24.643–676

The language describing the busy servants is entirely traditional (644–49 = Od. 4.298–301; 7.336–40). His next words to Priam add an uncertain tone to the otherwise cozy scene:

τὸν δ᾽ ἐπικερτομέων προσέφη πόδας ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεύς:
"ἐκτὸς μὲν δὴ λέξο γέρον φίλε, μή τις Ἀχαιῶν
ἐνθάδ᾽ ἐπέλθῃσιν βουληφόρος, οἵ τέ μοι αἰεὶ
βουλὰς βουλεύουσι παρήμενοι, ἣ θέμις ἐστί:
τῶν εἴ τίς σε ἴδοιτο θοὴν διὰ νύκτα μέλαιναν,
αὐτίκ᾽ ἂν ἐξείποι Ἀγαμέμνονι ποιμένι λαῶν,
καί κεν ἀνάβλησις λύσιος νεκροῖο γένηται."

Then teasing him, swift-footed Achilles said:
“Sleep outside, my dear friend, lest one of the Achaeans,
a counselor, might come here, since they always
seek me out, bearing advice, as they ought to.
If one of them come through the swift black night
and see you, he might tell Agamemnon, shepherd of the people,
and there would be a delay in releasing the body."

Iliad 24.650–56

The participle ἐπικερτομέων, which I have translated as “teased,” is elusive. It can have the connotation of mocking, a surprising shift, given the respectful way that Achilles has been treating Priam. Being asked to sleep on the porch would not be considered a slight (Od. 3.399; 4.297; 7.345), but maybe this is one last residue of hostility, reminding the old king that he is there under Achilles’s sufferance, like his lashing out earlier when Priam refused to sit down before seeing Hector’s body, the poet keeping the tension alive a little longer. Or the word could suggest that Achilles is being faintly sarcastic here, signaling insincerity, as if accompanied by a wink. This shading would suggest that Achilles has motives that he does not want to acknowledge in front of his men. Leaving Priam on the porch allows him to slip away at night and avoid saying goodbye in the presence of Hector’s body, a potentially awkward situation that Achilles avoids with this polite deception.

If there is any ambivalence in Achilles’s tone, it disappears immediately in the gentle exchange that follows, Achilles inquiring politely how many days the Trojans will need to bury Hector, Priam humbly expressing his thanks. The old king’s response is precise: nine days for mourning in the palace, a funeral on the tenth with a feast, then burning the body on the eleventh, and finally war again, if there must be war. Achilles agrees to hold back his troops, and with one last touch of his hand, brings their extraordinary meeting to a close:

ὣς ἄρα φωνήσας ἐπὶ καρπῷ χεῖρα γέροντος
ἔλλαβε δεξιτερήν, μή πως δείσει᾽ ἐνὶ θυμῷ.
οἳ μὲν ἄρ᾽ ἐν προδόμῳ δόμου αὐτόθι κοιμήσαντο
κῆρυξ καὶ Πρίαμος πυκινὰ φρεσὶ μήδε᾽ ἔχοντες,
αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς εὗδε μυχῷ κλισίης ἐϋπήκτου:
τῷ δὲ Βρισηῒς παρελέξατο καλλιπάρῃος.

Speaking thus, he took Priam’s right hand
by the wrist, lest he be afraid in his heart.
And then they went to bed there on the porch,
the herald and Priam, their minds crowded with thought,
but Achilles slept in the inner room of the sturdy house,
and beside him lay the beautiful Briseis.

Iliad 24.671–76

Achilles we will not see again. His corrosive anger has driven the story from its beginning, and his newfound serenity, the product of the altered world—however fragile—that has been created in his quarters, will settle over the poem’s final verses. This last picture of him, with Briseis finally back at his side, recalls, perhaps disquietingly, the only comparably tranquil moment in the story:

Ζεὺς δὲ πρὸς ὃν λέχος ἤϊ᾽ Ὀλύμπιος ἀστεροπητής,
ἔνθα πάρος κοιμᾶθ᾽ ὅτε μιν γλυκὺς ὕπνος ἱκάνοι:
ἔνθα καθεῦδ᾽ ἀναβάς, παρὰ δὲ χρυσόθρονος Ἥρη.

And Olympian Zeus, lover of lightning, went to his bed,
where he always slept when sweet sleep came over him;
going up to bed he slept, and Hera of the golden throne slept beside him.

Iliad 1.609–11

Further Reading

Edwards, M. 1987. Homer: Poet of the Iliad, 311–313. Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press.

Nagler, M. 1974. Spontaneity and Tradition: The Oral Art of Homer, 196–197. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.

Van Nortwick, T. 1992. Somewhere I Have Never Travelled: The Second Self and the Hero’s Journey in Ancient Epic, 84–86. New York: Oxford University Press.