἄμβροτα τεύχεα δύνεις

ἀνδρὸς ἀριστῆος, τόν τε τρομέουσι καὶ ἄλλοι.

Ah, poor wretch! There is no thought of death in your mind now,

and yet death stands close beside you as you put on the immortal armour

of a surpassing man. There are others who tremble before him.

In one of the most touching scenes of the Iliad, the narrator uses Hector’s death to home in on the limits of human knowledge (Il.22.442–6):

κέκλετο δ’ ἀμφιπόλοισιν ἐϋπλοκάμοις κατὰ δῶμα

ἀμφὶ πυρὶ στῆσαι τρίποδα μέγαν, ὄφρα πέλοιτο

ἀκτορι θερμὰ λοετρὰ μάχης ἒκ νοστήσαντι.

νηπίη, οὐδ’ ἐνόησεν, ὅ μιν μάλα τῆλε λοετρῶν

χέρσ’ ὕπ’ Ἀχιλλῆος δάμασε γλαυκῶπις Ἀθήνη.

She called out through the house to her lovely-haired handmaidens

to set a great cauldron over the fire, so that there would be

hot water for Hector’s bath as he came back out of the fighting;

poor innocent, nor knew how, far from waters for bathing,

Pallas Athena had cut him down at the hands of Achilles.

Andromache’s ignorance is not due to the opaqueness of the future, but to spatial distance. While she is taking care of a warm welcome for Hector, Achilles has started mutilating his corpse. The tragic irony is deepened by a play with the ritual of the bath: the death of Hector transforms the bath for the returning warrior into the cleaning of his corpse, which again will be deferred until the last book of the Iliad.61

The last hero in the chain of deaths which structures the final third of the Iliad, Achilles, is distinct from the others in that he is aware of his own mortality, even knows that his own death is to follow soon upon Hector’s (Il. 18.95–6), and nonetheless rushes to avenge Patroclus. When Hera lends a voice to the divine horse Xanthus, which then prophesies Achilles’ death to him, the hero replies (Il. 19.420–3):

Ξάνθε, τί μοι θάνατον μαντεύεαι; οὐδέ τί σε χρή.

εὖ νύ τοι οἶδα καὶ αὐτὸς, ὅ μοι μόρος ἐνθάδ’ ὀλέσθαι,

νόσφι φίλου πατρός καὶ μητέρος· ἀλλὰ καὶ ἔμπης

οὐ λήξω, πρὶν Τρῶας ἅδην ἐλάσαι πολέμοιο.

Xanthus, why do you prophesy my death? This is not for you.

I myself know well it is destined for me to die here

far from my beloved father and mother. But for all that

I will not stop till the Trojans have had enough of my fighting.

Achilles’ awareness and acceptance of his own death prefigure avant la lettre the attitude of ‘anticipatory resoluteness’ (‘vorlaufende Entschlossenheit’) which Heidegger privileges as an ‘authentic’ (‘eigentlich’) mode of Dasein.62 The Iliad’s emphasis on human fragility culminates in its hero, for whom contingency has been transformed into necessity.

The Odyssey also features prolepses which contrast the characters’ expectations with their future experiences. However, the emphasis on human fragility is far less dramatic because of the focus on the fate of Odysseus, who is not going to die. Moreover, Odysseus is provided with rough sketches of his future by Teiresias (Od. 11.100–37), Circe (Od. 12.37–110) and Athena (Od. 13.393–415). Part of the adventures are narrated by Odysseus himself (Books 9–12), who occasionally comments on wrong expectations he has harboured (e.g. 9.224ff.), but in general emphasises his foresight.⁶³ The Odyssey, it can be noted, does not capitalise on tragic irony to the same extent as the Iliad.

To sum up: the Iliad and Odyssey share the same templates for viewing human life in time, notably a general feeling of insecurity and the belief that crimes provoke divine punishment. However, story and discourse make the two epics different from one another. The idea of divine retribution is not alien to the Iliad, but through such devices as ‘missing hits’, obituaries and prolepses contrasting expectations with experiences, the poem highlights human fragility. The Odyssey, on the other hand, does not fail to mark the insecurity of human life, but it concentrates on the successful return of Odysseus and the punishment he inflicts on the suitors.

IV BEYOND HOMER

Let me finally go beyond Homer and briefly look to historiography. In taking up the three points that I have examined – the relation between past and present, the mediality of memory and theodicy – it is not my aim to explore fully the differences or the Homeric influence on the historians. Instead, I would like to illustrate the claim that epic and Greek historiography share some common ground.64 Without denying the crucial differences, I will argue that even the attempts of the historians to set themselves off against Homer reveal an idea of history that also underlies the Iliad and Odyssey. Needless to say, I can offer here no more than spotlights.

We have first seen that the epics focus on a distant past which is not linked to the present, but is highly apt to provide exempla because of its superiority. On the other hand, at least the canonical historians privilege the more recent past. To mention only the two founding fathers of Greek historiography, Herodotus gives an account of the Persian Wars and Thucydides makes a case for concentrating on contemporary history. In his Archaeology, Thucydides even challenges the superiority of the heroic age and takes pains to demonstrate that the Peloponnesian War is by far the greatest military event in Greek history. Nonetheless, he draws heavily on the exemplary view of history which is so prominent in Homer.⁶⁵ Thucydides’ account will, he hopes, permit the readers to understand future events better (1.22.4; cf. 3.82.2). The past will not simply repeat itself, but may be similar. Due to the stability of human nature, the insights won by his rigorous method will prove valuable for later generations and make his account a κτῆμα ἐς ἀεί. The notion of a ‘possession forever’ evokes and transforms the epic notion of ‘imperishable glory’ (κλέος ἄφθιτον).⁶⁶ Whereas the epic defines its own eternity via its objects, Thucydides claims eternity in relation to his readers. Fame has been replaced with usefulness, but the underlying exemplary view of the past is the same.

In a second step, I have dealt with the mediality of epic, arguing for a very high degree of implicit reflection on oral poetry. Herodotus’ Histories still bear the traces of epideictic performances and it seems that local historians also presented their works orally,⁶⁷ but the medium of writing is as crucial to the history of historiography as oral composition and tradition are to Homer. That being said, the meta-historical reflection on material bearers of memory in Homer prefigures the attempts by historians to highlight their own accounts by comparing them implicitly with material records, in particular with inscriptions.68 Herodotus, for example, announces as the goal of his Histories that ‘what was done by men does not fade away with time (τῷ χρόνῳ ἐξίτηλα γένηται), that great and marvellous achievements, shown forth by Greeks and barbarians, do not lose their fame (ἀκλεᾶ γένηται)’ (proem). ἐξίτηλος is a technical term for the fading of colours in inscriptions. Thus, Herodotus not only takes up the idea of epic fame (ἀκλεᾶ), but also presents his account as more durable than inscriptions set in stone. Both epic and historiography underscore their claims by referring to material bearers of memory which are inferior to their own commemorative acts.

My last point was theodicy. We have seen that there is a tension between the idea of divine retribution and the general insecurity of human happiness. Herodotus’logos of Helen (2.112–20) illustrates that even where the father of historiography challenges Homer he draws on a similar idea of history. Herodotus rejects the Iliad’s account and argues that Helen never went to Troy, but was left in Egypt. After discussing the evidence for this account, particularly the reports of Egyptian priests, he ponders on why, despite the absence of Helen, the Trojan War took place, and finally comes up with a religious explanation (2.120.5):

ἀλλ’ οὐ γὰρ εἶχον Ἑλένην ἀποδοῦναι οὐδὲ λέγουσι αὐτοῖσι τὴν ἀληθείην ἐπίστευον οἱ Ἕλληνες, ὡς μὲν ἐγώ γνώμην ἀποφαίνομαι, τοῦ δαιμονίου παρασκευάζοντος ὅκως πανωλεθρίῃ ἀπολόμενοι καταφανὲς τοῦτο τοῖσι ἀνθρώποισι ποιήσωσι, ὡς τῶν μεγάλων ἀδικημάτων μεγάλαι εἰσὶ καὶ αἱ τιμωρίαι παρὰ τῶν θεῶν.

But they [i.e. the Trojans] did not have Helen to give back and the Greeks did not believe that they spoke the truth. To declare my own opinion, this was because the daimonion arranged things so that, in their complete annihilation, they should make this clear to mankind that for severe crimes the punishment at the gods’ hands is severe.

The phrase πανωλεθρίῃ ἀπολόμενοι evokes the epic, which was indeed the medium from which ‘mankind’ learnt about the Trojan War.69 Herodotus’ implicit reference to Homer presupposes the same moralist interpretation of the Iliad that is suggested by the prayer of Menelaus quoted above. The idea of divine retribution figures prominently in the Histories, for example when Herodotus mentions the death of Pheretime, who had the leaders of Barca impaled and the breasts of their women cut off (4.205): ‘For, while still alive, she became infested with worms, as excessive cases of vengeance make the gods hostile towards men’ (ὡς ἄρα ἀνθρώποισι αἱ λίην ἰσχυραὶ τιμωρίαι πρὸς θεῶν ἐπίφθονοι γίνονται). However, Herodotus does not provide us with a clean-cut moralist philosophy of history, but the notion of divine retribution competes with other concepts.⁷⁰ The disconcerting idea of divine envy of human success, visible for example in the logos of Polycrates (3.39–60, 120–5), is reminiscent of the fickleness of the gods in epic.⁷¹ The epic tension between the ideas of divine justice and the insecurity of human life is expressed in Herodotus’ reflection on Cambyses’ late confusion and frenzy against his relatives: ‘Cambyses committed these mad acts against his closest relatives, either because of Apis or for another reason, as generally many evils afflict humans’ (3.33).⁷²

Of course, Herodotus shies away from attributing divine interventions to individual gods, but nonetheless the uneasy combination of the idea of divine justice with the gods’ arbitrariness aligns the Histories with the Iliad and Odyssey. Similar attempts to get to grips with human fragility can be seen in tragedy and various poetic genres, ranging from elegy to epinician.⁷³ Even Thucydides, who does not explain historical events by referring to the gods, emphasises the role of chance in history.74 As different as all these genres are, their views of history bear striking similarities. This need not be due to the influence of Homer, but is rather the expression of a common gravitational field. While modern historical thinking focuses on developments, ancient Greeks strongly felt exposed to forces beyond their control. The idea of divine justice as well as the construction of regularities and continuities in exempla and tradition, all of which have been challenged in the modern age, can be seen as an attempt to create some stability in a world full of insecurity.

1	J. Latacz, Troia und Homer: Der Weg zur Lösung eines alten Rätsels, 5th edition (Munich: Koehler und Amelang Verlag, 2005), p. 342 (‘Homer ist ernstzunehmen’).
2	U. von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff, Über die Ionische Wanderung (Berlin: Königliche Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1906), p. 60: ‘Darüber ereifert man sich nicht, man nimmt es aber auch nicht ernst.’ For critical assessments of Latacz’s views, see the contributions in C. Ulf (ed.), Der neue Streit um Troja: Eine Bilanz (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2003).
3	On the reception of Homer, see, e.g., R. Lamberton and J. J. Keaney (eds), Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992); E. Pallantza, Der Troische Krieg in der nachhomerischen Literatur bis zum 5. Jh. v. Chr. (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2005).
4	Cf. W. Kullmann, ‘Vergangenheit und Zukunft in der Ilias’, Poetica 2.1 (1968), pp. 12–37; J. Grethlein, Das Geschichtsbild der Ilias: Eine Untersuchung aus phänomenologischer und narratologischer Perspektive (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006), pp. 42–153.
5	The term ‘mise en abyme’ was coined in 1893 by A. Gide, Journal 1889–1939 (Paris: Gallimard, 1948) and the concept was developed further by L. Dällenbach, Le récit spéculaire: Contribution à l’étude de la mise en abyme (Paris: Seuil, 1977).
6	E.g. J. Vansina, Oral Tradition as History (London: James Currey, 1985).
7	See, e.g., D. Lowenthal, The Past is a Foreign Country (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985).
8	See also J. Grethlein, ‘From imperishable glory to history: The Iliad and the Trojan War’, in D. Konstan and K. Raaflaub (eds), Epic and History (Malden, MA, and Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010), pp. 128–9.
9	Iron is mentioned as precious material in 6.48 = 10.379 = 11.133; 7.473; 23.261, 850. For iron tools, see 4.485; 18.34; 23.30, 834. On the use of metals in the Iliad, see D. H. E. Gray, ‘Metal-working in Homer’, JHS 74 (1954), pp. 1–15.
10	See also the arrows in 4.123 which are made of iron.
11	Cf. Grethlein, Geschichtsbild, pp. 42–84.
12	For a detailed interpretation of Aeneas’ genealogy, see Grethlein, Geschichtsbild, pp. 65–70. See also P. M. Smith, ‘Aineiadai as patrons of Iliad XX and the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite’, HSPh 85 (1981), pp. 17–58.
13	On exempla in the Iliad, see M. Alden, Homer Beside Himself: Para-Narratives in the Iliad (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000); Grethlein, Geschichtsbild, pp. 43–63.
14	Cf. R. Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time, tr. K. Tribe (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1985), pp. 21–38.
15	Hellanicus FGrHist 323a F 24.
16	Pherecydes FGrHist 3 F 2.
17	Aristot. Rhet. 1375b29f.; Plut. Sol. 10.
18	Cf. L. Edmunds, ‘The religiosity of Alexander’, GRBS 12 (1971), pp. 363–91, at pp. 368–81, who points out the religious background and argues that the Achilles imitatio was not merely propaganda; A. Stewart, Faces of Power: Alexander’s Image and Hellenistic Politics (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), pp. 78–86; E. D. Carney, Women and Monarchy in Macedonia (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2000), pp. 274–85.
19	On the comparison of the Persian with the Trojan Wars, cf. D. Boedeker, ‘Presenting the past in fifth-century Athens’, in Boedeker and K. Raaflaub (eds), Democracy, Empire, and the Arts in Fifth-Century Athens (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1998), pp. 185–202; T. Hölscher, ‘Images and political identity: The case of Athens’, in Boedeker and Raaflaub, Democracy, Empire, and the Arts, pp. 153–83.
20	Cf. S. Hornblower, A Commentary on Thucydides: I–III (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991–2008): ad 1.73.2. See also T. Rood, ‘Thucydides’ Persian Wars’, in C. S. Kraus (ed.), The Limits of Historiography: Genre and Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts (Leiden: Brill, 1999), pp. 141–68, at p. 145, for interesting thoughts on the passage.
21	Cf. J. Grethlein, The Greeks and Their Past: Poetry, Oratory and History in the Fifth Century BCE (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), pp. 142–4.
22	Cf. C. W. Macleod, ‘Homer on poetry and the poetry of Homer’, in Macleod, Collected Essays (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1983), pp. 1–15; G. Nagy, ‘Early Greek views of poets and poetry’, in G. A. Kennedy (ed.), The Cambridge History of Literary Criticism I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 1–77; A. Ford, Homer: The Poetry of the Past (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992); C. Segal, Singers, Heroes, and Gods in the Odyssey (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994). J. M. Foley (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Epic (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005), p. 199, on the other hand, argues that we ought to be rather careful with conclusions drawn from songs within the epics about the epics themselves.
23	See also the comparison of Odysseus’ bow with a lyre in 21.405–9.
24	Cf. the discussion by G. S. Kirk, The Songs of Homer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962), pp. 274–81. See also G. Nagy, Poetry as Performance: Homer and Beyond (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); D. B. Collins, ‘Improvisation in rhapsodic performance’, Helios 28 (2001), pp. 11–27.
25	On the two passages, see Segal, Singers, Heroes and Gods, p. 117.
26	Cf. B. Heiden, ‘The three movements of the Iliad’, GRBS 37.1 (1996), pp. 5–22 on possible divisions of the Iliad for performances.
27	Cf. Macleod, ‘Homer on poetry’, pp. 1–15; Segal, Singers, Heroes and Gods, pp. 113–41.
28	Terpein signifies the effect of poetry in Il. 1.474; 9.189; Od. 1.347; 422; 8.91; 368; 429; 542; 12.188; 17.385, 606; 18.304.
29	Aristot. Rhet. 1383a8–12; 1386a24–6. For a more complex interpretation of Odysseus’ reaction to the last song of Demodocus, see R. B. Rutherford, ‘The philosophy of the Odyssey’, JHS 106 (1986), pp. 145–62, at pp. 155–6, who argues that Odysseus identifies with the Trojan victims just as at the end of the Iliad Achilles takes on the perspective of Priam.
30	S. Goldhill, The Poet’s Voice: Essays on Poetics and Greek Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), pp. 36–56.
31	Cf. J. Grethlein, ‘Memory and material objects in the Iliad and the Odyssey’, JHS 128 (2008), pp. 27–51.
32	Meriones’ helmet combines these three forms of exchange: Autolycus stole it from Amyntor and passed it on to Amphidamas, who presented it as a gift to Molus, from whom Meriones inherited it (Il. 10.261–70).
33	The concept of the ‘biography of goods’ was put forward by W. H. R. Rivers, ‘The genealogical method of anthropological inquiry’, Sociological Review 3 (1910), pp. 1–12. For more recent approaches, see the survey in World Archaeology 31 (1999).
34	This aligns the bow with the wine which Odysseus receives from Maron as a guest-gift (9.196–211) and uses to punish the Cyclops for a less than friendly reception.
35	Cf. Grethlein, ‘Memory and material objects’, pp. 42–3.
36	Cf. Grethlein, ‘Memory and material objects’, p. 30.
37	For glimpses of the story in the Iliad, see 5.638–42; 14.250–6; 15.25–30.
38	Cf. I. Morris, ‘The use and abuse of Homer’, Classical Antiquity 5 (1986), pp. 81–138; J. P. Crielaard, ‘How the west was won’, in C. Gillis, C. Risberg and B. Sjöberg (eds), Trade and Production in Premonetary Greece (Jonsered: Paul Åström, 1995), pp. 125–7.
39	Cf. Grethlein, ‘From imperishable glory to history’, pp. 128–9.
40	On the reuse of gems, see J. Boardman, Greek Gems and Finger Rings (London: Thames and Hudson, 1970), p. 107; J. Boardman, The Archaeology of Nostalgia: How the Greeks Re-Created their Mythical Past (London: Thames and Hudson, 2003), pp. 81–2. On hero cult, see, e.g., C. Antonaccio, An Archaeology of Ancestors: Tomb Cult and Hero Cult in Early Greece (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1995); R. Hägg (ed.), Ancient Greek Hero Cult (Athens: Svenska Institutet i Athen, 1999); D. Boehringer, Heroenkulte in Griechenland von der geometrischen bis zur klassischen Zeit (Berlin: Klio, Akademie, 2001).
41	Cf. D. Hertel, Die Mauern von Troia: Mythos und Geschichte im antiken Ilion (Munich: Beck, 2003); Grethlein, ‘Imperishable glory to history’.
42	Cf. Grethlein, ‘Memory and material objects’, p. 35.
43	See Grethlein, ‘Memory and material objects’, pp. 31–2.
44	See, e.g., F. Jacoby, ‘Die geistige Physiognomie der Odyssee’, Antike 9 (1933), pp. 159–94; K. Reinhardt, ‘Tradition und Geist im homerischen Epos’, in C. Becker (ed.), Tradition und Geist: Gesammelte Essays zur Dichtung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1960), pp. 5–15, at p. 6; K. Rüter, Odysseeinterpretationen: Untersuchungen zum ersten Buch und zur Phaiakis (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1969), p. 70; Rutherford, ‘Philosophy of the Odyssey’, pp. 147–8; most recently, E. A. Schmidt, ‘Die Gerechtigkeit des Gottes als Axiom frühgriechischer Weltdeutung: Zum Recht in der frühgriechischen Dichtung von Homer bis Solon’, in B. Greiner, B. Thums and W. Graf Vitzthum (eds), Recht und Literatur: Interdisziplinäre Bezüge (Heidelberg: Universitätsverlag Winter, 2010), pp. 29–74, at pp. 44–53.
45	H. Lloyd-Jones, The Justice of Zeus (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1971).
46	W. Allan, ‘Divine justice and cosmic order in early Greek epic’, JHS 126 (2006), pp. 1–35. For a nuanced account of divine justice in the Iliad and Odyssey, see also B. Fenik, Studies in the Odyssey (Wiesbaden: F. Steiner, 1974), pp. 209–27; on the Odyssey, J. S. Clay, The Wrath of Athena: Gods and Men in the Odyssey (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1983), pp. 213–39.
47	See Fenik, Studies, p. 211; Allan, ‘Divine justice’, p. 16.
48	E.g. Rutherford, ‘Philosophy of the Odyssey’, p. 148.
49	E.g. Fenik, Studies, pp. 210–11.
50	Cf. Fenik, Studies, pp. 213–15; Clay, Wrath of Athena, pp. 218–19. Segal, Singers, Heroes and Gods, pp. 215–18, on the other hand, emphasises the guilt of the companions.
51	On the central place of death in the Iliad, see W. Marg, ‘Kampf und Tod in der Ilias’, WJb 2 (1976), pp. 7–19; S. L. Schein, ‘On Achilles’ speech to Odysseus, Iliad 9.308–429’, Eranos 78 (1980), pp. 125–31.
52	Cf. 23.264–84. Cf. A. Bergren, ‘Odyssean temporality: Many (re)turns’, in C. Rubino and C. Shelmerdine (eds), Approaches to Homer (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1983), pp. 38–73.
53	For a recent version of this juxtaposition, see N. J. Lowe, The Classical Plot and the Invention of Western Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 103–56.
54	Cf. M. Lossau, ‘Ersatztötungen: Bauelemente in der Ilias’, WS 104 (1991), pp. 5–21; M. Stoevesandt, Feinde – Gegner – Opfer: Zur Darstellung der Troianer in den Kampfszenen der Ilias (Basel: Schwabe, 2004), pp. 161–6; Grethlein, Geschichtsbild, p. 160.
55	Cf. J. Griffin, ‘Homeric pathos and objectivity’, CQ 26 (1976), pp. 161–87; Stoevesandt, Feinde, pp. 126–59; C. Tsagalis, Epic Grief: Personal Laments in Homer’s Iliad (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2004), pp. 179–92; Grethlein, Geschichtsbild, pp. 155–9.
56	Griffin, ‘Homeric pathos’. R. Garland, ‘The causation of deaths in the Iliad’, BICS 28 (1981), pp. 43–60, at pp. 52–3, counts 240 dead warriors, S. E. Bassett, The Poetry of Homer (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1938), p. 256 n. 37, notes the killing of 318 heroes of whom 243 are named. According to Stoevesandt, Feinde, p. 127, about every fourth victim, be he Trojan or Greek, is given an obituary.
57	J. Griffin, Homer on Life and Death (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980), p. 139.
58	See, for example, Clay, Wrath of Athena, p. 35, who states that the reference to the companions in the Odyssey’s proem is noteworthy given their minor role in the action.
59	Cf. Grethlein, Geschichtsbild, pp. 208–39.
60	Patroclus and Hector are compared with one another by R. Rutherford, ‘Tragic form and feeling in the Iliad’, JHS 102 (1982), pp. 145–60, at p. 157.
61	Cf. J. Grethlein, ‘The poetics of the bath in the Iliad’, HSCPh 103 (2006), pp. 25–49.
62	M. Heidegger, Being and Time, tr. J. Macquarrie and E. Robinson, 8th edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988; 1st pub. 1962), p. 351 (p. 304).
63	Cf. Rutherford, ‘Tragic form and feeling’, p. 150.
64	On the epic influence on Greek historiography, see, e.g., H. Strasburger, Homer und die Geschichtsschreibung (Heidelberg: C. Winter, 1972); J. Marincola, Greek Historians (Greece & Rome New Surveys in the Classics 31; Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 9–10.
65	On the intricacies of the exemplary view of the past in Thucydides and also Herodotus, see J. Grethlein, ‘“Historia magistra vitae” in Herodotus and Thucydides? The exemplary use of the past and ancient and modern temporalities’, in A. Lianeri (ed.), The Western Time of Ancient History: Historiographical Encounters with the Greek and Roman Pasts (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), pp. 247–63.
66	Cf. G. Crane, The Blinded Eye: Thucydides and the New Written Word (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 1996), pp. 211–15.
67	On the ancient tradition of oral presentations by Herodotus, see S. Flory, ‘Who read Herodotus’Histories?’, AJPh 101 (1980), pp. 12–28, at pp. 14–15; on oral features of the Histories, see M. Lang, Herodotean Narrative and Discourse (Martin Classical Lectures; Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984). See also R. Thomas, Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science and the Art of Persuasion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), who contextualises Herodotus in an epideictic milieu. On oral presentations of local historians, see K. Clarke, Making Time for the Past: Local History and the Polis (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011).
68	See J. Moles, ‘Anathema kai ktema: The inscriptional inheritance of ancient historiography’, Histos 3 (1999), pp. 27–69.
69	Cf. Grethlein, Greeks and Their Past, p. 157.
70	Cf. Grethlein, Greeks and Their Past, pp. 187–202.
71	Polycrates’ Egyptian friend Amasis points out ‘that the gods are jealous of success’ (3.40.2), which seems to be confirmed when Herodotus later states in his narratorial voice that Polycrates died in a manner ‘worthy neither of himself nor of his ambitions’ (3.125.2).
72	The maltreatment of the Apis bull is recounted in 3.29. Cf. W. H. Friedrich, ‘Der Tod des Tyrannen: Die poetische Gerechtigkeit der alten Geschichtsschreiber – und Herodot’, A&A 18 (1973), pp. 97–129, at pp. 116–20.
73	Cf. Grethlein, Greeks and Their Past.
74	See, e.g., F. M. Cornford, Thucydides Mythistoricus (London: Edward Arnold, 1907); H.-P. Stahl, Thucydides: Man’s Place in History (Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 2003).