24.552–595

τὸν δ᾽ ἠμείβετ᾽ ἔπειτα γέρων Πρίαμος θεοειδής:
“μή πω μ᾽ ἐς θρόνον ἵζε διοτρεφὲς ὄφρά κεν Ἕκτωρ
κεῖται ἐνὶ κλισίῃσιν ἀκηδής ἀλλὰ τάχιστα
λῦσον ἵν᾽ ὀφθαλμοῖσιν ἴδω: σὺ δὲ δέξαι ἄποινα
πολλά, τά τοι φέρομεν: σὺ δὲ τῶνδ᾽ ἀπόναιο, καὶ ἔλθοις
σὴν ἐς πατρίδα γαῖαν, ἐπεί με πρῶτον ἔασας
αὐτόν τε ζώειν καὶ ὁρᾶν φάος ἠελίοιο.

Then the godlike old man Priam answered him:
“Do not, beloved of Zeus, seat me in a chair while Hector
lies uncared for in your house, but release him most quickly,
that I may see him with my own eyes, and you take the great ransom
we bring you; may you have joy of it and go to
your own fatherland, since you have let me go
to live and look upon the light of the sun.”

Iliad 24.553–58

The act of sitting in this context invokes the themes of grieving and consolation, and Priam will not acknowledge his readiness to enter that process until he has the body of Hector. Given the links that the poet has created between the bodies of Patroclus, Hector, and Achilles, this reluctance is not surprising. Though Priam will eventually join Achilles in gestures that seem to signal the acceptance of consolation, it will not be over for him (and for us) until the burial of Hector in the poem’s final verses.

Achilles, meanwhile, is not happy. His speech and compassion for Priam seemed to mark an end to the corrosive anger that exploded in the poem’s first scene, shifting its focus from outward rage at Agamemnon and then Hector and finally turning inward in the wake of Patroclus’s death. Now it flares again, threatening the fragile truce in Achilles’s hut. His first words, μηκέτι νῦν μ᾽ ἐρέθιζε γέρον (560), recall the angry words of Agamemnon to Apollo’s priest Chryses in the poem’s opening scene:

μή σε γέρον κοίλῃσιν ἐγὼ παρὰ νηυσὶ κιχείω
ἢ νῦν δηθύνοντ᾽ ἢ ὕστερον αὖτις ἰόντα,
μή νύ τοι οὐ χραίσμῃ σκῆπτρον καὶ στέμμα θεοῖο:
τὴν δ᾽ ἐγὼ οὐ λύσω: πρίν μιν καὶ γῆρας ἔπεισιν
ἡμετέρῳ ἐνὶ οἴκῳ ἐν Ἄργεϊ τηλόθι πάτρης
ἱστὸν ἐποιχομένην καὶ ἐμὸν λέχος ἀντιόωσαν:
ἀλλ᾽ ἴθι μή μ᾽ ἐρέθιζε σαώτερος ὥς κε νέηαι.

Let me not find you beside the curved ships, old man,
either lingering now or returning later,
lest the scepter and garland of the god not help you:
I will not release her. Sooner old age will come to her
in my home in Argos, far away from her father,
going back and forth to the loom and entering my bed.
But come now, do not stir me up, so you might leave more safely.

Iliad 1.26–31

Agamemnon’s opening blunder in sending the priest away without his daughter, a war captive and concubine, precipitates the quarrel with Achilles, from which follow all the pain and death in the poem. The echo of this disastrous outcome in Achilles’s speech here warns us that the healing may not yet be complete and could be swept away in an instant. Anger scuttled the first ransom attempt and may now do so again.

Here we can sense a tension between the larger themes playing out across the long expanse of the poem and the storyteller’s need to keep his audience engaged in this crucial moment. Movement toward a resolution of the consolation motif, underway since Thetis arrived on Olympus, suggests a relaxing of the edgy atmosphere in the Greek camp. But the poet also needs us to feel that a murderous rage still lurks inside Achilles, like an unstable chemical compound that could blow anytime. We have felt a similar set of mixed signals in the narrative of Priam’s night journey, when the Zeus’s pledge of protection, delivered by Iris, ought to have made him feel confident and safe. Instead, the danger inherent in being out alone at night dominates the scene, as the old king seems to have forgotten the god’s promise.  

Though the potential danger to Priam lingers during the rest of Achilles’s speech, further echoes of Agamemnon in Book One now begin to point toward a more positive outcome:

μηκέτι νῦν μ᾽ ἐρέθιζε γέρον: νοέω δὲ καὶ αὐτὸς
Ἕκτορά τοι λῦσαι, Διόθεν δέ μοι ἄγγελος ἦλθε
μήτηρ, ἥ μ᾽ ἔτεκεν, θυγάτηρ ἁλίοιο γέροντος.
καὶ δέ σε γιγνώσκω Πρίαμε φρεσίν, οὐδέ με λήθεις,
ὅττι θεῶν τίς σ᾽ ἦγε θοὰς ἐπὶ νῆας Ἀχαιῶν.

Do not stir me up, old man. I myself intend
to release Hector to you, for a messenger from Zeus came to me,
my mother, who bore me, the daughter of the old man of the sea.
And I understand you in my heart, Priam, nor does it escape me
that some god led you to the ships of the Achaeans.

Iliad 24.560–64

Achilles’ νοέω δὲ καὶ αὐτὸς / Ἕκτορά τοι λῦσαι (560–61) echo Agamemnon’s τὴν δ᾽ ἐγὼ οὐ λύσω (1.29); Apollo’s retaliatory plague is answered by Thetis’s affectionate plea for Achilles to let go of Hector’s body (24.127–37). Achilles ends with one final warning: Even though he is a suppliant, and presumably under the protection of Zeus, Priam must not provoke Achilles, for fear that he might lose his temper and harm the old king, thus disobeying the commands of Zeus (cf., 584–86).

The old king is frightened into silence by this outburst. Achilles, seemingly energized by his irritation, leaps into action after the meditative interlude of the speeches:

ὣς ἔφατ᾽, ἔδεισεν δ᾽ ὃ γέρων καὶ ἐπείθετο μύθῳ.
Πηλεΐδης δ᾽ οἴκοιο λέων ὣς ἆλτο θύραζε
οὐκ οἶος, ἅμα τῷ γε δύω θεράποντες ἕποντο
ἥρως Αὐτομέδων ἠδ᾽ Ἄλκιμος, οὕς ῥα μάλιστα
τῖ᾽ Ἀχιλεὺς ἑτάρων μετὰ Πάτροκλόν γε θανόντα,

So [Achilles] spoke, and the old man was frightened and obeyed.
The son of Peleus leaped to the doorway like a lion,
not alone, but two henchmen followed him,
the hero Automedon and Alkimos, those whom Achilles
honored most after Patroclus, now dead.

Iliad 24.581–85

The poet’s simile preserves the uneasy tension surrounding Achilles a little longer. Lions often appear in similes describing warriors attacking on the battlefield (e.g., 3.23; 5.161). Most recently, Apollo has compared Achilles to a marauding lion, mauling the Trojans (24.41–45). The verses that follow the simile here strike a different tone. The phrase, οὐκ οἶος, ἅμα τῷ γε δύω θεράποντες ἕποντο, is one variant of a frequent motif in the Homeric epics. The masculine version marks the male as in his proper position of authority, the feminine, οὐκ οἴη, ἅμα τῇ γε καὶ ἀμφίπολοι δύ᾽ ἕποντο, used three times in the Odyssey of Penelope (1.331; 18.207; 19.601), signals that the female’s modesty or chastity is properly guarded. The motif is flexible, with some variations in wording apart from οἶος / οἴη. The appearance of the motif here suggests that the Greek hero is moving toward a return to his proper position of masculine authority, after his prolonged withdrawal from that status, one “return” among several that occur in the last scenes of the poem. Explicit mention of the two men accompanying Achilles in the absence of Patroclus reinforces that suggestion: Achilles is beginning to accept the loss of his friend.

The unyoking of horses and attention to the herald are elements of the “Visit” scene that usually come right after the guest arrives. Here, they were displaced by the dramatic appearance of Priam and his exchanges with Achilles. Now they are folded into the more important description of the delivery of the precious ransom and garments that will cover the body Hector as it travels back to Troy. The final preparations for the journey are delicate, maids washing and dressing the body while making sure that Priam does not catch sight of his son and lose his composure, provoking Achilles. Finally, a crucial gesture:

αὐτὸς τόν γ᾽ Ἀχιλεὺς λεχέων ἐπέθηκεν ἀείρας,
σὺν δ᾽ ἕταροι ἤειραν ἐϋξέστην ἐπ᾽ ἀπήνην.

Achilles himself lifted up the body from the bier
and with his companions placed it on the wagon.

Iliad 24.589–90

Achilles conducts a symbolic funeral for Hector, arranging for the washing and dressing of body, and finally putting it on the wagon himself. The prominent position of αὐτὸς in verse 589 is emphatic: these gestures are Achilles’s part of the γέρας θανόντων owed to Hector, a gift that will be complete when the body is buried in Troy (cf. 16.457, 675).

Achilles finishes the solemn ritual by apologizing to Patroclus, whose name he never utters in the presence of Priam. We might find the concern with material compensation jarring in this context, but not accepting the treasures would be unsociable and would echo Achilles’s behavior in Book 9. His words here are in any event true to the emotional atmosphere of the moment, serving as a final goodbye to his friend. He has released the body, with all that the gesture symbolizes for his own spiritual condition.

Further Reading

Edwards, M. 1987. Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 310–311. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press.

MacLeod, C. 1982. Iliad: Book XXIV, 27–28. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Van Nortwick, T. 1992. Somewhere I Have Never Travelled: The Second Self and the Hero’s Journey in Ancient Epic, 81–83. New York: Oxford University Press.