Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company

ISBN-13 : 978-1324001805

Buy: The Iliad at  Amazon

Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Iliad by Homer (translated by Emily Wilson)

Introduction

Goddess, sing of the cataclysmic wrath/of great Achilles, son of Peleus,/ which caused the Greeks immeasurable pain/ and sent so many noble souls of heroes/ to Hades, and made men the spoils of dogs,/ a banquet for the birds, and so the plan/ of Zeus unfolded—starting with the conflict/ between great Agamemnon, lord of men,/ and glorious Achilles. (Book 1.1-9)

This summary of  The Iliad draws on Emily Wilson’s translation. Her version feels immediate and sharp, bringing out the raw emotions beneath the epic’s grand scale. Wilson’s careful language makes the ancient story feel alive and urgent, without losing its power or poetry.

The Iliad is an ancient war poem, yes. But it’s also a psychological epic, a treatise on leadership, and a furious meditation on what it means to matter.

Composed in the 8th century BC, the poem is set during the final weeks of the Trojan War; a semi-mythical conflict between the Greeks (Achaeans) and the city of Troy. 

The Iliad does not tell the story most people think it does. There is no Trojan Horse. No fall of Troy. No death of Achilles. 

Instead, the poem opens in medias res. It begins in the ninth year of a deadlocked war and ends with a funeral. The great city still stands. The so-called heroes are exhausted, mutinous, starving, and furious with one another. That is where Homer starts.

On the surface, this is a story about warriors. But The Iliad isn’t truly about war. It’s about ego: what happens when individual identity collides with collective systems. It’s about authorship: who gets to write history, who matters when the dust clears, and what it costs to be irreplaceable. It’s about legacy and loss, and the awful math of glory.

The people in The Iliad are brutal, impulsive, magnificent, and deeply flawed. They are leaders who can’t lead, gods who can’t love, heroes who can’t stop themselves. And they are, for all their armor and epic speeches, alarmingly familiar.

This poem is strange. Long passages are repetitive, ritualistic, or technical. Heroes cry often. Gods cheat constantly. No one learns anything in a modern sense. And yet, the Iliad burns with something that refuses to die. It speaks directly to anyone who has ever built something important and then watched others take the credit. Anyone who has tried to lead, or tried to follow, and been betrayed by both. Anyone who has lost a friend and then lost themselves.

This guide is a reading companion. It’s an attempt to sit with this strange, devastating poem and make sense of what it’s really doing. It tracks the choices that shape the poem, and the consequences that follow. It treats the Iliad as a study of personality, honor, leadership, violence, and the things that outlast glory.

The Iliad still matters because it refuses to flatter us. It asks us to look at power, violence, ambition, and grief, and doesn’t let us look away. It insists that every act of greatness is shadowed by loss, that even glory has a price, and that leadership is measured not by dominance but by what (and who) you’re willing to lose. It demands that you reckon with ambition, with grief, with what it takes to be exceptional, and what it costs to be human.

This is a book about war. But it’s also a book about what survives it.

The Iliad in Three Sentences

• The Iliad tells the story of Achilles’ devastating wrath during the Trojan War’s final weeks, ignited when Agamemnon dishonors Achilles by seizing his war prize, Briseis.
• Achilles’ withdrawal from battle causes immense suffering for the Greeks, until the death of Patroclus spurs him back into a vengeful rampage, culminating in the brutal slaying of Hector, Troy’s greatest defender.
• The poem ends not with triumph, but with a solemn act of shared humanity, as Achilles returns Hector’s body to Priam, exploring loss and the human cost of honor, rage, and war.

Key Takeaways

• Ego undermines unity: Achilles’ rage nearly destroys the Greek war effort. Personal grievances can destabilize collective goals and lead to widespread suffering.
• Internal conflict mirrors external war: Pride, grief, and honor are as decisive as swords. Emotions are just as influential in shaping the course of war as physical combat.
• Heroes are complicated: Achilles and Hector are deeply flawed yet unforgettable. Achilles is both the greatest warrior and the most emotionally volatile man in the poem. Hector is noble but doomed. No character is purely good or evil. Greatness often coexists with profound flaws.
• Mortality gives life meaning: Achilles must choose between a long, obscure life or a short, glorious one. His choice of a brief, glorious life over a long, quiet one is both admirable and devastating.
• Compassion eclipses glory: The poem ends not with conquest, but with compassion. Achilles and Priam, two enemies, mourning together. Even in war, compassion can momentarily transcend vengeance.

 

A Clash of Ego

The first word of The Iliad is menin: wrath. Achilles burns with anger not at his enemies, but at Agamemnon, his own commander, who humiliates him by seizing Briseis, his war prize.

We might reasonably ask: why does this matter? Why would someone like Achilles, effectively a demigod, undefeatable in combat, revered by all, care so deeply about a captured slave-girl?

In the honor-based world of Bronze Age Greece, Briseis represents more than a woman; she is a war prize, a symbol of Achilles’ standing. When Agamemnon takes her, he strips Achilles of meaning and public respect. Achilles responds by withdrawing from the war effort:

“You always get a better one than mine,/when we sack any wealthy Trojan town./My hands work hardest in the frenzied fighting,/but when we share the spoils, you get much more./I come back to the ships worn out from battle,/with something valuable to me, but small./So I will go back home to Phthia now,/in my curved ships, because that is much better…/I will not stay here to be disrespected,/serving up wealth and revenue for you!” (Book 1.212–223)

The withdrawal of the Greeks’ greatest warrior brings catastrophic consequences. Yet Achilles is not moved by patriotism or justice; he doesn’t care about the cause. He doesn’t even truly care about Briseis herself.

Achilles wants recognition. Kleos, eternal glory (the Greek concept for “what others will say about you after you’re gone”), is what drives him. His wrath is not about love, but authorship: he will not be erased.

This is why Achilles abandons the war. This is what makes him dangerous, but also indispensable. When Achilles steps out, everything collapses. When he returns, everything moves.

It’s easy to dismiss this as petty. But if you’ve ever built something significant only to watch someone else claim credit, or worse, undermine your legitimacy while depending on your contribution, you understand this feeling. Achilles doesn’t simply want victory; he demands authorship. He insists on the right to declare: “That success? I made it happen.”

“By this I swear to you a mighty oath./The Greeks will all be longing for Achilles/one day and you will have no power to help,/and you will grieve and many men will die/at Hector’s murderous hands. Then you will tear/your heart inside you in a bitter rage/because you failed to pay the best Greek fighter/proper respect.” (Book 1.322-328)

Only the death of Patroclus (his closest companion) moves Achilles to return to battle. Grief transforms his ego-driven wrath into apocalyptic vengeance. He shifts from brooding in his tent to unleashing a fury that reshapes the entire conflict. He kills Hector in single combat, desecrates his corpse, and seems beyond redemption.

But in the poem’s final movement, Achilles meets Hector’s grieving father, King Priam. In a profoundly human exchange, they weep together. Achilles relents. He returns Hector’s body to his father. The poem ends, not in victory, but in sorrow.

 

The Agamemnon Problem

Power corrupts. But first, it blinds.

Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and commander of the Greek forces, stands as a monument to leadership’s most toxic impulse: the desire to dominate rather than inspire. He sparks Achilles’ rage through his insistence on hierarchical dominance. 

Agamemnon commands the Greek forces not because he’s the best warrior, but because he’s the wealthiest and most politically powerful leader. It’s his brother Menelaus whose wife Helen was abducted by Paris of Troy, a personal slight that the brothers transform into a collective Greek cause, compelling their fellow kings and warriors to join their expedition.

The seizure of Briseis is pure political theater. Agamemnon does not even really want the woman. He wants to put Achilles in his place: 

“I shall take your beautiful Briseis,/ your trophy. I myself will come and get her/ in person from your tent, so you will see/ how far superior I am to you,/ and other men will shrink from talking back/ to me, as if we were on equal terms.” (Book 1.249-254)

Agamemnon is a bureaucrat of war, powerful, but tone-deaf to genius. He thinks in terms of hierarchy, protocol, rank. But he cannot inspire, and Homer does not admire him. Homer, via Achilles, makes clear that Agamemnon is a bad leader. 

“You dog-face! Drunk and heavy with your wine!/ You have the heart and courage of a deer!/ You never dare to put your armor on/and march to battle with the common troops,/ or join the finest fighters on a raid./ That seems like death to you. You much prefer/ to saunter through the mighty Greek encampment/ and steal from any man who speaks against you./ Cannibal king, you eat your people up!/ You are a leader of nonentities! (Book 1.301-310)

We see his poor leadership skills again when Agamemnon tests his men’s resolve by suggesting a retreat:

Listen, all of you,/ and do as I suggest. Let us retreat./ Let us leave here and sail back to our homes,/ the native lands we love. We can no longer/ expect to take the spacious streets of Troy.” (Book 2.164-168)

This ill-conceived test backfires, causing panic and a rush to the ships, and revealing his poor judgment and leadership.  It’s left to the gods and to Odysseus to inspire the Greek forces to return to battle and undo the consequences of Agamemmnon’s rash words. 

Agamemnon wins the argument with Achilles through rank and loses the battle. He’s the kind of leader who’s more interested in reminding you who’s in control than in actually winning. During his quarrel with Achilles, Agammemnon belittles him:

“Then off you go, if that is what you want!/ I certainly will not be begging you/ to stay at Troy for me. You see, I have/ plenty of other helpers at my side,/ ready to treat me with respect and honor—/ including Zeus, the god of strategy!/ I hate you more than any other leader,/ any of those whom Zeus protects and loves./ You always relish war and fights and conflict./ You may be strong, but some god gave you that./ Go home! Take all your ships and your companions/ and rule your Myrmidons. I do not care!/ To me, you are entirely unimportant./ Your anger does not bother me at all. (Book 1.231-244)

A fatal miscalculation. Achilles withdraws, and with him goes the Greeks’ hope of victory. Only later, when destruction looms, does Agamemnon offer lavish gifts of apology; but the damage is done.

Agamemnon represents bureaucracy. Achilles, raw human potential. The Iliad pits them against each other, and shows that greatness demands both. But systems that crush talent for the sake of order always lose.

In the end, true leadership is not about titles or control. It’s about recognizing and nurturing brilliance; before it walks away.

 

Top Quotes

• Goddess, sing of the cataclysmic wrath/of great Achilles, son of Peleus,/ which caused the Greeks immeasurable pain/ and sent so many noble souls of heroes/ to Hades, and made men the spoils of dogs,/ a banquet for the birds, and so the plan/ of Zeus unfolded—starting with the conflict/ between great Agamemnon, lord of men,/ and glorious Achilles. (Book 1.1-9)
• “The generations/ of men are like the growth and fall of leaves./ The wind shakes some to earth. The forest sprouts/ new foliage, and springtime comes. So too,/ one human generation comes to be,/ another ends.” (Book 6.196-200)
• A man who fights his hardest in the war/ gets just the same as one who stays behind./ Cowards and heroes have the same reward./ Do everything or nothing—death still comes. (Book 9.406-406)
• “My silver-footed goddess mother Thetis/says that there are two ways my death may come./If I stay here and fight, besieging Troy,/my chance of ever going home is lost,/but I shall have a name that lasts forever./Or if I go home to my own dear country,/I lose my glory but I gain long life./Death cannot run so fast to overtake me.” (Book 9.530-537)
• One day some bronze-armed Greek will capture you,/and you will weep, deprived of all your freedom./ Then you will weave to serve another woman/ in Argos. You will have to carry water/ from River Hyperea or Messeis,/ entirely against your will, but forced/ by strong necessity. And sometimes people/ will see you weeping there and they will say,/ ‘That woman used to be the wife of Hector,/ who was the greatest champion of Troy/ during the Trojan War.’ When they say that,/ your pain and grief will feel brand-new again,/ because you do not have a man like me/ to save you from the day of your enslavement./ But as for me, I hope I will be dead,/ and lying underneath a pile of earth,/ so that I do not have to hear your screams/ or watch when they are dragging you away.” (Book 6.617-634)
• You tell me to put all my trust in birds/ who flutter by. But birds are meaningless!/ I do not worry about them at all,…Let us trust instead/ the plan of mighty Zeus who rules us all,/ the lord of mortals and immortal gods…./ Patriotism is the one true bird. (Book 12.285-293)
• “My friends, Greek fighters, deputies of Ares,/ be men, my friends! Remember all your valor! /… Trapped by the sea, upon the plains of Troy,/ surrounded by the well-armed Trojan fighters,/ we are a long way from our fatherland./ Salvation lies in our own hands alone./ If we are lax in battle, we are lost.” (Book 15. 960-971)
• “There is nothing/more miserable than them, of all the creatures/that breathe and move across the earth.” (Book 17.573-575).
• “If only conflict were eliminated/from gods and human beings! I wish anger/did not exist. Even the wisest people/are roused to rage, which trickles into you/sweeter than honey, and inside your body/it swells like smoke—just so, Lord Agamemnon/enraged me. But that happened in the past./So let it go, though I am still upset.” (Book 18.134-141)
• “And now my doom/ has come at last. But never let me die/ without a struggle and without acclaim./Let me achieve some greatness and be known/ to people in the days to come.” (Book 22.407-411)
• This made Achilles yearn/ to mourn his father. With his hand, he gently/ took hold of the old man and pushed him back./ Then both remembered those whom they had lost./ Curled in a ball beside Achilles’ feet/ Priam sobbed desperately for murderous Hector./ Achilles wept, at times for his own father,/ and sometimes for Patroclus. So their wailing/ suffused the house. (Book 24.629-637)

 

Main Ideas and Themes

Wrath(Mênis): The Destructive Force at The Iliad’s Core

“Goddess, sing of the cataclysmic wrath/ of great Achilles, son of Peleus,”

The Iliad doesn’t open with war, or love, or glory. It opens with wrath. Not ordinary anger, either. The Greek word mênis (wrath) was typically used to describe divine fury: unforgiving, world-altering, sacred. Homer gives that word to Achilles, elevating him instantly above mortal men, and marking his rage as the force that sets the entire story in motion.

Achilles’ wrath unfolds in two phases. First, it burns against Agamemnon. Then it turns against Hector. Each time, it pulls the world apart.

I. Against Agamemnon 

Achilles’ fury begins when Agamemnon publicly humiliates him by taking Briseis, the woman Achilles considers his war prize. This is not about love. It is a public insult. In this world, prizes are proof. To take Briseis is to erase Achilles from the record of Greek success.

“My heart is swollen up with anger/ whenever I remember what he did—/how Agamemnon, son of Atreus,/ humiliated me among the Greeks, /and treated me like someone with no honor, / an outcast with no place to call his home.” (Book 9.846-851)

Achilles walks away. He abandons the war. And everything begins to collapse.

“Why is Achilles so upset/ about how many Greeks are being wounded?/ He does not even know how bad it is/ or what disaster has beset the army…./  And meanwhile, Achilles/ does not take care of us or pity us,/ despite his strength and skillfulness in war./ Does he intend to wait till our swift ships/ blaze with destructive fire beside the sea,/ and none of us can stop it? Will he wait/ till we ourselves are slaughtered one by one? (Book 1.841-866)

Ajax sees the danger plainly:

“Cruel Achilles has made his proud heart/ ferocious. He refuses to change course/ or pay attention to his friends’ devotion,/ although we loved and honored him so much/ all through the Greek encampment by the ships,/ above all others. But he has no pity.” (Book 9.820-825)

“But as for you—the gods have made your pride/ dangerous and unending. So much passion / over a woman, and just one at that!” (Book 9.833-835)

(Ironic, of course, since the entire war is the result of a single woman: Helen.)

Achilles does not yield. As the Greeks fall one by one, he holds the line: no reentry, no compromise.

Not yet.

II. Against Hector

Everything changes when Hector kills Patroclus. Achilles re-enters the war; but not to save the Greeks. He comes back to kill. His rage turns from wounded pride to vengeance, and the transformation is complete. He says to the dying Hector:

“Dog, do not beg or speak of knees or parents./If only I had will and heart to do it/I would carve up your flesh and eat it raw,/for the abominations you have done me.” (Book 22.464-467)

Achilles no longer cares about codes of honor, diplomacy, or human limits. He violates every norm of warfare. He desecrates Hector’s body. He slaughters men in such numbers that even a river god begs him to stop.

“My lovely streams have been clogged up with corpses./I cannot freely pour my waters down/into the shining sea, because the bodies/choke me, yet you keep killing even more,/annihilating everyone. Come on,/leader of troops, stop now! This is too much.” (Book 21.288–93)

This phase of wrath is no longer about Briseis. It is about loss and grief. Even Achilles begins to see the emptiness of it:

“Now, son of Atreus, did this/ benefit either of us, you or me—/ that we were so upset, so full of rage,/ our hearts and minds so eaten up by conflict,/ over a girl? If only Artemis/ had killed her with an arrow by the ships,/ the day I sacked Lyrnessus, and seized her./ Then many Greeks would not have died and taken/ the boundless earth between their teeth, defeated/ by enemies, while I was full of wrath./ All this was advantageous to the Trojans/ and Hector. (Book 18.72-82)

Wrath has consumed everything. And still it burns.

III. Contagion

Rage spreads. It’s not limited to Achilles. The gods rage. The warriors rage. Even the women rage.

After Hector is killed, Hecuba doesn’t just mourn; she wants revenge. Hector’s mother calls Achilles a “treacherous and flesh-devouring man,” spitting out: 

I wish I could latch/ my teeth into the center of his liver/ and eat it! Only then would I have vengeance/ for what he did to my son, whom he killed /but never made a coward.” (Book 24.267-271). 

The gods are no better. The Olympians rage with higher stakes and fewer constraints.  

Apollo unleashes deadly plague when Agamemnon insults his priest:

“Furious at the son of Atreus, /the god spread deadly plague throughout the camp,/ so that the common troops began to die, /because their leader, Agamemnon, treated/ Chryses, Apollo’s priest, with disrespect.” (Book 1.12-17)

Zeus threatens to smash his own daughter’s chariot and maim immortals

“When father Zeus /looked down from Ida, he was furious. /He summoned Iris on her golden wings/… ‘Swift Iris, /go turn them back! They must not come attack me! / It is not right for us to join in battle/….I will disable their swift galloping horses /and hurl them both out of their chariot / and smash it all to pieces, and the wounds/ my thunderbolt inflicts on both of them /will take ten years to heal. So let young Bright Eyes/ see what it means to fight with her own father.” (Book 8.532-543)

This is what rage looks like when no one can be checked. Divine fury reshapes the battlefield, but mortals suffer the consequences.

Rage spreads like fire; igniting pride, burning empathy, warping judgment. It makes men into killers. It makes killers into legends.

IV. The End of Wrath

Rage powers the poem, but it cannot end it. Only empathy can. 

The poem closes with weeping. Achilles meets Priam, Hector’s father. They mourn together. Achilles returns the body. For the first time, he sees something larger than himself. Humanity.

“Poor man! Your heart has suffered/ so much. How could you bear to come alone/ here to the Greek fleet to face me, who slaughtered/ so many of your fine and noble sons?/… Come, /sit on a chair, and let us hide our grief/ inside ourselves, despite our bitter sorrow.” (Book 24.644-649)

Achilles’ wrath breaks only when he understands that no one escapes death. Not even the son of a goddess.

“The gods have spun for all unlucky mortals /a life of grief, while nothing troubles them. /Two jars are set upon the floor of Zeus—/from one, he gives good things, the other, bad. /When thundering Zeus gives somebody a mixture, /their life is sometimes bad and sometimes good. /But those he serves with unmixed suffering /are wretched. Terrible starvation drives them /across the shining world. They have no honor /from gods or mortals.” (Book 24.651-660)

The gods’ capriciousness underscores the randomness of mortal suffering, making empathy, a shared human vulnerability, truly powerful. Achilles doesn’t forgive, but he shows mercy. 

Honor and Glory (Timê and Kleos)

In The Iliad, survival isn’t the point. Glory is. This is a world where reputation matters more than life, and honor is currency. Status is built through battlefield glory (kleos). Warriors fight for the promise of remembrance, immortalized in songs and stories, like The Iliad itself. 

Timê is the honor earned through acts of bravery and recognized in life. Kleos (glory) is what remains after death; the story that endures. Together, they are the code.

War, in Homer’s world, is a stage for the deepest human struggles: pride, risk, ambition, legacy. It’s how men like Achilles test themselves against the fact of death. It’s also how they show us their limits.

Consider Achilles’ raw declaration:

“Mother, you birthed me for so short a life/that Zeus, high god of thunder, on Olympus,/should give me glory at the very least—/but I get nothing! Now this lord of lords,/this Agamemnon, son of Atreus,/has disrespected me! He took my trophy!/He seized it and now keeps it for himself!”(Book 1.465-471)

This is not about Briseis. It’s about status. Public worth. Achilles hasn’t lost a woman. He’s been erased.

Hector understands the cost:

“But I feel overwhelming shame in front of/the Trojan women in their trailing dresses/and Trojan men, if I shrink back from war/as if I were a coward. And my spirit tells me I must not stop, for I have learned/always to be a warrior and fight/among the frontline champions of Troy,/to win great glory for the king my father/and for myself.” (Book 6.598-606)

Here, Hector embodies the warrior code: kleos demands active participation in the fight, regardless of the personal cost. Hector knows what’s coming. But to step back would be a fate worse than death. Hector reminds his wife:

“War is a task for men—for every man/ born here in Troy, but most especially, me.” (Book 6.669-670)

Sarpedon accepts the heroic code:

You see, my brother, if we could escape/this war and then be free from age and death/forever, I would never choose to fight/or join the champion fighters at the front,/nor would I urge you to participate/in war where men win glory. But in fact,/a million ways to die stand all around us./No mortal can escape or flee from death./So let us go. Perhaps we shall succeed,/and win a triumph from another’s death,/or somebody may triumph over us.”(Book 12)

There is no reward without risk. No kleos without blood.

Achilles has a choice: stay and die, remembered forever, or leave and vanish from history. He chooses kleos. Immediately.

Our modern world flinches from such binary thinking. We believe in incremental progress, in risk management, in careful optimization. But Achilles doesn’t optimize. He explodes. His very nature is binary: either he’s all in, or he’s out. 

Achilles is about total commitment. There is no middle mode. There’s no Achilles at 70%. He either burns with full intensity, or he is out.  When he commits, he consumes everything.

After killing Hector, Achilles drags his body around the city; not to make a point, but because he cannot stop. His actions violate the code. Even the gods are stunned: 

But this Achilles has already robbed/ great Hector of his precious life, and now/he ties him to his chariot and drags him/around the burial mound of his dear friend./This will bring him no honor, no reward./Watch out! Our righteous anger may condemn him,/however fine and glorious he is./His seething fury shames the poor, mute earth.” (Book 22.64-71)

Hector’s glory also devours. His choice to stand and fight dooms Troy. His death is not just personal; it sets the terms for everything that follows: the fall of the city, the rape of his wife, the murder of his child, the destruction of his family, the end of a world.

In this way, The Iliad teaches a powerful lesson: Greatness devours. It always takes something with it. The hero might win, but someone else pays. Honor is never clean. Glory leaves wreckage. 

The Iliad doesn’t ask whether the price is fair. It asks: how badly do you want it?

Mortality and the Human Condition

Gods are immortal, but men are not, and they know it. The Iliad continually contrasts divine permanence with the fleeting beauty and pain of human life, embedding this theme in nearly every major encounter.

When Glaucus and Diomedes meet in battle, they realize their grandfathers were guest-friends and choose to exchange armor instead of fighting. Before parting, Glaucus offers a haunting reflection on mortality:

“The generations/ of men are like the growth and fall of leaves./ The wind shakes some to earth. The forest sprouts/ new foliage, and springtime comes. So too,/ one human generation comes to be,/ another ends.” (Book 6.196-200)

Life, like leaves, is brief and cyclical; but not without beauty. Even the greatest heroes must fall. As Emily Wilson notes:

“The beautiful word minunthadios, “short-lived,” is used of both Achilles and Hector, and applies to all of us. We die too soon, and there is no adequate recompense for the terrible, inevitable loss of life.” (Wilson, Introduction, 1)

Achilles’ crisis isn’t about pride; it’s about the meaning of death. His prophecy lays out two fates: obscurity with longevity or glory with an early death. He chooses glory, fully aware of the cost:

“To me, no wealth is worth a person’s life./Not even all the treasure that they say/the thriving town of Troy once held inside,/in former days of peace, before we came” (Book 9, lines 518-521)

This declaration, made to Odysseus during the embassy, rejects the heroic code that prizes glory and status in battle over life. Achilles sees through that system; and begins to question the war itself. Having been dishonored by Agamemnon and staring down his fate, he recognizes that some things, like life, love, meaning, are beyond what treasure can compensate.

Yet Achilles will return to battle, not for glory, but grief. Patroclus’ death drives him back to the field. Achilles’ relationship with mortality deepens: he doesn’t just want to live; he wants his life, and death, to mean something. He wants to matter.

Achilles final return is devastating precisely because he walks willingly into doom. But he does it anyway, because meaning, however painful, matters more than survival.

The lesson here is harsh: the very ambition that builds your legend may also be what destroys you. But for certain people, that’s not a tragic flaw. It’s the entire point.

The Price of Success

One of the most uncomfortable elements of The Iliad is that the Greeks begin losing not because the Trojans suddenly become stronger, but because Achilles stops fighting. His absence shifts the tide of the war. That’s how central he is. Which raises a brutal question: Was he right to walk away?

The answer is not simple. Achilles is both justified and culpable. This is where the Iliad stops being heroic melodrama and becomes classical tragedy. No one is entirely wrong. No one is entirely innocent.

Agamemnon is a terrible leader: arrogant, insecure, impulsive, obsessed with domination. His pride outweighs his judgment, and the army suffers for it. When Agamemnon suggests retreat, Odysseus erupts:

“Lord Agamemnon,/ what have you said? What words have now escaped/out of your mouth and past your fence of teeth?/ Curse you! I wish you led some other army,/ a low, dishonorable one, not ours./ … Hush! Or some other Greeks may hear these words/ that no man ought to let pass through his mouth—/ no man who knows the proper things to say,/ no man who holds a scepter, and commands/ as many troops as you. What you have said/ is utterly contemptible. You tell us,/ when war and battle are well under way,/ to drag our splendid galleys back to sea,/ and when the Trojans are already winning/ you want to make their every wish come true,/ and let catastrophe descend on us/ …Your strategy will ruin us, commander.” (Book 14.106-130)

Nestor, too, condemns Agamemnon for dishonoring Achilles:

“:…you went, my lord, to take away the woman,/ Briseis, from Achilles in his tent,/ and he was furious. And none of us/ agreed with what you did. I spoke against it,/ firmly and frequently. But you gave in/ to your own arrogance, and disrespected/ a great man whom the deathless gods have honored./ You took and kept his trophy for yourself.” (Book 9.129-136)

Achilles’ rage is understandable. His honor has been publicly gutted. He is the Greeks’ most lethal asset, and Agamemnon treats him like a disposable pawn. But the cost of his withdrawal is catastrophic. Greek warriors die in droves. Morale shatters. Odysseus pleads with him to return:

“If you feel too deep a loathing/for Agamemnon, son of Atreus,/and for his gifts, at least you should have pity/on all the other people in the army./The Greeks are desperate. If you do this,/they will adore you like a god. You will/gain huge renown.”  (Book 9.381-387)

Phoenix, his old tutor, begs him to reconsider:

“Now please, Achilles,/subdue your pride. Your heart must not remain/forever unrelenting. Even gods/can change, although they are superior /in capability and strength and glory.”  (Book 9.638-642)

But Achilles isn’t just stepping aside. He wants collapse. He wants proof that without him, the entire campaign unravels. He confesses, chillingly:

“By father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo,/if only the whole multitude of Trojans/would die, and all the Greeks, and we alone,/the two of us, survived the devastation,/so we alone together could destroy/the sacred crown of Troy.” (Book 16.128-133). 

This is nihilism as strategy. Achilles wants vindication at the cost of everything else.  The system failed to honor him, so he will unmake the system. When Agamemnon eventually offers restitution, (gifts, apologies, even Briseis) Achilles refuses:

“I hate that man’s gifts and I do not have/even a scintilla of respect for him./Not even if he gave ten times as much,/or twenty times the wealth he now possesses,/and even if he got yet more from somewhere—/…Not even if his gifts to me could match/the grains of dust and sand! Not even then/would Agamemnon ever sway my heart,/ till he had paid me back for the abuse/that caused my heart such pain.” (Book 9.484-499).

This is a strike. In modern terms, Achilles is staging a protest. But like all protests, it comes with collateral damage. Odysseus warns:

“My lord, we see great danger. We are frightened./Our ships may be destroyed—the odds are even—/unless you dress yourself in will to fight. (Book 9.290-292).

The breaking point is Patroclus. Achilles’ closest friend, desperate to save the Greeks, begs to wear his armor and lead the Myrmidons. Achilles agrees, but warns him not to go too far:

“So now, Patroclus, despite everything,/protect the ships from ruin, and attack/at full strength./…But once you have/ driven the Trojans from the ships, come back…./do not attempt to fight the warlike Trojans/without me.” (Book 16.79–80)

But once in battle, Patroclus is swept up by glory. He goes too far and is killed by Hector. His dying words are a warning:

“But I will tell you this—take it to heart./You surely have not long to live. Your death/and overwhelming fate stand near you now./The hands of great Achilles will defeat you.” (Book 16.1067–1070)

When Achilles hears the news, he breaks. His own pride, his withdrawal, set the chain of events in motion:

“I want to die right here and now,/because I could not save my slaughtered friend./He died so very far away from home./He needed me to help him and protect him./And I did not go back to my dear country,/nor did I save Patroclus. I provided/no light or help to him or anybody./Many were overpowered by glorious Hector,/while I sat here beside the ships, so useless,/a burden on the earth” (Book 18.122–131)

Thetis, his mother, reminds him:

“Through the will of Zeus /  your earlier request has been fulfilled. /  With arms raised high you prayed that all the Greeks, /  confined beside the ships’ sterns, would endure / terrible suffering and mortal danger/and yearn for you. So it has been fulfilled.” (Book 18.90-95)

Achilles got what he asked for. It destroyed him:

“Yes, Mother, Zeus has granted me that prayer./ But now what good to me is any of it?/  My friend Patroclus, whom I loved, is dead./  I loved him more than any other comrade./ I loved him like my head, my life, myself./ I lost him, killed him.” (Book 18.97-102)

Achilles got everything he wanted. Recognition. Leverage. Power. And it ruined him.

This is the Iliad’s deepest irony: Achilles’ refusal to fight does not preserve life or assert dignity. It leads to the death of the only person he truly loves.

He sees it now:

“If only conflict were eliminated/from gods and human beings! I wish anger/did not exist. Even the wisest people/are roused to rage, which trickles into you/sweeter than honey, and inside your body/it swells like smoke—just so, Lord Agamemnon/enraged me. But that happened in the past./So let it go, though I am still upset.” (Book 18.134-141)

He returns to battle, but not for honor.  He marches toward his own death, motivated by vengeance and grief:

“I must control the feelings in my chest,/and go to look for Hector, who destroyed/the one I loved the most, my head, my life./Thereafter, I will welcome death, whenever/Zeus and the other deathless gods may wish/to bring it.“ (Book 18.142-147)

What It All Means

This is the moral ambiguity of The Iliad. Everyone is both villain and victim. Everyone is playing a game with broken rules. As Zeus himself observes:

“There is nothing/more miserable than [humans], of all the creatures/that breathe and move across the earth.” (Book 17.573-575). 

In a rigged game, refusal can feel like the only power you have left. But refusal does not erase the cost. Patroclus sees it. He accuses Achilles:

“But you, Achilles,/you have become impossible! I hope/the kind of anger you are fostering/never takes hold of me—you monstrous hero!/How can a person in the future learn/anything good from you, if you refuse/to save the Greeks from this catastrophe?/You have no pity. Peleus the horseman/was not your father, Thetis, not your mother./Gray sea and soaring rocks gave birth to you,/and so you have an unrelenting heart.” (Book 16.36-46)

Achilles’ absence proves his value. But it also forces him to see the truth: being right is not the same as being blameless. His protest worked. And it killed his friend.

Fate vs. Free Will

The Iliad turns on a contradiction. Characters make choices. They fight, love, plan, and rebel. But every path bends toward a fixed end. Achilles will die. Hector will fall. Troy will burn. Even the gods, for all their power, cannot unwrite what has already been spun.

As Emily Wilson puts it:  “There is no version of the Trojan War story in which the Trojans win. Achilles and Hector can never survive the war.” (Wilson, Introduction, 37)

Even Zeus must obey fate. When his mortal son Sarpedon is doomed to die at Patroclus’s hands, he hesitates:

What a disaster this will be for me!/The man I love the most of all mankind,/my son Sarpedon, is assigned to die,/killed by Patroclus. I am of two minds,/wondering if I ought to lift him up/alive and take him from the battlefield,/the source of tears, and carry him away,/and set him in the fertile land of Lycia—/or kill him now beneath Patroclus’ hands.” (Book 16)

But Zeus does nothing. He allows fate to run its course, and lets his son die, settling only for a proper burial:

“…let the twins, swift Sleep and swifter Death,/carry him speedily to his own homeland,/the fertile countryside of spacious Lycia,/and there his brothers, family, and neighbors/can mourn him with a funeral mound and gravestone.This is the prize of honor due the dead.” (Book 16)

This is Zeus, king of the gods, unable to save his own child. In this moment, Zeus is no different from any mortal father: grieving, powerless, longing for control but granted only ritual. Even gods must bow to the boundaries of fate.

Yet within those boundaries, characters still choose. Their choices don’t change the outcome, but they change what the outcome means. Achilles knows his fate but still chooses his path:

“My silver-footed goddess mother Thetis/says that there are two ways my death may come./If I stay here and fight, besieging Troy,/my chance of ever going home is lost,/but I shall have a name that lasts forever./Or if I go home to my own dear country,/I lose my glory but I gain long life./Death cannot run so fast to overtake me.” (Book 9.530-537)

He could leave. He could live. But he chooses to stay and die for kleos; eternal fame. His choice does not alter his fate, but it grants him authorship of his legacy.

Hector makes the same choice, knowing he is already marked:

“And now my doom/ has come at last. But never let me die/ without a struggle and without acclaim./Let me achieve some greatness and be known/ to people in the days to come.” (Book 22.407-411)

This is The Iliad‘s deep paradox: fate is fixed, yet freedom is real. You cannot escape your end, but you can decide how you meet it.

The Iliad  offers no fantasy of control. It does not promise salvation through effort. It gives us something harder: agency without power; meaning through struggle.; dignity through courage. Fate may write the ending; but we write the character.

The Gods as Human Impulse

The gods constantly interfere in human affairs. They infect dreams, stir battle lines, manipulate weather, and twist emotions. They whisper in ears and hurl lightning for sport. They, push, deceive, sabotage, and rescue. At every level of human experience, military, emotional, psychological, they intervene.

Apollo unleashes plague. Zeus fuels Trojan momentum. Athena grabs Achilles by the hair to stop him from killing Agamemnon. Hera conspires. Apollo tricks. Aphrodite rescues. Poseidon assists. Ares roars. Divine intervention is not rare; it is routine.

When Achilles draws his sword to kill Agamemnon, Athena literally grabs his hair to restrain him:

“but then Athena swooped down from the sky./She had been sent forth by the white-armed goddess Hera, who loved both men. Athena stood/behind Achilles, son of Peleus,/and grabbed him by his chestnut hair. She was/invisible to everyone but him.”  (Book 1.189-198)

Sometimes the gods act out of loyalty to their favored mortals. Sometimes out of spite. Sometimes, disturbingly, out of sheer boredom.

When Zeus casually muses about whether to prolong the war or end it, he sounds less like a ruler and more like someone flipping a coin:

We have to strategize. Shall we rouse up terrible war and bitter strife again? Or should we reconcile the warring sides?  (Book 4.17-19)

This casual cruelty becomes fatal when gods clash over mortal loyalties. Hera hates Troy. Zeus admires it. They strike a bargain: if Zeus allows Troy’s fall, he can destroy any city Hera loves later, without interference:

“But as you wish./This little disagreement must not cause/ a rift between us two in times to come./ But let me tell you something now. Take heed./ Next time I crave the total devastation/ of any city whose inhabitants/ are dear to you, you must not thwart my anger./Allow me that because I gave you this/ willingly, though my heart is far from willing.” (Book 4.48-56)

Hera agrees with chilling detachment:

“Majestic ox-eyed Hera answered him, / “I love three cities most of all by far—  / Mycenae with its spacious streets, and Sparta,  / and Argos. Any time you start to hate them, / destroy them. I will not stand up for them   / or grudge you this. “(Book 4.65-70)

This is not justice. These are rival egos in a divine marriage, making trades with cities as collateral.

When Patroclus dies, it is not Hector’s spear alone that brings him down.  Apollo deceives Patroclus, disorients him, and leaves him vulnerable:

“But on your fourth attempt, godlike Patroclus,/your life was finished. In the cutthroat combat,/amid the chaos of the battlefield,/Phoebus Apollo came to meet Patroclus./The human failed to see the eerie god,/cloaked in thick mist. Apollo stood behind/Patroclus, and with one flat palm he patted/his back and sturdy shoulders, so his eyes/swiveled. Apollo nudged his helmet off.” (Book 16.983-991)

Sometimes the gods become metaphysical instruments of fate. Zeus holds up his golden scales:

“…then Zeus, the father, held his golden scales/up high and in them set two deadly weights,/two dooms of death that stretches suffering—/one for Achilles, one for horse-lord Hector./The god raised up the middle of the scales,/and down the destined day of Hector sank/and went to Hades.” (Book 22.278-284)

And sometimes, the gods simply don’t care.

and Hera said, “Well now, Athena, child/ of Zeus who bears the aegis, I refuse/ to let us keep on making war with Zeus/ just for the sake of mortals. As for them,/ I do not care which human lives or dies./ Let it be any of them. (Book 8.573-578)

To the mortals, the gods are forces of destiny. To each other, they are petty and self-absorbed. Mortals suffer as gods squabble. Their pain is collateral damage in a divine family drama.

How to Read the Gods

If you’re modern, it’s easy to shrug this off as myth. But The Iliad offers something deeper.

The gods are not just characters. They are personified forces: the coded impulses of the psyche. They are the emotions and drives that shape every decision: envy, loyalty, pride, fear, grief, rage. Each god represents a different piece of the human experience. Not ideas, but instincts.

Athena is strategy. Apollo is distance and control. Hera is wounded pride. Aphrodite is seduction and escape. Zeus is the desire to control what cannot be controlled.

When Paris prioritizes pleasure over duty, it is Aphrodite who spirits him away. When Patroclus forgets caution, it is Apollo who robs him of sight. These are not supernatural events. They are emotional ones. The gods dramatize what happens inside us, not above us.

You don’t have to believe in Olympus to feel its logic.

We still serve gods. We still burn years for glory, love, attention, control. Ego dresses like Athena. Fear of failure speaks in Apollo’s voice. Pleasure tempts like Aphrodite. We still beg for outcomes already decided, and blame forces we cannot name when things fall apart.

The brilliance of The Iliad is that it does not ask us to believe in gods. It shows us how the gods live inside us.

War and Its Brutality

The Iliad glorifies courage and martial skill but does not shy away from war’s brutality. The violence is graphic, detailed, and often senseless. Homer doesn’t romanticize combat; he documents it. The poem refuses to sanitize combat. For every moment of battlefield glory, there is an accompanying image of irreversible loss.

The poem spares no detail in its catalog of death. In a particularly gruesome passage, Idomeneus slays Erymas:

“Then Idomeneus/ struck Erymas across the mouth. The spear/ of pitiless bronze drove right up through his brain/ and shattered his white skull, shook out his teeth,/ and filled both eyes with blood. His mouth gaped wide/ and spurted blood. Blood gushed out of his nostrils./ Then death’s black cloud wrapped round and covered him” (Book 16.443-449)

Yet war is not glorified; its toll is made clear. Even in moments of heroism, the tone is tempered with desperation and dread. Ajax, attempting to rally the Greek forces, appeals not to glory but to survival:

“My friends, Greek fighters, deputies of Ares,/ be men, my friends! Remember all your valor! /… Trapped by the sea, upon the plains of Troy,/ surrounded by the well-armed Trojan fighters,/ we are a long way from our fatherland./ Salvation lies in our own hands alone./ If we are lax in battle, we are lost.” (Book 15. 960-971)

Homer also emphasizes the civilian cost of war, particularly its impact on women and children. Andromache’s lament for Hector is both a personal elegy and a prophetic indictment of war’s impact beyond the battlefield:

“You died young,/ husband, and left me in your house a widow./ Your boy is still a little child, a son/ born from unlucky parents—you and me—/ and I do not believe he will grow up./ Before that time, this town will be destroyed/ from top to bottom, because you are dead” (Book 24.907-913)

The destruction of Troy entails the total annihilation of its male population and the enslavement of its women. As Emily Wilson notes:

Women are raped and abused during the sack of cities. Even after the war is over, the female captives will remain enslaved, treated as the human property of the conquerors for the remainder of their lives. Triumphant warriors force captive women to labor for them, to satisfy their sexual desires, to bear their children, to create textiles and other crafts for their households. The most important warriors in the Greek encampment are all waited on and cared for by multiple female captives, of whom the most valuable are subject to repeated rapes in the beds of their enslavers. Their subjugation demonstrates the status of the enslaver to his peers. The silencing, rape, subjugation, kidnapping, and enslavement of women in war are essential instruments for the construction of male honor. (Wilson, Introduction, 51)

Andromache articulates this grim future with searing clarity:

“In hollow ships the women will be soon / taken as slaves, and I along with them. / And you, my child, will either come with me, / and do humiliating work, enslaved / to some harsh overlord, or else a Greek / will grab your arm and hurl you from the wall— / a dreadful death—in anger because Hector / had killed perhaps his brother, son, or father.” (Book 24.915-922)

The Iliad both elevates heroic ideals while simultaneously exposing the catastrophic human cost required to sustain them. It is this tension, between glory and horror, that makes Homer’s epic so enduring and so unsettling.

Contrasting Models of Heroism

Achilles and Hector represent two distinct, enduring models of heroism, both powerful, both tragic, and both grounded in different worldviews.

Achilles: The Hero as Individual Genius

Achilles is exceptional. He is the prototype of the genius rebel, the Steve Jobs of Bronze Age Greece. His greatness lies not only in martial skill but in spiritual intensity. He is driven by the need to make a singular mark on the world. Passion, integrity, and personal truth matter more to him than any social obligation. 

But this same brilliance also makes him dangerous: when dishonored, he withdraws, and lets others die.

Defining traits:

• Radical autonomy: Achilles does not fight for his people, his commander, or even his comrades unless it aligns with his personal values.
• Emotional depth: He feels deeply: rage, grief, love, and acts accordingly, often irrationally.
• Defiance of authority: His conflict with Agamemnon is a challenge to hierarchy and the unfair treatment of individual excellence.
• Quest for eternal glory: He chooses a short life with immortal fame over a long, ordinary one. Kleos over comfort.

Achilles is a hero of extremes; brilliant, moody, magnetic. His greatness is in his refusal to be anything less than fully, agonizingly himself.

Hector: The Hero as Civic Duty

Hector is noble, not because he’s the strongest (he’s not), but because he fights for others. Hector is the pillar of civilization; he holds the line so others can live. 

In modern terms, he’s the firefighter, the schoolteacher, the parent who works a second job, the community organizer. He is the one who shows up; even when there’s no reward.

Defining traits:

• Responsibility: He fights not for personal glory but because it is his duty; to his people, his city, his family. He is a warrior, a husband, a father, a prince. 
• Sacrifice: He knows he is doomed. Still, he fights; not to win, but to delay the fall of his city.
• Tragic realism: Hector doesn’t indulge in illusions. His heroism lies in choosing duty over desire, even when he would rather be at home with his wife adn child.

Hector is not “cool.” Unlike Achilles, he doesn’t have superpowers. In our modern society, Hector is the quiet hero; the father, the friend, the fixer. 

Which are we today: Achilles or Hector?

 In modern culture, Achilles is ascendant. Today’s culture tends to valorize the Achilles archetype:

• Startup culture and creator economy: Disruption is king. Founders, influencers, and creators (modern-day Achilles figures) are celebrated for vision and rule-breaking.
• Self-actualization and authenticity: Achilles refuses to be anyone but himself. That resonates with today’s emphasis on being “true to yourself,” even when it conflicts with tradition or duty.
• Emotional transparency: Achilles weeps, mourns, and rages publicly. His rawness, once seen as dangerous, is now seen as depth.

We live in an age that rewards extraordinary individualism, often at the cost of social cohesion. 

Modern media loves the Achilles type (charismatic, brilliant, broken). But real life also depends on Hectors (unseen, unthanked, essential).

Achilles would thrive on YouTube or Twitter. Hector would be running the city budget, quietly, thanklessly. Hector would be Ned Stark from Game of Thrones. 

The Tragedy of Our Era

Perhaps the tragedy of our time is this: We worship Achilles, but we depend on Hector. While Achilles is celebrated, Hector is what sustains society:

• Public health workers, climate scientists, local leaders: these are Hector’s heirs. They fight slow, invisible wars.
• Modern crises (pandemics, environmental collapse, political fragmentation) call for collective responsibility, not just lone genius.

As trust in institutions declines, Hector’s story becomes more relevant. He is the one trying to patch the ship while others drill holes in it; for glory, profit, or principle.

In an age obsessed with peak experiences, Hector represents the heroism of consistency.  

Two Answers to One Question

The true brilliance of The Iliad is that it doesn’t force us to choose. Achilles and Hector both die. Both lose what they love. Both are great. But they answer the same question in different ways: 

“What is a life worth living?”

Achilles chooses meaning through immortal fame, no matter the cost. Hector chooses meaning through service and sacrifice, even though it brings no eternal reward.

The Inner Conflict

We are trained to want Achilles’ glory. But to sustain relationships, raise children, or maintain a democracy, we must become Hector.

That tension is not just cultural; it’s personal. Most of us carry both within us: the part that wants to be brilliant, irreplaceable, remembered; and the part that shows up every day, even when no one notices.

So maybe the better question isn’t “Which one are you?” It’s: Which one do you become when the moment demands it?

Narrative as Weapon

One of the most fascinating dynamics in The Iliad is how often people argue. The poem doesn’t begin with a battle; it begins with a quarrel. The opening books unfold through disputes, speeches, and rhetorical standoffs: in Homer’s world, words are weapons as sharp and consequential as spears.

The war in The Iliad isn’t just fought on the battlefield; it’s fought in language. Characters don’t merely attack each other physically; they battle to frame the conflict, to define its meaning.

• Agamemnon invokes authority: his kingship, his entitlement to command.
• Odysseus weaves diplomacy and strategy into subtle persuasion.
• Achilles, by contrast, speaks with stripped-down ferocity: raw, uncompromising truth.

Everyone, in their own way, is trying to control the story. And no one does this more dramatically than Achilles.

I came with you, you brazen cheat, to please you!/ To claim back compensation from the Trojans/ for Menelaus and for you—you dog-face!/ But none of that means anything to you./ You do not even care! And now you threaten/ to take away the trophy that I worked for,/ after the sons of Greece gave it to me./ You always get a better one than mine,/ when we sack any wealthy Trojan town./ My hands work hardest in the frenzied fighting,/ but when we share the spoils, you get much more. (Book 1.213–223) 

Achilles’ rage is not only emotional; it’s rhetorical. His refusal to fight is both strategic and symbolic. By withdrawing, he seizes the narrative itself. His silence becomes louder than any war cry. His absence becomes an argument: “You will all remember that I was the turning point.”

This battle over meaning, who gets to define the stakes, the heroes, the villains, feels remarkably modern. It mirrors the way conflict plays out today: in politics, in business, in media. The real contest is often not just over what happens, but over what it means.

Homer understood this. He doesn’t just describe events; he shapes them. Every simile, every speech, every death scene gives form to how the war will be remembered. The Iliad isn’t simply a record of violence; it’s a struggle for narrative control.

This is why it matters who tells the story. Homer isn’t a neutral observer. He interprets as he narrates. He arranges the emotional architecture of the war; who we mourn, who we admire, who we blame.

In that sense, The Iliad is not just an epic; it’s the first postmortem.

Compassion and Reconciliation

The most human moment in The Iliad comes at the very end. After killing Hector, dragging his body behind a chariot, and refusing to give it back, Achilles finally relents. He allows Hector’s father, Priam, to ransom the body.

Priam enters the Greek camp at night, alone and unarmed. He kneels before the man who murdered his son. He doesn’t appeal to reason or justice. He appeals to grief and begs:

Please, Achilles, show/ reverence towards the gods and pity me,/remembering your father, Peleus./I am more pitiable than him. I have/endured what no man yet on earth has done—/I pressed my mouth into the hand of him/who killed my son.” (Book 24.623-629)

Achilles does not respond with pride or cruelty. Instead, he weeps. He sees not an enemy, but a mirror: an old man who has lost what he too once loved. A father pleading for a son, just as Achilles mourns his fallen companion, Patroclus.

This made Achilles yearn/ to mourn his father. With his hand, he gently/ took hold of the old man and pushed him back./ Then both remembered those whom they had lost./ Curled in a ball beside Achilles’ feet/ Priam sobbed desperately for murderous Hector./ Achilles wept, at times for his own father,/ and sometimes for Patroclus. So their wailing/ suffused the house. (Book 24.629-637)

This is The Iliad’s true climax; not a final battle, not the fall of Troy, but a moment of shared sorrow across enemy lines. Two men, once locked in mythic opposition, are united by something deeper than vengeance: grief. In that moment, Achilles no longer seeks glory; he extends grace.

Achilles, who once dragged Hector’s corpse behind a chariot out of spite, now returns it with dignity:

“Now your son has been/ released to you, just as you asked. He lies / upon a bier, and when Dawn shows her light,/ you will see him yourself and take him home. (Book 24.748-751)

And then, quietly, the poem closes not with victory, but with burial:

  “And so/ they held the funeral for horse-lord Hector.” (Book 24.999-1000)

This is how The Iliad ends; not in triumph, but in tenderness. The final line is not glory, but grief. What endures is not the conquest, but the capacity for compassion after conquest. The ability to see the other not as an obstacle or enemy, but as a fellow mourner, scarred by the same losses. 

This is what makes Achilles great; not his strength, but his ability to relinquish it.

In our world, this moment is often overlooked. We celebrate launches, wins, headlines. Rarely do we dwell on the cost. Yet the true measure of greatness may be the reckoning; the moment you confront not just the price of your success to yourself, but to others.

That reckoning, Homer seems to suggest, is what elevates a warrior into something greater: a human being.

 

Structure

Part 1: The Quarrel and Broken Alliances (Books 1–4)

• Book 1: The Rage of Achilles – Achilles withdraws from battle after Agamemnon takes Briseis.
• Book 2: The Catalogue of Ships – Zeus begins aiding the Trojans; massive Greek army is described in detail.
• Book 3: Paris vs. Menelaus – A single combat almost ends the war.
• Book 4: Truce Broken – The gods provoke further conflict; the fighting resumes.

Part 2: Glory in Battle (Books 5–8)

• Book 5: Diomedes’ Aristeia – Diomedes wounds both Ares and Aphrodite.
• Book 6: Hector and Andromache – Domestic life and war intersect; Hector bids farewell to his family.
• Book 7: Ajax vs. Hector – A duel ends in stalemate; temporary truce for burying the dead.
• Book 8: The Tide Turns – Zeus forbids divine interference; Trojans begin to dominate.

Part 3: Embassies, Defiance, and Siege (Books 9–12)

• Book 9: Embassy to Achilles – Odysseus, Phoenix, and Ajax fail to persuade Achilles to return.
• Book 10: Night Raid – Diomedes and Odysseus perform a covert attack.
• Book 11: Greek Losses Mount – Agamemnon excels, but key Greek leaders are wounded.
• Book 12: Trojans Break the Wall – The Greek fortifications begin to fall.

Part 4: Near Collapse and the Death of Patroclus Books (13–16)

• Book 13: Poseidon’s Aid – Gods subtly support the Greeks.
• Book 14: Hera Seduces Zeus – To distract Zeus, Hera seduces him; tide briefly turns.
• Book 15: Zeus Restores Order – Troy regains the upper hand as Zeus awakens.
• Book 16: Patroclus’ Death – Patroclus dons Achilles’ armor and is killed by Hector.

Part 5: Achilles Returns, The Gods Unleashed (Books 17–21) 

• Book 17: Fight Over Patroclus’ Body – A brutal struggle ensues to recover Patroclus’ dead body.
• Book 18: Achilles’ Grief and the Shield – Achilles mourns; Hephaestus forges his new divine armor.
• Book 19: Reconciliation with Agamemnon – Achilles ends his feud and returns to battle.
• Book 20: Gods Rejoin the War – The gods descend into open combat.
• Book 21: Achilles vs. the River Scamander – Nature rebels against Achilles’ slaughter; Hephaestus intervenes with fire.

Part 6: The Death of Hector, Funeral Games, Reconciliation (Books 22–24) 

• Book 22: Achilles kills Hector – After a prolonged chase, Achilles kills Hector and desecrates his body.
• Book 23: Funeral Games for Patroclus – Athletic competitions honor the dead; the Greeks show moments of community and reconciliation.
• Book 24: Priam and Achilles – King Priam begs for Hector’s body; Achilles, moved by shared grief, returns it—ending the epic not in victory, but in compassion.

 

Why The Iliad Still Matters Today

It’s an Operating Manual for Power and Leadership

You could argue that no book in the Western canon is more foundational than The Iliad. But most people misunderstand what that means. They think “foundational” means “first.” What it really means is that the book understands something about being human that we’ve never outgrown.

The conflict between Achilles and Agamemnon mirrors modern tensions between talent and authority, founders and institutions, individual genius and systems. It’s a study in how not to lead.

Every ambitious person, whether they admit it or not, wants to be Achilles. They want to matter. They want to win so decisively that no one can deny their brilliance. And The Iliad says: fine. But understand the price.

The cost of glory is often your peace. The cost of greatness is your happiness. There’s no such thing as a balanced Achilles.

This is the kind of message we don’t like anymore. It’s not aspirational. But it is true. And truth lasts longer than any motivational speech.

You can try to build a culture where no one’s ego gets bruised, where every decision is consensus-driven, where everything is optimized and nothing is wasted. But you won’t get anything transcendent. If you want something that breaks the pattern, you need someone who refuses to follow it.

And that person will look a lot like Achilles.

It Confronts Death Honestly

Unlike modern cultures that sanitize or avoid death, The Iliad stares it down. 

Homer describes deaths in vivid, physical detail: bronze piercing livers, teeth scattering, skulls shattering beneath rocks, brains spilling onto sand, and bodies thudding into dust. Death isn’t hidden behind euphemisms or clinical language but presented as the raw, central fact of the battlefield.

The poem’s heroes don’t deny mortality; they fight in its constant shadow, fully aware that their next breath might be their last. When Sarpedon falls, Zeus himself cannot intervene against fate. When Hector realizes his doom has come, he accepts it with clear-eyed courage. When Achilles chooses glory over longevity, he embraces the meaning of that choice. These moments carry weight precisely because death is real, immediate, and unavoidable. 

By refusing to look away from life’s inevitable end, The Iliad achieves a moral and emotional honesty often lacking in our death-denying culture. Its heroes find meaning not by pretending death doesn’t exist, but by confronting it directly.

It Humanizes the Enemy

Despite the carnage, Homer gives dignity to both sides. Hector is as noble as any Greek, while the encounter between Glaucus and Diomedes offers a striking example of shared humanity.

Meeting on the battlefield, these warriors discover their grandfathers were guest-friends (xenos) who had exchanged gifts of hospitality.  Rather than fighting, they honor this connection by trading armor and parting peacefully.

This episode stands as one of the few moments of humanity and connection amid the brutality of war. It demonstrates the importance of xenia (guest-friendship) in Greek culture, a sacred bond that could transcend even the divisions of war. The scene provides a brief respite from the violence while also subtly highlighting the tragic waste of war. These two men with no personal quarrel might have killed each other had they not discovered their ancestral connection. It underscores how arbitrary the divisions between “us” and “them” often are.

This empathy across battle lines is profoundly modern, and urgently needed.

It Explores Masculinity Without Simplifying It

Achilles weeps, rages, sulks, kills, mourns. His masculinity is tragic, complex, and deeply emotional. The Iliad understands that strength and vulnerability often come packaged together. 

Hector also offers a model of strength that embraces vulnerability, patience, and quiet grief. Though Troy’s greatest defender, he fights from duty, but he doesn’t revel in it. He tenderly removes his helmet when it frightens his baby son, and cries without shame for his family’s fate. He dies with dignity, knowing his fall is inevitable yet facing it with the same courage that defined his life.

Through these warriors, Homer shows a vision of heroic masculinity that encompasses the full spectrum of human emotion.

It’s Still Everywhere

From military academies to business books, The Iliad remains a reference point. Its themes of honor, rage, sacrifice, and fate echo in war rooms and locker rooms alike. The language of the poem: fierce, elevated, and unrelenting, still shapes how we talk about courage and conflict. You hear it in military mottos, in the titles of leadership seminars, and even in marketing campaigns.

Its influence isn’t confined to the battlefield. The Iliad runs through the bloodstream of modern culture, influencing literature, film, sport, and even science fiction. Its DNA is embedded in Shakespearean tragedy, Hollywood blockbusters, and ESPN documentaries. Think of Gladiator, Troy, Ender’s Game, or the locker-room bravado in highlight reels. These are stories of rivalry, sacrifice, and glory told with mythic intensity.

Kobe Bryant mirrors Achilles in both temperament and philosophy. His “Mamba Mentality”, a relentless, almost obsessive pursuit of excellence, evokes Achilles’ singular focus on glory and immortality through action. Kobe once said, “Friends come and go, but banners hang forever,” echoing Achilles’ choice of fame over a long life. Like Achilles, Kobe played through pain, isolated himself from peers in pursuit of mastery, and obsessed over the craft of war; in his case, basketball. His 60-point farewell game felt like a warrior’s final blaze, a poetic and epic exit.

When Kobe shows up to practice with a broken arm, when Tom Brady engineers a fourth-quarter comeback with surgical precision, when Serena Williams dominates a match with fury and grace, they’re not just athletes. They are modern warriors, channeling the same energy that drives Achilles’ rage or Hector’s doomed valor. 

In all of them, the ancient themes persist: rage, excellence, sacrifice, fate; and the eternal battle for legacy.

 

A Book Without an Ending

One of the strangest things about The Iliad is that it doesn’t end with what most people expect. There is no wooden horse. No sack of Troy. No Helen going home. No death of Achilles. Instead, the poem closes with a quiet funeral.

This is a powerful choice. Homer is telling us that the climax isn’t the victory; it’s the mourning. The most meaningful act in the epic isn’t the killing of Hector, but the return of his body to his father.

The wrath of Achilles, which opens the poem, does not vanish. But it shifts. He does not forgive. He does not apologize. Yet something changes. He grieves. And in doing so, he recognizes the humanity of his enemy.

“Poor man! Your heart has suffered/ so much. How could you bear to come alone/ here to the Greek fleet to face me, who slaughtered/ so many of your fine and noble sons?/ Your heart is surely made of iron. Come,/ sit on a chair, and let us hide our grief/ inside ourselves, despite our bitter sorrow. (Book 24.643-649)

That recognition, fleeting, fragile, but real, is the closest The Iliad comes to resolution. Achilles remains Achilles, still doomed, still burning with rage. But he grants a moment of grace. And in Homer’s world, that matters more than conquest.

In our world, this might be the moment when a leader finally lets go of power. Or when an artist realizes the painting is done. It’s the quiet after the crescendo, the part most stories skip. But Homer doesn’t skip it. He ends there.

Which tells us something. The ending is not the fall of a city, but the laying down of arms. Not the peak of ambition, but the stillness that follows it.

Maybe greatness is not the glory you win. Maybe it’s the moment you walk away, able to bear the cost.

The poem is self-contained, beginning in medias res and ending before the war concludes. What unfolds is not the full arc of the Trojan War, but a moral and psychological exploration. A study of wrath, honor, grief, and what it costs to be human.

And that’s why it still resonates. The Iliad doesn’t need to show us how Troy falls. It shows us how a man can break open, just enough, to feel.

The Iliad isn’t about war. Or rather, it is,  but war is just the canvas.  It’s a psychological epic, a philosophical treatise on mortality, and a meditation on what it means to matter. It’s about ego and ambition. What it costs, how it distorts people, and what, if anything, redeems it. It remains relevant because the human emotions that drive it, pride, love, rage, grief, haven’t changed.

In the end, The Iliad doesn’t glorify war so much as it asks us to reckon with what war reveals: about leadership, legacy, honor, and ourselves. In a world that still valorizes greatness without counting its cost, The Iliad remains our earliest and most devastating reminder: immortality is paid for in grief.

Recommended Reading

The Odyssey, by Homer

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Appendix

Characters

The Greeks (Achaeans)

Achilles

• Role: Greatest Greek warrior; semi-divine son of Thetis (a sea goddess) and Peleus.
• Core Traits: “Swift-footed,” Proud, wrathful, prone to intense rage and fiercely protective of his honor, unmatched in battle, emotionally volatile.
• Key Plot Function: His withdrawal from battle over a personal insult (the loss of Briseis) drives the central conflict.

Agamemnon: 

• Role: King of Mycenae; commander of the Greek forces.
• Core Traits: Arrogant, insecure, authoritative, acquisitive, politically powerful; “Lord of men,” “son of Atreus.” 
• Key Plot Function: Insults Achilles by claiming Briseis, which sparks Achilles’ wrath.

Odysseus

• Role: King of Ithaca; famed for intelligence and cunning.
• Core Traits: Diplomatic, persuasive, strategic thinker. Known for his cunning and eloquence. “Son of Laertes, favorite of Zeus,” “scheming Odysseus,”
• Key Plot Function: Acts as a diplomat, often sent to negotiate or resolve tensions.

Menelaus

• Role: King of Sparta; husband of Helen. Agammemnon’s younger, less powerful brother
• Core Traits: Honorable, often overshadowed by others
• Key Plot Function: His wife’s abduction by Paris sparks the Trojan War.

Ajax (Telamonian Ajax or “Great Ajax”)

• Role: Giant Greek warrior.
• Core Traits: Brave, noble, honorable, physically powerful.
• Key Plot Function: Second only to Achilles in strength; holds the line when morale is low.

Diomedes

• Role: Young and aggressive Greek warrior.
• Core Traits: Fierce in battle, bold,  loyal. A fearsome warrior, capable of challenging gods in battle. “master of the war cry,” “son of Tydeus.”
• Key Plot Function: Wounds two gods (Aphrodite and Ares) during a battle frenzy.

Nestor

• Role: King of Pylos; elder statesman.
• Core Traits: Wise, talkative, nostalgic. “Gerenian horse-lord.”
• Key Plot Function: Advisor to younger warriors; offers historical perspective and moral guidance.

Patroclus

• Role: Achilles’ closest companion (possible lover).
• Core Traits: Loyal, brave, compassionate.
• Key Plot Function: His death at the hands of Hector motivates Achilles to return to battle.

 

The Trojans

Hector: 

• Role: Prince of Troy; commander of the Trojan forces.
• Core Traits: Noble, dutiful, a warrior. Devoted father and family man. Doomed. “Glorious Hector in his flashing helmet.” 
• Key Plot Function: Trojan champion who ultimately faces Achilles in a fatal duel.

Priam

• Role: King of Troy; father of Hector and Paris.
• Core Traits: Wise, dignified, sorrowful.
• Key Plot Function: His plea to Achilles for Hector’s body is one of the poem’s most poignant moments.

Paris (aka. Alexander)

• Role: Prince of Troy; abductor of Helen.
• Core Traits: Handsome, vain, cowardly. “Pathetic Paris”
• Key Plot Function: His actions start the war; often shirks responsibility in contrast to Hector.

Helen

• Role: Wife of Menelaus, now living with Paris in Troy; semi-divine daughter of Zeus
• Core Traits: Beautiful, intelligent, haunted by guilt. “daughter of Zeus.”
• Key Plot Function: Symbol of the conflict; acknowledges her role in the larger narrative and the suffering she has caused.

Andromache

• Role: Wife of Hector; mother of Astyanax.
• Core Traits: Devoted, maternal, fearful.
• Key Plot Function: Represents the civilian cost of war; pleads with Hector not to return to battle; voice of domestic sorrow

Hecuba

• Role: Queen of Troy; mother to Hector and Paris
• Core Traits: Regal, passionate, maternal, outspoken in grief.
• Key Plot Function:  Represents the suffering of Trojan women and the maternal cost of war; provides a powerful voice of lamentation, especially in the scenes following Hector’s death.

 

The Gods (Olympians)

The gods are active characters in The Iliad, frequently intervening in human affairs based on whims, rivalries, grudges, and favoritism.

Zeus

• Role: King of the gods. The most powerful god, responsible for weighing destinies and influencing the course of the war. Can be unpredictable and capable of both kindness and anger.
• Alliances: Tries to remain neutral but leans Trojan due to Thetis’ request.
• Function: Arbitrates divine disputes; enforces fate.
• Epithets: “cloud-gathering Zeus,” “father of humans and of gods.” 

Hera

• Role: Queen of the gods. Zeus’s wife, often in conflict with him, particularly regarding the Trojans. 
• Alliances: Favors the Greeks.
• Function: Works behind Zeus’s back to influence events in favor of the Greeks.
• Epithets: “white-armed goddess Hera,” “ox-eyed goddess queen.” 

Athena

• Role: Goddess of wisdom and war strategy. Both a protector of cities and a strategist who delights in slaughter. 
• Alliances: Strongly pro-Greek.
• Function: Frequently intervenes to help Greek warriors (especially Diomedes and Odysseus).
• Epithets: “bright-eyed Athena,” “goddess of the spoils of war.” “Bright Eyes”

Apollo

• Role: God of prophecy, plague, archery, and music. A major force of divine retribution.
• Alliances: Strongly pro-Trojan
• Function: Sends plague upon the Greeks in response to Agamemnon’s insult to his priest; protects and empowers Hector; revives the Trojans’ morale.
• Epithets: “Phoebus Apollo,” “god of distances,” “lord of the silver bow.”

Aphrodite

• Role: Goddess of love, beauty, and desire. Capricious and self-interested in war.
• Alliances: Favors Paris and the Trojans, especially due to her judgment win in the beauty contest.
• Function: Rescues Paris from combat; protects Aeneas; intervenes in mortal affairs to protect her favored kin.
• Epithets: “laughing Aphrodite,” “daughter of Zeus,” “goddess of love.”

Thetis

• Role: Sea goddess and devoted mother of Achilles. A Nereid with deep grief over her son’s fate.
• Alliances: Loyal only to Achilles.
• Function: Intercedes with Zeus on behalf of her son; brings Achilles his divine armor; laments his mortality.
• Epithets: “silver-footed Thetis,” “daughter of the old man of the sea,” “mother of Achilles.”

Hephaestus

• Role: God of fire, metalworking, and craftsmanship; physically disabled,
• Alliances: Pro-Greek, mainly because of his gratitude to Thetis
• Function: Forges Achilles’ second set of armor, including a detailed, symbolic shield; intervenes to save Achilles from the river god Scamander.
• Epithets: “famous Hephaestus,” “the divine smith,” “the god of fire.”

Hermes

• Role: Messenger god; god of boundaries, travel, and cunning.
• Alliances: Generally neutral, though respectful of Priam.
• Function: Escorts King Priam safely through the Greek camp to meet Achilles; serves as a divine guide and protector of travelers.
• Epithets: “giant-killing guide,” “Argus-slayer,” “the helpful one.”

Iris

• Role: Goddess of the rainbow and divine messenger; servant of the Olympian gods, especially Zeus and Hera.
• Alliances: Neutral; loyal to Olympus and executes orders from both sides.
• Function: Conveys messages from the gods to mortals and other gods, often at Zeus’s command; facilitates divine communication, particularly when speed is essential.
• Epithets: “swift-footed Iris,” “wind-footed messenger,” “golden-winged herald.”

Poseidon

• Role: God of the sea, earthquakes, and horses; brother of Zeus and Hades
• Alliances: Favors the Greeks, though subject to Zeus’s will.
• Function: Aids the Greeks in battle; rebukes and rallies the Greek forces; disputes with other gods over intervention.
• Epithets: “earth-shaking Poseidon,” “god who encircles the earth,” “lord of the sea.”

Ares

• Role: God of war, embodying its chaotic and violent aspects.
• Alliances: Initially supports the Trojans, especially due to his affair with Aphrodite.
• Function: Fights alongside Hector; wounded by Diomedes with Athena’s aid and retreats in humiliation; a symbol of indiscriminate carnage.
• Epithets: “furious Ares,” “breaker of shields,” “bane of mortals.”