#talky stuff

Tydeides is magnificent in a million ways, great and small. And, while I can’t express such things eloquently enough, you can be damn sure I’ll try.

  Calliope help me, I’ll try.

  Because, while it is easy to get attached to the drama!!-generating hurricane that is Achilleus, or to Hector the devoted family man just dealing with other people’s fuckups, or to Helen who honestly didn’t deserve any of this shit, or to mr. Nobody (don’t be greedy, man, you got a whole epic just to yourself!) – sure, they are a riot to read and talk about, but…

  The Argive king is never talked about as much as he deserves.

  And it’s a shame, because he’s damn complex and not just “that badass who, with Athene’s help, made frigging Ares run to daddy.”

   Which does not mean Diomedes is not a badass. That part is obvious. But.

There’s so much more going on with him. So. Much. More.

  For example, I will never get over the interplay of courage and discretion in this figure.

  Where does the former end, giving way to hubris and/or savagery?

  What separates caution and cowardice, when they can look so similar to each other?

  What does it take to stop before crossing that line, when almost everybody around you is letting their own personal demons run amok?

   And why shouldn’t they? It’s not just a war. To them, it’s THE war.

  Well, to Peleides (and Agamemnon, most likely) it’s also HIS war. HIS path to glory. That’s what’s matters, right? Right?

  So, a certain very offended nereid’s child decides his erstwhile comrades should pay for that dishonour, and he has the means to make sure they do. Or, rather, Thetis does.

  Individualism versus conformity, sure. In some ways. But Achilleus’ desire to affirm his value as a person, ironically, blinds him to the value of other individuals, so he messes up.

  Agamemnon, of course, is a mess-up of cyclopean proportions in general.  

  Somebody has to step up. Somebody has to stand between the Achaean host and disaster and do everything possible and impossible to keep things from going to Tartaros in a handbasket.

  Several heroes do. They work hard, they think hard, they fight hard. But among them, Diomedes is probably the one who can shoulder the greatest part of the burden. So he does.

  Let others be unreasonable. Let others quarrel. There’s work to be done.  

  And so, when Ares takes the field, any fear, any hesitation, are trampled by an understanding that somebody has to go and stop an immortal God.

  Good thing another immortal is there to help. But you can bet anything She would never favour anyone unworthy. Divine help is not chance – it’s kharis, and kharis is earned.

  Many people have noted how seamlessly divine interference and human free will blend into each other in the Iliad. An angry, but still mostly rational, Achilleus is physically restrained by Pallas before he attacks the high king. Aphrodite and Helen have a complex relationship, mirroring Helen’s feelings about her own circumstances and Paris. Agamemnon is ridiculously susceptible to deception – his mind clouded now by madness, now by a false dream. Athene’s wise words are most often heard and acted upon by those who are wise themselves.

  Some go so far as to suggest that the Gods and spirits are merely “metaphors” for more mundane things. But… no. Let’s stay away from that slippery slope.

  The Iliad, without doubt, treats the Gods as real. But just as real are the very human emotions, motives and qualities the heroes act upon (or don’t). Nothing mutually exclusive there.

  The Gods do not force Themselves on the world. They are OF the world. So, when They infuse a warrior with valour – the recipient will almost invariably be someone who surpasses others where that particular virtue is concerned. When good advice is given, it is given to a man of good sense. And the victim of every deception is, of course, an individual already in a confused state of mind.

  Divine favour is not a whim. It is earned. An exceptional relationship with the Gods – or a particular God – denotes an exceptional individual. So, when we are told that Athene loves Diomedes (and Odysseus) more than others – this means she has a reason to.

  He’s the kind of man who would stay silent when bombarded by undeserved insults because any more dissent would be poison to the Achaean host – but make a fairly demoralized army listen to him when the high king breaks down. He’s the only one who goes to save Nestor when everybody else is saving their own nether regions. He’s a mortal who respects the Gods, but will not allow that respect or fear stop him from doing his damn duty.  

  And Pallas, Who guides heroes, Who loves excellence tempered with wisdom -  Who IS excellence tempered with wisdom - harsh but just Pallas notices this mortal.

  How can She not? He is unflinching – so Atrytone stands by him. He proves himself in battle – and Promakhos lets him go even further than he otherwise would. He is wise – and Polymetis whispers warnings and advice to him.

  They are Goddess and worshipper, they are teacher and pupil, they are comrades who respect each other immensely, they are friends who know each other’s minds.

  At the same time, they are a man and his sense of duty, maturity and strength of character.

  Gods are both *who* and *what* at once. Pallas acts, but She also IS.  

  When She interacts with Telamonian Aias – staunch, reliable, straightforward Aias – it only ends in disaster. Because Aias also happens to be temperamental, petty and, frankly, childish.

  Not so with another hero.

   The ruler of Argos is an excellent charioteer. He reins in his wayward passions the same way he deals with horses. Anger? Pride? Fear? Good. He controls it. He makes it work in his favour. Tempers each important decision with an understanding of its potential consequences.

  That iron self-discipline is more than an individual’s adherence to societal expectations. It’s also more than a desire to keep away the madness his father lost to. While both factors are present, his own innate sense of responsibility is what determines his behaviour.

  It would have been easy to say that he simply respects Agamemnon’s authority and therefore avoids conflict when insulted in rhapsodia IV – oh, Peleides would not be so meek!  But then, we see Diomedes speaking out against the Mycenaean king’s cowardice when nobody else does. In both cases, he does what needs to be done for the Achaean cause.

  *sigh* Okay, said cause doesn’t look so hot from a modern point of view. But that particular can of worms should probably be set aside for later. Let’s just establish that the Achaeans actually have a complex set of reasons to be invading the Troad. Deal?

  Tydeides is not just here for glory, or because he took that ill-omened oath. He is fully convinced this war is necessary. That’s why he’s ready to go so far to achieve victory. And, whether right or misguided, that determination is a thing of beauty – even if that beauty is cold and deadly as a blade.  

  When he promises to stay and fight even if all the other chieftains turn tail – he means it.

  When he honours the guest-friendship of Oineus and Bellerophon, and reinforces that bond by exchanging gifts with Glaukos – he also means it.

  He’s a scary, scary man, that Diomedes.

  Maybe that’s the point. A warrior whom others have no reason to fear is useless.

  But so is a warrior who is only a source of fear. Sophrosyne, moderation, is the watchword.

  Arete, too. And kleos, and aidos. But it is the balance granted by sophrosyne that makes our hero’s other qualities truly shine.

  Shine like the brightest star of autumn, bathed in the ocean’s waves, as it were.

  This poetic comparison from rhapsodia V? It’s not just there to be pretty. When Achilleus or Hektor are compared to stars – the descriptions are entirely different, more fitting to their personalities. One can NEVER pay too much attention to detail with the Iliad.

  And, when one does begin to hunt for all those details, all those subtle and unsubtle hints, one realizes, that this story does not belong to Akhilleus. Neither does it belong to Hektor or Agamemnon, or to Helen. It’s not even a tale of “rage” or “war”.

  It’s a story where every figure, every theme, large or small, is a centre of gravity. Odysseus and Thersites, Priam and the daughter of Khryses, every soldier whose pathetic death is so meticulously described, every simile, every digression or story of times long past – are an omphalos unto itself, the navel of the world, even if just for brief moment.

 Let’s just say, that among all those centers of gravity - I know which one interests me most.