Far more discriminating are the comments of M. M. Willcock (“The Funeral Games of Patroclus,” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 20 [1973]: 4–9). His stress upon the complexity of the issues involved is particularly timely, and I myself am particularly concerned to associate myself with this emphasis here, since I will now proceed to summarize some of the questions at stake and, as Kullmann (1977:533 = Homerische Motive, 202) has pointed out, such summaries are not best calculated to convey complexities of this nature. {4|5}

I begin with the oldest and firmest link in the theory, what even the hostile Page acknowledges to be “the strongest single weapon in the whole armoury” (1963:23). A consideration of the issues raised by Iliad VIII 80–129 will bring us into contact with most of the problems inherent in Neoanalysis’s interpretation of the various passages in question. Nestor’s horse is shot by Paris, and the old man seems doomed as Hector speeds down upon him. Diomedes, however, comes to the rescue. Compare with this the scene from the Aethiopis as reconstituted (reasonably enough: see page 64 below) from Proclus’ summary and Pindar: Nestor’s horse is shot by Paris, and the old man seems doomed as Memnon speeds down upon him. Nestor’s son Antilochus comes to the rescue, however, and saves his father at the cost of his own life: for Memnon kills him and is in turn himself killed by Achilles.

I do not think any scholar has seriously tried to deny the obvious similarities between the two scenes. Difficulties come crowding on us thick and fast, however, when we try to decide just how to interpret these similarities.

And we are not yet finished with this first problem. For I have just raised a further issue in referring to “seemingly inferior employment of a motif.” Kullmann has complained (1960:36 and 39 in particular: the complaint is largely aimed at Hölscher [1955]) that opponents of Neoanalysis sometimes behave as if they had securely established the principle that where a motif is employed in a satisfactory enough way, there is no need to search for any model or precedent.

It remains true that this type of counterargument does not logically exclude the possibility that the relevant passage still had a source in the Aethiopis. But Neoanalysts must accept that this possibility is not susceptible of proof, and that their position here is nowhere near as secure as in those few cases where they can point to genuinely puzzling features.

Superior and inferior uses of a motif are no magic key to relative dating, then. Another possible key: “If there are two uses of a motif, one tragic the other not, then the tragic version must be primary and original.” This handy rule, formulated by Kullmann (1960:58–63 and 1981:11, 19, 25–26 = Homerische Motive, 72, 79, 85–86; and independently by Reinhardt [1961:88 and 93–94]) underlies a good deal of scholarly writing on this topic. So if Antilochus rescues Nestor but at the cost of his own life, while Diomedes does the same and survives, the former version must be the original and the second derivative. By and large I think this holds true. Of course we must remember that, by virtue of the restricted period of time covered by its subject matter, the Iliad can display few genuinely tragic {6|7} eventualities for its main heroes. Most of these must survive the poem to fulfill the mythical role allotted to them.

And some specific cases do not bear out this general principle quite as conclusively as might at first be thought: note, for instance, Andersen on the relationship between Thersites’ death in the Aethiopis, and his drubbing in Iliad II: “ ‘Abschwächung’ oder ‘pathetische Steigerung’—beides ist möglich” (Andersen 1982:24).

Dihle too (1970:9–11) interprets Neoanalysis as presupposing written sources for Homer. It is reassuring that Kullmann in his reply to this type of criticism denies that Neoanalysis necessarily implies such written sources and seems (now at least) fully alert to the complexities of the issues (see e.g. 1977:531 = Homerische Motive, 200; and 1981:9, 13, 18, 27, and 33n76 = Homerische Motive, 70–71, 74, 78, 86, and 91n76). So he asserts that even if the Epic Cycle is likely to be later than Homer the possibility of influence upon the Iliad and the Odyssey by earlier oral versions of these cyclic epics is not thereby excluded. And he distinguishes between the pre-Homeric conception of various themes and motifs and their post-Homeric preservation in written form.

Antilochus, according to Kullmann (1960), is only important for the Iliad in those portions of the poem which on other grounds can be shown to have been modeled on the Aethiopis (i.e., on the material later incorporated in that epic) rather than vice versa. Willcock too (1973:7–8) is convinced that these passages are important for the theory under consideration, although he expresses himself rather more cautiously and with a greater awareness of the complex range of possibilities.

Some scholars might argue that the above readjustments of Neoanalytical perspectives do not go far enough. They would stress the existence of a wide range of thematic material at the poet’s disposal. In such circumstances, the duplication of scenes between one epic and another, or indeed within the same epic, leads not to the deductions just considered, but to the obvious and unspecific conclusion that the Homeric poet had at his fingertips a rich resource of motifs, a fertile tradition capable of considerable flexibility.

And we must again commend him for the following realization that the subject is even more tangled and involved than so far allowed (236):

These two extracts nicely illustrate the evenly balanced state of the question. {9|10}

Fenik finally decides (237) that the similarities between Iliad and Aethiopis, especially as they center around the attack on Nestor, are too great to be a matter of coincidence. Even when we remember the importance of motifs, “the evidence from the battle scenes alone will not support the conclusion that the larger elements of action and plot are also typical. Until this can be demonstrated, the formidable list of similarities between the two poems can still be taken to indicate a direct, purposeful imitation of one by the other.” But then a consideration of the numerous duplicated motifs in Greek myths (the invulnerable hero, the unfaithful and/or murderous wife, and so forth) induces a further modification of his position and his last words on the subject are (239) that

When the case for independent use of similar motifs is so sensibly and sensitively put, its differences from the alternative mode of explaining the phenomena seem very small. For instance, in both approaches, the presence or absence of parallels from the Iliad itself for motifs being considered is paramount (see page 8 above). See further page 12 below.

In Iliad V 561–573 Antilochus saves Menelaus’ life by standing next to him in the battle, thus inducing the retreat of the threatening Aeneas. Kullmann sees in this a further “non-tragic” reworking of the Nestor–Memnon confrontation, analogous to what we find in Iliad VIII 102–129, but here it is difficult not to {10|11} listen to those scholars who stress (from slightly differing angles) the cross-references between this and other scenes in the Iliad. Thus Fenik observes the ample parallels this same poem provides for the pattern of Trojan retreat before a Greek warrior aiding a threatened comrade. He concludes that “the simplest and most economical explanation is that the Iliad scenes and the Aethiopis passage are examples of common type scenes that doubtless appeared in many poems and with many variations” (1968:59–60).

Willcock draws our attention to the other Iliadic passages where Antilochus and Menelaus are linked: e.g. XV 568–575, where the two warriors sally forth together, and XXIII 566–601, where the former easily and effectively quenches the rage of the latter.

In Iliad XVI 317–329 Thrasymedes saves his brother Antilochus when he is about to be attacked by the Trojan Maris. Again Reinhardt (1961:357) and with him Kullmann (see more recently 1981:10 = Homerische Motive, 71–72) detect a relationship with the Aethiopis, this time a reversal of the situation that prevailed there when Thrasymedes was unable to help his brother. But Fenik is correct (196–197) to insist: “The circumstances here are entirely different, nor is there anywhere a mention of Thrasymedes’ failure to stand by his brother when Antilochus challenged Memnon.” Once more the answer seems to be that this situation in Iliad XVI is a typical one, paralleled elsewhere in the epic.

Willcock and Kullmann are agreed that in his other Iliadic appearances Antilochus anticipates his role as a replacement for Patroclus in Achilles’ affections. Few (though see 10n15 above) are likely to wish to reject this analysis when successively confronted by scenes wherein Antilochus is dispatched (by Menelaus, significantly enough) to tell Achilles the news of Patroclus’ death (XVII 691–699); where he seizes Achilles’ hands in case he tries to cut his own throat (XVIII 1–34); and, most striking of all, where his genial and engaging conduct at the Funeral Games of Patroclus makes Achilles smile for the first time since the death of his dear friend.

Kullmann characteristically stresses that the sequel to these events is provided by the Aethiopis (as deduced, again, by combining Proclus’ epitome with Pindar Pythian VI 28–49: for a detailed treatment of this topic see pages 64–65 below). For there Achilles slays Memnon and thus directly brings about his own death, because Memnon has in his turn killed Achilles’ friend and companion Antilochus. Willcock, however, is right to emphasize (1973:8) the further ramifications of the problem.

It is not merely that Iliad XXIII also takes up the theme of Antilochus’ relationship with Achilles, a feature we have seen to be an integral part of the Iliad (page 10 above). Antilochus can hardly be a Homeric invention based on Patroclus if the tradition of his own death is presupposed by Iliad VIII. Furthermore, in Odyssey xi 465–470, when the ghost of Achilles draws near to Odysseus, {11|12} it is accompanied by the shades both of Patroclus and of Antilochus. And Odyssey xxiv 78–79 explicitly draws attention to Antilochus’ status as closest friend to Achilles after Patroclus: “Antilochus, whom you, Achilles, honored above all your friends once Patroclus had died.”

Willcock summarizes the complexity of the issues with admirable delicacy (1973:8; cf. Willcock 1983):

The possibility of such reciprocal borrowing or “cross-quotations” was long ago perceived by Gilbert Murray (The Rise of the Greek Epic [Oxford 1934] 177–178).

And, indeed, we find an analogous detail in Quintus of Smyrna’s account of the funeral of Achilles (III 665–669). There Zeus signifies the death of a supreme hero by sprinkling his pyre with a light shower of ambrosia, and as a mark of honor to Thetis

Is this passage derived from the Aethiopis?

It may well be. Few will wish to deny the ingenuity of Kakridis’ approach here. He himself candidly confesses (83) the total and unremitting absence of any direct testimony for the hostility which the Winds entertain against Achilles in his reconstruction, and the complete and undeniable lack of any evidence for the Winds’ appearance in the Aethiopis. But the natural connection between the Dawn and the Winds may perhaps reassure us that Memnon’s status as brother of the Winds has more ancient support than the late and fanciful conceit suggested by its occurrence at Callimachus fr. 110.52 (~ Catullus 66.52–53) and Nonnus XXXVII 75. What is particularly impressive is the way in which the interpretation of the Iliadic passage—“as a pale imitation of an older original epic narrative which included both motifs and justified both the refusal of the Winds and the interference of the gods” (83)—mitigates what seems to me to be a genuinely difficult and perplexing feature.

The same cannot, I fear, be said of the other attempts to find in the Iliad’s Patroclus an adaptation of the Achilles hypothesized for the Aethiopis. When Patroclus forgets the instructions of his friend Achilles and goes so far as to attack the walls of Troy (XVI 698–701) Apollo repels him thrice and at his fourth {13|14} attempt utters the memorable phrase (707) χάζεο, διογενὲς Πατρόκλεες. He had given a similar warning to Diomedes in V 432–442 when that hero rushed at the god himself four times and on the final occasion received the rebuke φράζεο, Τυδεΐδη, καὶ χάζεο (440). Since a clash between Achilles and Apollo would be far more central and integral to the legend of Troy than either of the two parallel clashes already mentioned, it is hardly surprising that Willcock (“Mythological Paradeigma in the Iliad,” Classical Quarterly 14 [1964]: 151n4 = Oxford Readings in Homer’s Iliad [Oxford 2001] 450n35) came to consider the idea that in the Aethiopis Achilles stormed the walls of Troy and was three times pushed back by Apollo. At the fourth time, suggests Willcock, Apollo said χάζεο, Πηλεΐδη or φράζεο, Πηλεΐδη, καὶ χάζεο (the first alternative being, in fact, the admonitory phrase put in Apollo’s mouth by Quintus of Smyrna [III 40] shortly before Achilles’ death). Achilles, however, ignores the warning (cf. Proclus τρεψάμενος δ᾽ Ἀχιλλεὺς τοὺς Τρῶας καὶ εἰς τὴν πόλιν συνεισπεσών) and proceeds to his own destruction.

Willcock advanced this theory with tact and circumspection (“it is not the purpose of this note to support the theory that the Aethiopis provided the themes of the Iliad … but to suggest how composition by theme might involve certain formulas associated with that theme”). Considerably less circumspection had, in fact, already been displayed by Kakridis (83) when he published very similar speculations. But the more cautious approach better fits the numerous uncertainties involved. The application of the warning to Diomedes certainly fulfills an important function within that hero’s aristeia, whose main theme is the relation of gods to men (see Andersen 1978:47–87, esp. 71–72).

As a sequel to his encounter with this divine warning, Patroclus is killed by a combination of Apollo and two mortals, as he himself protests (XVI 844–854; cf. Thetis’ words at XVIII 454–456). Is not Achilles’ death in the Aethiopis engineered in a remarkably similar way? And does not the motif sit rather awkwardly in the Iliadic context?

To the first question most of us will be disposed to answer “yes.” An equally affirmative reply to the second is less readily produced. “Why should the poet make both Patroclus and Achilles die in exactly the same way?” asks Kakridis (88) and does not wait for an answer. But “because he wishes to stress Apollo’s persistent hostility to Achilles, and therefore has the god kill Achilles’ best friend as well as Achilles himself,” would be a perfectly reasonable retort, and, if we chose to, we might embellish it with the cautious qualification that Patroclus does not really die “in exactly the same way” as Achilles, for his divine and his mortal assailant act rather more independently of each other than the Aethiopis seems to have allowed. Kakridis further asserts the relative incoherence of the motif of divine intervention in the Iliad’s case. But when he claims that “Hector {14|15} did not need the assistance of Apollo in order to kill Patroclus. One feels immediately how incompatible with the noble character of Hector is the interference of the god,” we must reply this time that he is laboring under a misconception as to the symbolism and significance of such divine participation in the epics of Homer. Or would he argue that Achilles did not need the assistance of Athena in order to kill Hector at Iliad XXII 214–225? More specifically, W. Allan (2005:1–16) has persuasively argued that Homer represents Hector’s victory as hollow and “tarnished” (5), and that Euphorbus’ role in the killing is necessary for this effect. The idea that the episode is problematic and as such attractively explicable by the hypothesis of Euphorbus’ cooperation with Apollo—as derived, a trifle awkwardly, from Paris’ cooperation with Apollo in the Aethiopis’ killing of Achilles—thus becomes less attractive.

At Iliad XXIII 12–18 Thetis arouses in the hearts of the Myrmidons a desire to lament over the corpse of Patroclus. “But the goddess is not at the camp of the Achaeans” (84), protests Kakridis, who remembers that after her delivery of the arms of Achilles she must have returned to her home in the sea. And so again {15|16} the problem’s solution must be that Homer has removed XI 13–14 “bodily from an epic description of Achilles’ funeral where the presence of the goddess was both necessary and explicit, to use it for Patroclus.” Now this is precisely the sort of overrigorous use of realism and inappropriately close scrutiny of what the poet clearly did not wish us to scrutinize that Kakridis himself so rightly castigates elsewhere (e.g. 3–4) in his book.

So too Iliad XXIII’s Funeral Games for Patroclus remind him of the similar events celebrated for Achilles in the Aethiopis and lead him, following in the wake of Pestalozzi (1945:33), to pose the inept question (88) “Which is the prototype and which the imitation?” As we shall soon see (page 78 below), funeral games in memory of a hero are so much the antithesis of rare that there is not the slightest need to narrow down the range of possibilities in this extreme manner. From the picture of the Aethiopis’s Achilles as a prototype for the Iliadic Patroclus, our discussion passes seamlessly on to the next topic.

Clark and Coulson painstakingly establish (1978:65–66) that in this section of the Iliad as a whole Sarpedon is an undeveloped and undercharacterized figure, as opposed to the well-developed and fully characterized Patroclus. Sarpedon’s main function is to endow Patroclus with a final blaze of glory derived from his killing of a ἡμίθεος—and a son of Zeus at that—just before he dies. All this is very true and very just, but it is hard to see how it advances their case in the slightest. And I find quite incomprehensible their suggestion (67) that XVI 419–477’s use of ring composition centering around the death of Glaucus somehow indicates that Sarpedon is the reflection of an older motif such as Memnon.

Let us turn now to the passage where Zeus ponders the saving of his son Sarpedon but is dissuaded by the intervention of Hera (Iliad XVI 440–457). This is often taken to be derived from that part of the Aethiopis (as reconstructed from the evidence of vase paintings) which shows Eos’ endeavors to save her son Memnon (pages 31–32 below): see, for instance, the scholars cited by Clark and Coulson (68n17). On the face of it, these two scenes are more conspicuous {16|17} for their differences than for their similarities. Zeus is a deity quite unlike Eos, and the Iliadic lines have no character equivalent to the Aethiopis’s Thetis (Sarpedon’s mother, it need hardly be said, is not close to the surface of any reader’s mind!). Vase paintings of the Psychostasia usually depict an aloof, impartial, and nonpartisan Zeus: Hermes balances the scales more often than not, and in his capacity as psychopompos he may have priority in this role (see page 31 below). Does not Zeus’ direct involvement in the present case produce quite a different picture? “Ah,” say the Neoanalysts, “that is because the employment of Eos as a model for Zeus’ behaviour has distorted his usual role. Zeus has borrowed some of her qualities, just as he has borrowed some of Hermes’.” But in the Iliadic scene it is Hera who adopts the aloof nonpartisan stance, and the notion that these qualities have been transferred to her from her husband produces a fantastically complicated sequence of counter- and cross-references and motif-borrowings.

This last consideration puts into perspective the first of several attempts that have been made to convince us that the Iliadic passage under discussion contains various anomalies which may best be explained by the hypothesis of dependence upon the Aethiopis’s version. Thus Schadewaldt, followed by Clark and Coulson (1977:68–69), argues that Zeus’ role at Iliad XVI 431–461 is oddly passive, and his power is diminished in comparison to what we find elsewhere: this whole picture, and especially the idea of Zeus’ subservience to the Moirae, (Hera deters him at 441–442 from rescuing a mortal πάλαι πεπρωμένον αἴσηι) stems from the use of the Aethiopis’s Eos as a model: her ineffectuality before Fate is intelligible. But all this is unnecessary: if Zeus hesitates before finally deciding on the death of Hector at XXII 168–178, even though that hero is no relative of his, we can hardly be very surprised if he does the same for his own son. And in each case the poet exploits the device to stress an important turning point within the narrative. The relationship between Zeus and the Moirae is, as one might expect, extremely complicated (see, for instance, Dietrich 1965:297), but there is no need to invoke the Aethiopis to clarify its labyrinthine twists and turns. Nor, when taken in context, is the notion of Fate the only deterent to Zeus here: as Hera reminds him (446–447),

Still on the subject of the Psychostasia, we may cast a brief glance at the reason given for Hector’s retreat from the mêlée over Sarpedon’s corpse: γνῶ γὰρ Διὸς ἱρὰ τάλαντα (658). In comparison with Homer’s usual technique, this seems an uncharacteristically allusive and elliptical reference to Zeus’ scales, which are not referred to again in the narrative at large. Have we not here a {17|18} rudimentary survival from the Psychostasia, what Kullmann (1960:317) calls an “abgekurztes Motiv,” explicable only in the light of the Aethiopis’s far fuller treatment? The answer “yes” does not force its way quite so readily to my lips as it does for many of the Neoanalysts. Their more generous response may still be right, but there are other ways of explaining this undeniably reticent reference. For the Scales of Zeus (on which see B. C. Dietrich, “The Judgement of Zeus,” Rheinisches Museum 107 [1964]: 97–125) do in fact appear elsewhere in the Iliad (Iliad VIII 69–72 and XXII 209–213: Dietrich 1965:294). Why should not the poet be adducing elliptically a feature that figures more fully elsewhere in his own poem? Why bring the Aethiopis in at all? And if it must be brought in, why not reverse the relationship usually posited, and suggest (with Dihle [1970:16]) that this epic included a lengthening and expansion of the Διὸς τάλαντα motif by the device of an appeal from the two relevant mothers? The fact is that these holy scales of Zeus, like all the other details mentioned so far, would make sense as vestigial remains of a fuller account in the Aethiopis, but do not in themselves constitute independent and adequate proof of the existence of such a relationship.

Nor is this basic discrepancy much mitigated by the attendant circumstances with which the central pictures are elaborated. In the Aethiopis it is deduced (see below, page 35) that Memnon’s body was removed from the battlefield by his mother (appropriately enough). In the Iliad, however, it is Apollo {18|19} who carries out the like task for Sarpedon’s corpse (XVI 665–673). He is no close relative of the dead hero.

It would be difficult to devise two more dissimilar scenes—and Apollo’s intervention is not totally inexplicable without recourse to the theory that he is a substitute for Eos. On the contrary, there is once again a parallel within the Iliad itself for the scene now under discussion. Apollo’s anointing of Sarpedon’s corpse (670–680) has a very close analogy in the care he takes to protect Hector’s body from wear and tear (XXIV 18–21) Apollo’s links with Lycia (see Davies and Finglass on Stesichorus fr. 109) will further explain this service rendered to a Lycian hero. Only the motif of Death and Sleep as the conveyors of Sarpedon to Lycia has anything like a strikingly close counterpart in popular reconstructions of the Aethiopis, and even there the assumption that Memnon’s corpse was escorted by those two daemones is based on evidence that Clark and Coulson themselves admit to be “far less certain.”

This equivalence is particularly asserted by Kullman (1981:8–9 = Homerische Motive, 69–70). In the Iliad, Achilles’ killing of Hector sets the seal on his own fate, as his mother foretells. In the Aethiopis, Achilles’ killing of Memnon sets the seal on his own fate, as his mother (we may plausibly infer [see page 60 below]) foretells; but the difference is that his death follows almost immediately upon the death of Memnon and certainly falls within the scope of the very epic that contains the foretelling.

The motif’s impact here is certainly very much more immediate and effective in the form we may infer for the Aethiopis. However, one must not underestimate the power the motif possesses in its own right within the Iliad: see page 60 below. An agnostic stance over this question is wisely maintained by Willcock (1983:483–484).

We come at last to the final category:

Already the possibility that the Aethiopis’s scene, with the rather anomalous participation of the Muses (see below page 74), represents an attempt to expand and improve on the Iliadic original seems more plausible than the reverse hypothesis outlined above. However, we need not follow that hypothesis through to its logical conclusion here. What we should rather be concerned to stress is that the Iliadic passage makes perfect sense in its own terms without recourse to the hypothesis of a now-lost source in the Aethiopis. The Iliad is often concerned to look ahead to the future careers of many of its heroes (book XXIII is particularly prone to do this: see the remarks of Willcock [1973:7–9]). Of no character is this more true than Achilles: his death in particular is often foreshadowed to tragic effect (see page 60 below). The present scene takes its place among a number of others within the Iliad itself. For the motif of the hero lamented by women while still alive see Iliad VI 497–502 on Hector and compare Griffin 1980:28. {20|21}

We have already anticipated the next item for consideration in our discussion of the last. Several Neoanalysts suppose that the prophecy which Thetis delivers to Achilles in the Iliad had an equivalent (far speedier of fulfilment) in the Aethiopis. That there are similarities none can deny. But prophecies were so common a feature both in the Iliad and in the Epic Cycle that no far-reaching conclusions should be drawn.

The use of αὐτίκα has a poignant and pathetic impact in Iliad XVIII 96 (αὐτίκα γάρ τοι ἔπειτα μεθ’ Ἕκτορα πότμος ἑτοῖμος) which cannot be properly assessed by a mechanical computation of actual numbers of days remaining to Achilles in the Iliad as compared with the Aethiopis (see Reinhardt 1961:29–31 and cf. Dihle 1970:22, Allan 2003:14n56 for a fuller account of the passage’s effect). And when the parallel between Aethiopis and Iliad has to be suitably sharpened by the bland adoption of Welcker’s hypothesis—taken over with enthusiasm by several scholars (especially Schoeck [1961:8–10])—that Achilles withdrew from the fighting after Thetis’ prophecy concerning Memnon (2:174), it is hard not to sympathize with Page’s polemic (1963:22–23).

We come now to the death of Achilles. Three brief passages are to be borne in mind. The first is Iliad XVI 775–776 (on the death of the charioteer Cebriones in the fighting about the corpse of Patroclus):

Next is Iliad XVIII 26–27 (on Achilles’ reaction to the news of the death of Patroclus):

Last is Odyssey xxiv 37–40 (Agamemnon to Achilles on the struggle that arose around the latter’s dead body):

Finally, the last passage that calls for a detailed survey in this section: after killing Hector, Achilles wildly plans to sack Troy but suddenly breaks off upon recalling the death of Patroclus and the need to honor his dead body. Neoanalysts wonder whether this scene does not presuppose a similar prototype in the Aethiopis, where Achilles, having killed another distinguished adversary (Memnon), actually did proceed to the sack of Troy, only to meet his own death. If the Iliadic passage were in any way peculiar or anomalous we might be disposed to think along these lines. Some scholars do indeed find it oddly unsatisfactory, and even Lesky objects (1967:75.54): “Liegt doch bei den Schiffen Patroklos unbestattet, an ihn vor allern gilt es zu denken Als ob ein brennendes Troia nicht die grosste aller Ehrungen fur den toten Freund gewesen wäre!”

One’s instinctive first reaction is to observe that Achilles can hardly go on to sack Troy in the Iliad. A more reasonable second thought is that such a sequel would be considerably inferior to what Homer actually presents us with. Is it not quite in keeping with the presentation of Achilles’ character that after the high point of his heroic career, the slaying of the Greeks’ greatest enemy, his spirit should soar up in ambitious imaginings and then slump back to earth and mortal thoughts upon remembering his great friend and his own impending death, brought perceptibly nearer by the killing of Hector? Once again, Neoanalysis seems to act as a block to the understanding of a given passage’s impact. {22|23}

The above examination of the main passages that have been called into play in investigations of the relationship between the Iliad and the Aethiopis fully justifies our initial remarks (page 4) about the complexity of the issues involved.

Let us restrict ourselves to similarities best explicable in terms of borrowing. Sometimes (most notably with the motif of Nestor’s rescue [see page 7 above]) the Iliad does seem to have drawn on the Aethiopis, but elsewhere (e.g. the conveyance of the corpses of Sarpedon and Memnon [see page 19], the laments for Patroclus and Achilles [page 12]) the reverse hypothesis seems at least as plausible. And then there is the question of traditional features. E. R. Dodds summed up the position with characteristic clarity and economy: “Certain of the motifs do look as if they had been invented for the Memnon story, but others, like the Funeral Games and the avenging of a friend, may well have been drawn by both poets from a dateless traditional stock; and in an oral tradition it is perfectly possible for two poems which belonged to the repertory of the same reciters to have influenced each other reciprocally, and to have continued to influence each other over a long period” (1968:12). Similar views have been more recently expressed by, for instance, W. Allan: “It is more plausible to think of a shared epic technique based upon a ‘grammar’ of typical motifs and situations, since the pursuit of specific dependence or influence (from Homer to the cyclic poets or vice versa) is, in the preexisting stage of early Greek epic, a misleading methodology” (2003:14).

I have left to the end the most significant recent attempt to revise our understanding of the issue, Martin West’s dramatic exposition of “the flaw in the Memnonis theory” (“Iliad and Aethiopis,” Classical Quarterly 53 [2003]: 8 = 2012:251). West claims that “the Iliad poet knew the story of Achilles’ death … but he did not know the Memnon episode that preceded it in the Epic Cycle,” and that the poet of the Odyssey similarly did not know of the Penthesileia episode, the proof being in each case that neither poet mentions either figure. Further, the Nekyia of the Odyssey presents Achilles as present in Hades rather than on the island of Leuce, whither the Aethiopis has Thetis conduct him.

Beginning my retort with the Odyssey, I observe that (as West himself concedes: 10 = 261) Penthesileia’s absence may be mere coincidence. Regarding the Nekyia, once the poet had devised the brilliant concept of having his hero {23|24} meet his former hetairoi in Hades, it would have been inconceivable for him to have omitted the greatest. As for the Iliad, it may be precisely because that poem’s author borrowed the Memnon motif and transferred it to Iliad VIII that he has not (5 = 251) brought Memnon to Troy, “even though he is to play such a major role in the story before Achilles’ death. The Lycian contingent is there from the beginning: why not the Aethiopians?” I would reply in contrast that, by reusing the motif in disguised form, the Iliad has, as it were, “used it up” and cannot display it or any aspect of it in its original and pristine form. As analogy for such reticence as to “source,” I would cite the motif of the Judgment of Paris, which I hope to have shown (“The Judgements of Paris and Solomon,” Classical Quarterly 33 [2003]: 1–14) the Iliad to have similarly adapted and transferred to Hector’s visit to Troy in book VI. Having thus been transferred, the motif is not available for appearance in its original shape. It only features, as I would argue, once, very elliptically formulated, near the end of the poem. The parallel with what I would infer for Memnon’s absence would actually be even more complete if West is right in his Teubner text to accept deletion of Iliad XXIV 29–30.