24.64–92

Still, Hector is the “dearest of mortals,” and has given the gods an excellent γέρας (“gift of honor,” 70). Done with these pesky issues of human morality, he turns briskly to more practical matters, and we sense that the plot is going to move forward. They can forget stealing Hector’s corpse from Achilles, as long as his mother hovers around him. So he sends Iris, his messenger, to summon Thetis to Olympus, to set in motion the events that lead to the poem’s final resolution:

ὣς ἔφατ᾽, ὦρτο δὲ Ἶρις ἀελλόπος ἀγγελέουσα,
μεσσηγὺς δὲ Σάμου τε καὶ Ἴμβρου παιπαλοέσσης
ἔνθορε μείλανι πόντῳ: ἐπεστονάχησε δὲ λίμνη.
ἣ δὲ μολυβδαίνῃ ἰκέλη ἐς βυσσὸν ὄρουσεν,
ἥ τε κατ᾽ ἀγραύλοιο βοὸς κέρας ἐμβεβαυῖα
ἔρχεται ὠμηστῇσιν ἐπ᾽ ἰχθύσι κῆρα φέρουσα.
εὗρε δ᾽ ἐνὶ σπῆϊ γλαφυρῷ Θέτιν, ἀμφὶ δ᾽ ἄρ᾽ ἄλλαι
εἵαθ᾽ ὁμηγερέες ἅλιαι θεαί: ἣ δ᾽ ἐνὶ μέσσῃς
κλαῖε μόρον οὗ παιδὸς ἀμύμονος, ὅς οἱ ἔμελλε
φθίσεσθ᾽ ἐν Τροίῃ ἐριβώλακι τηλόθι πάτρης.
ἀγχοῦ δ᾽ ἱσταμένη προσέφη πόδας ὠκέα Ἶρις:
‘ὄρσο Θέτι: καλέει Ζεὺς ἄφθιτα μήδεα εἰδώς.
τὴν δ᾽ ἠμείβετ᾽ ἔπειτα θεὰ Θέτις ἀργυρόπεζα:
‘τίπτέ με κεῖνος ἄνωγε μέγας θεός; αἰδέομαι δὲ
μίσγεσθ᾽ ἀθανάτοισιν, ἔχω δ᾽ ἄχε᾽ ἄκριτα θυμῷ.
εἶμι μέν, οὐδ᾽ ἅλιον ἔπος ἔσσεται ὅττί κεν εἴπῃ.

He spoke, and Iris, storm-footed messenger, rose,
and between Samos and the high cliffs of Imbros
she dove into the dark water; and the sea groaned.
She plummeted like a lead sinker that rides
the sheath from the horn of a field-dwelling ox
and comes bearing death for flesh-eating fish.
She found Thetis in a hollow cave, and around her
sat sea goddesses gathered; and in the middle
she mourned the fate of her blameless son, who was destined
to die soon in fertile Troy, far from the land of his fathers.
Standing next to her, silver-footed Iris spoke:
“Rise up, Thetis. Zeus, who knows imperishable counsels, calls.”
And the silver-footed goddess Thetis answered then:
“Why does that great god summon me? I am ashamed
to mingle with the immortal gods, for I am lost in pain.
But I will go. No word he says will be in vain.”

Iliad 24.77-92

Homeric gods regularly beam themselves instantly in and out of the human world (e.g., Il. 24.159–60; Od.1.96–104), so when the poet lingers over the journey, he has something important to tell us.

The verb ὦρτο, which often conveys a sense of urgency when marking the hero’s surge into action (cf. Il.18.170; 203; Od.2.2; 7.14; 8.3), transfers the energy created by Zeus’s decisive intervention to Iris’s mission and then to Thetis (cf. ὄρσο, 88). The goddess rises, then immediately dives downward toward Thetis’s underwater cave. The simile comparing Iris to a lead sinker seems a peculiarly homely way to describe such an important mission. But the poet’s purposes become clear if we look carefully at the content of the simile. The fishhook sinks down “bringing death to flesh-eating fish” (29). The adjective ὠμηστὴς, “flesh-eating,” (82) is used only here of fish, usually referring in the Iliad to birds or dogs (11.454; 22.67). Of humans only Achilles is so described (22.207). The epithet carries his savage spirit—he wishes later that he could eat the flesh from Hector’s corpse (22.345–58)—and recalls the grim description in the poem’s opening lines of the rotting corpses that Achilles’s rage provided for them (1.4-5).

These associations suggest that the simile portrays Iris as the messenger not only of Zeus but also of death, descending on Achilles as the goddess approaches Thetis. The message is strengthened yet further if we recall an earlier scene, when Thetis rises from the sea with her sister nymphs to comfort Achilles after he hears of Patroclus’s death and collapses, crushed by grief (18.1–65). Antilochus, Patroclus’s charioteer, has come from the battlefield to deliver the terrible news. We have been awaiting this moment since Patroclus’s death was first predicted by Zeus in Book 15 (55–56), but Homer’s uncharacteristically stark phrasing makes the horror of it come alive for us:

κεῖται Πάτροκλος, νέκυος δὲ δὴ ἀμφιμάχονται
γυμνοῦ: ἀτὰρ τά γε τεύχε᾽ ἔχει κορυθαίολος Ἕκτωρ.

Patroclus lies dead; they fight over his naked
corpse; Hector with his shining helmet has his armor.

Iliad 18.20-21

The crushing onset of grief drives Achilles to the ground, where he covers his head with dirt, mortifying himself to mimic the death of his friend (cf. κεῖτο, 18.27) (see Book 24 Introduction). Antilochus stays with him and serving women mourn, beating their breasts. Thetis and her nymphs hear his cries and echo the mourning from the depths of the sea, prompting a catalog of names. The pure, almost abstract beauty of the Greek gives us some relief from the ugliness of Achilles’s suffering, but then Thetis pours out her own pain:

κλῦτε κασίγνηται Νηρηΐδες, ὄφρ᾽ ἐῢ πᾶσαι
εἴδετ᾽ ἀκούουσαι ὅσ᾽ ἐμῷ ἔνι κήδεα θυμῷ.
ὤ μοι ἐγὼ δειλή, ὤ μοι δυσαριστοτόκεια,
ἥ τ᾽ ἐπεὶ ἂρ τέκον υἱὸν ἀμύμονά τε κρατερόν τε
ἔξοχον ἡρώων: ὃ δ᾽ ἀνέδραμεν ἔρνεϊ ἶσος:
τὸν μὲν ἐγὼ θρέψασα φυτὸν ὣς γουνῷ ἀλωῆς
νηυσὶν ἐπιπροέηκα κορωνίσιν Ἴλιον εἴσω
Τρωσὶ μαχησόμενον: τὸν δ᾽ οὐχ ὑποδέξομαι αὖτις
οἴκαδε νοστήσαντα δόμον Πηλήϊον εἴσω.
ὄφρα δέ μοι ζώει καὶ ὁρᾷ φάος ἠελίοιο
ἄχνυται, οὐδέ τί οἱ δύναμαι χραισμῆσαι ἰοῦσα.
ἀλλ᾽ εἶμ᾽, ὄφρα ἴδωμι φίλον τέκος, ἠδ᾽ ἐπακούσω
ὅττί μιν ἵκετο πένθος ἀπὸ πτολέμοιο μένοντα.

Hear me, my sisters, daughters of Nereus, that you may all
know the sorrows in my heart when I tell you.
O I am wretched, the unhappy mother of a hero,
since I gave birth to a blameless and powerful son,
outstanding among heroes, and he grew like a slender tree.
I nurtured him, like the pride of the orchard,
and sent him forth to Troy in the beaked ships
to fight against the Trojans; but I will not again welcome
him, won home to the house of Peleus.
But while he lives and looks upon the sun’s light,
he suffers, nor can I go to him and help him.
Yet I will go to see my dear son, and listen
to the sorrow that has found him as he stays back from battle.

Iliad 18.52-64

Thetis invariably brings the issue of Achilles’s mortality with her in the poem, and when she rises again from the sea, its presence dominates the scene that follows.

Further Reading

Edwards, M. 1987. Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 103–110. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press.

MacLeod, C. 1982. Iliad: Book XXIV, 48–50. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Owen. E. T. 1946. The Story of the Iliad, 174–189. Toronto: Clarke, Irwin & Co. ltd.