The Narrow Road

In Iliad Book 7, as he chastises the Achaean champions for failing to answer Hektor's challenge, Nestor recounts the tale of an earlier contest between warriors, one that ought to have ended quite differently, if might alone had been the decisive factor. Embedded in his recollection of his own youthful encounter with the Arcadian Ereuthalion is the story of ‘glorious Areithoos, whom men and beautifully-belted women called by the epiklēsis’—that is, the ‘epithet’—‘korunētēs (“mace-man”)’:

Once again, as in the case of Hektor's remark about Troy's vanished wealth, an iterative verb (ϰίϰλησϰον [‘they used to call’]) implies that Areithoos’ sobriquet has the status of a formulaic expression. In the words of Gregory Nagy, ‘the poetry is actually referring to an epithet as an epithet’.Footnote ¹³ Nestor's characterization of the word as a conventional expression is to a certain extent confirmed by the poem itself when, at the beginning of Book 7, the narrator mentions ϰορυνήτης…Ἀρηΐθοος (‘mace-man Areithoos’, 7.9f.).Footnote ¹⁴

Nestor makes it clear, again by using iterative verbs (μαχέσϰετο, ῥήγνυσϰε), that Areithoos’ often-repeated epithet was motivated by his own repeated behavior: he was called ‘mace-man’ because he habitually fought with a mace. Nestor's tale, however, highlights the applicability of the epithet in general by exposing its momentary inapplicability, that is, by focusing on precisely that moment in Areithoos’ story when his characteristic epithet is contradicted by circumstances. But Areithoos does not for that reason cease to be the ‘mace-man’: on the contrary, the very fact that this seemingly invincible warrior meets his end when he is prevented from wielding his mace demonstrates that he is nothing but a ‘mace-man’. The exception in this case truly proves the rule: by failing to be a ϰορυνήτης, Areithoos makes good his claim to the epithet. The contextual negation of the epithet's significance confirms its meaningfulness.

It is not simply by accident that Areithoos finds himself disarmed and unable to make use of the prowess his epithet warrants. His adversary, Lykourgos, contrives the situation that leads to his demise. Nestor characterizes Lykourgos’ plan as a matter of δόλος (‘deception’), a signal that we are dealing here with an instance of the familiar Homeric theme of rivalry between a hero of βίη (‘might’) and a hero of μῆτις (‘cunning intelligence’), archetypally represented by Akhilleus and Odysseus respectively.Footnote ¹⁵ Lykourgos is doubly identified as an exponent of μῆτις, both by the reference to δόλος and by his name, which, signifying ‘he who wards off the wolf’, indicates one who possesses an affinity with lupine cunning.Footnote ¹⁶ Areithoos likewise bears a name—meaning ‘swift with Ares’ or ‘swift in battle’—that, in addition to his characteristic method of fighting, underscores his connection to βίη. Nagy has traced the widespread associations between swiftness and the brute force of βίη; one need only think of ‘swift-footed Akhilleus’ to grasp how fundamental this association is to the Iliad's thematic matrix.Footnote ¹⁷ Areithoos, the hero of βίη, is thus overmastered by the deliberate contrivance of the hero of μῆτις. Insofar as Lykourgos devises his plot in response to the peculiar strength encapsulated in his opponent's epithet, his success depends upon his ability to recognize the meaning encoded in poetic diction—and to exploit the limitations such diction implies. The δόλος practiced by the hero of μῆτις is, in this tale, a matter of inverting the value of a formulaic expression, of transforming what would normally be understood as a marker of excellence into an index of liability.

More concretely, of course, Lykourgos’ δόλος consists in the deliberate selection of a setting that neutralizes his opponent's strengths—the ‘narrow road’ of line 143 (στεινωπῷ ἐν ὁδῷ). Gaining the advantage by strategic exploitation of environmental circumstances is characteristic of a mode of fighting that is designated in Homeric poetry by the term λόχος (‘ambush’).Footnote ¹⁸ Eustathius, in fact, describes the encounter precisely as a λόχος (2.387.1 van der Valk). Within the system of Homeric poetry, λόχος stands in explicit contrast to πόλεμος (‘open battle’), and the relationship between these two kinds of warfare can be described in terms of the contrast between μῆτις and βίη.Footnote ¹⁹

The ‘narrow road’ that forms the centerpiece of Lykourgos’ stratagem may seem like an odd way of disabling Areithoos if indeed it is intended solely as a means of inhibiting the use of his preferred weapon. It would have to have been a very narrow road indeed to impede the swinging of a club.Footnote ²⁰ Lykourgos’ ploy becomes more intelligible, however, when we take into consideration the other component of Areithoos’ βίη, the speed signaled by his name. One of the ‘Cretan lies’ told by Odysseus in the Odyssey suggests that the need to counteract such speed may have been an established component of the λόχος theme: in Odyssey 13, the disguised Odysseus tells Athene that he fled Crete after ambushing and killing a son of Idomeneus named Orsilokhos:

While this fictional attack likewise takes place along a road (Od. 13.267f.), it is not specifically a narrow one; instead, it is the circumstance that the attack is made at night that negates the victim's natural advantage. In the case of Areithoos, it may be implied that the narrowness of the road is intended to inhibit all of Areithoos’ movements—not just the motion of his mace-arm.Footnote ²²

The most striking indicator that there is a connection to be made between the ‘narrow road’ motif and the need to counter an opponent's greater speed is provided by an episode that includes the only other instance of the phrase στεινωπῷ ἐν ὁδῷ in the Iliad: the chariot race of Book 23. The episode centers on the stratagem by which Antilokhos overcomes Menelaos’ superior horses, even though Antilokhos’ horses are recognized as the slowest of the five competing teams (Il. 23.309f.). As the contestants near the finish line, Antilokhos sees that the first prize is out of reach, but he perceives an opportunity to finish ahead of Menelaos in second place. He explains his plan to his horses, and immediately acts on it:

Antilokhos attempts to overtake Menelaos as the road narrows; Menelaos, fearing a collision, reins in his horses; and Antilokhos drives across the finish line in second place.

The episode is not a λόχος, but the name of its protagonist (Anti-lokhos, ‘he who is a match for the λόχος’) indicates its affinity with the λόχος theme; so too does the recurrent emphasis on μῆτις as the means by which an opponent's superior strength may be overcome. The entire scene unfolds, in fact, as yet another example of the dramatization of the μῆτις-βίη rivalry. Nestor, noting that Antilokhos is driving the weakest horses, counsels the use of μῆτις, and delivers a short ‘sermon on the uses of μῆτις’.Footnote ²³ Antilokhos, as we have seen, speaks explicitly of his reliance on τέχνη, on a ‘contrivance’ or ‘stratagem’. Menelaos emphasizes his own superiority in βίη (23.578), while implying that Antilokhos has unduly exploited δόλος (‘trickery’, 23.585). The narrator, meanwhile, describes Antilokhos’ maneuver in phraseology that echoes the earlier description of Lykourgos’ tactics.Footnote ²⁴ There is, moreover, another, crucial respect in which the episode recalls the tale of Areithoos: like the story of the ‘mace-man’, the chariot race narrative draws attention to an apparent conflict between a formulaic epithet and its context, precisely in order to underscore the meaningfulness of the epithet.

As Menelaos slows his horses to avoid a crash, he calls out to Antilokhos:

I will perhaps be accused of tendentiousness for rendering the infinitive πεπ-νῦσθαι with the participle of the same verb, πεπνυμένος, an epithet applied to a number of characters in the Homeric corpus—most notably Telemakhos in the Odyssey—and often translated as ‘prudent’. Antilokhos is not a regular recipient of this epithet—although, as we shall see, he does receive it in this episode, and the Neleids in general seem to enjoy a reputation as πεπνυμένοι.Footnote ²⁵ In defense of my rendering, I note that, as in previous examples, an imperfect verb (φάμεν) makes it clear that Menelaos is speaking of a recurrent locution in the past: he appears to be invoking a formulaic expression. The suspicion that we are meant to think of the generic epithet πεπνυμένος is confirmed a short while later, when Menelaos himself employs the participle in a remarkable way. As prizes are awarded, he lodges a complaint against Antilokhos, beginning his speech thus:

The phrase πρόσθεν πεπνυμένε (‘formerly πεπνυμένος’) is, in essence, a negated or ‘bracketed’ epithet. Menelaos claims that, although Antilokhos has previously been called πεπνυμένος, his actions during the race have belied his claim to the epithet. Even more than simply drawing attention to a contradiction between the expression and the context of its use, Menelaos asserts that the context has rendered the word generally invalid as an epithet for Antilokhos.

But has it? Menelaos seems to understand the term πεπνυμένος as an indicator of prudence in a general sense, and on that score he may have a point: Antilokhos can certainly be accused of recklessness. Or else Menelaos may mean to highlight Antilokhos’ aggressiveness toward an older and socially superior man. As J.B. Hainsworth notes, πεπνυμένος is regularly ‘applied to youthful or subordinate characters who know their place’.Footnote ²⁶ The word's primary associations, however, are with prudence as a speaker, as we may see from the fact that the epithet occurs most frequently in formulaic speech introductions, and from its frequent application to heralds and wise counselors.Footnote ²⁷ From this point of view, Menelaos’ complaint seems misplaced. Antilokhos’ exploitation of the ‘narrow road’ is not an adequate measure of his right to be called πεπνυμένος. It is only in the sequel to the race, the verbal dispute that develops between the two claimants of the second-place prize, that Antilokhos has the opportunity to prove the appropriateness of the epithet. By employing a deft verbal strategy—simultaneously expressing deference toward Menelaos and asserting his right to the disputed mare—Antilokhos manages to appease Menelaos and retain the prize. The narrator, as though answering Menelaos’ criticism, introduces this speech with a formula that now seems laden with significance:

This is the only occurrence of this formula with Antilokhos as subject. No less an authority on the proper usage of Homeric diction than the narrator himself thus confirms Antilokhos’ title to the epithet πεπνυμένος.Footnote ²⁸

Overall, the chariot race and its epilogue tend in precisely the same direction as the tale of Areithoos. Both episodes draw attention to a real or apparent contradiction between a formulaic epithet and the context of its application. In both cases, the contradiction arises because of the manipulation, by a representative of μῆτις, of the special circumstances created by the constricted environment of a στεινωπὸς ὁδός, a ‘narrow road’. And in both cases the meaningfulness and appropriateness of the epithet are ultimately reasserted. These passages display an awareness of the possibility that a formulaic style may give rise to certain interpretive tensions, as well as an anxiousness to resolve these tensions by establishing once and for all the meaningfulness of formulas. The language of the epic medium passes through the crucible of the ‘narrow road’ and emerges fully validated.Footnote ²⁹

An Iliadic Ethic of Language Use

The Iliadic determination to assert the meaningfulness of epic language in spite of the uncertainties introduced by contextual constraints or the maneuvers of μῆτις is not an idle or secondary motif. It is intimately bound up with one of the Iliad's central ethical commitments—if we may identify the poem's ethical commitments with those of its hero, Akhilleus. In the Embassy of Book 9, which is arguably the pivot on which the whole poem turns, Akhilleus famously declares his determination to tolerate nothing less than the total transparency of language:

The ‘narrow road’ motif, with its anxiety over the meaningfulness of formulaic epithets, can be understood as an echo of this commitment to transparency. Of course, there is a difference between a contextually inappropriate epithet and the kind of concealment or outright dishonesty that Akhilleus abhors. The possibility that the language of epic might at times be used indifferently—that words might mean less than they appear to say—nevertheless threatens to undermine the total transparency to which Akhilleus aspires.Footnote ³¹

It is essential to recognize the extent to which a determination to uphold the meaningfulness and transparency of language structures the entire plot-arc of the Iliad. Ruth Scodel has argued convincingly that the tragic turn in Akhilleus’ story—his decision to allow Patroklos to enter the battle in his place—is the direct consequence of his resolve to abide by a promise that he (mistakenly) believes has been conveyed to Agamemnon and the Achaean leaders at the conclusion of the Embassy.Footnote ³² This is the promise that he will not return to the battlefield until the fighting reaches his own ships, a promise that he made in response to Aias, the third of three ambassadors to plead with him, and that he explicitly directed the ambassadors to report back to Agamemnon (Il. 9.644-55). Akhilleus is unaware that, in actuality, Odysseus reported only his first response, which he gave in reply to Odysseus’ entreaty, and in which he declared that he would sail for Phthia in the morning. From the Achaeans’ point of view, of course, he has already falsified this declaration by remaining at Troy, but he does not realize this; instead, although he is prepared to relinquish his anger, he believes he cannot reenter the battle himself without contravening the message that he thinks has been transmitted to the Achaeans (16.60-63). The essential connection between the Embassy and these later events is underscored by the fact that the fateful exchange in which Akhilleus explains his position to Patroklos and authorizes the latter to fight in his place is introduced by an echo of his earlier affirmation of the ethic of transparency. Akhilleus invites Patroklos to make the appeal that will ultimately lead to Patroklos’ own death with the words ἐξαύδα, μὴ ϰεῦθε νόῳ, ἵνα εἴδομεν ἄμφω (‘Speak plainly, do not conceal it in your mind, that we may both know’, 16.19).Footnote ³³

The events of the final third of the poem are therefore determined by Akhilleus’ absolute commitment to the transparency and meaningfulness of speech, much as are the events of the first third; for the plot developments leading up to the Embassy are similarly the result of Akhilleus’ decision to bind himself by his word. Athene, enjoining him in Book 1 to forego violence in his quarrel with Agamemnon, advises him instead to ‘reproach [Agamemnon] in words as to how it will be’ (ἔπεσιν μὲν ὀνείδισον ὡς ἔσεταί περ, Il. 1.211). The rather remarkable construction of the verb ὀνειδίζειν with a relative clause in the future tense—unique in the poem to my knowledge—indicates that Akhilleus’ ‘reproach’ will be meaningful to the extent that it dictates subsequent events.Footnote ³⁴ Akhilleus acts on this advice with a speech that is not only a masterpiece of blame—ὄνειδος in the usual sense—but that also includes his great oath, which is not so much a declaration of his own intended course of action as a prediction of the situation that will confront the Achaeans as a result.Footnote ³⁵ The awesome rhetoric with which he frames this oath—the description of the scepter, ‘which will never again sprout leaves or shoots’ (Il. 1.234f.), and so on—is yet another expression of the strength of his ethical commitment to the use of language that is consequential and fully freighted with meaning.

In Book 9, Akhilleus delivers his affirmation of the ethic of transparency in a context that seems designed to set up a contrast between this ethic and the very different one represented by his addressee, Odysseus. Indeed, Akhilleus’ words—‘hateful to me…is the man who conceals one thing in his heart and declares another’—seem to be directed specifically at Odysseus, who has omitted from his report of Agamemnon's conciliatory offer its most invidious clause, the demand that Akhilleus should acknowledge his subordinate position (Il. 9.158-61). Strictly speaking, Akhilleus cannot know this, but it is difficult not to associate his reference to concealment with Odysseus’ striking reticence.Footnote ³⁶ His words ring even truer as a condemnation of Odysseus at the end of the episode, when Odysseus can once again be observed to be guilty of a significant omission. Yet Odysseus has good reasons for concealing things: his strategic acts of omission serve discernible diplomatic and political ends.Footnote ³⁷ His ethical commitments privilege the achievement of utilitarian goals at the expense of transparency in communication. Even more: Odysseus displays a positive readiness to cultivate a lack of transparency in order to benefit the interests he serves.

Book 9 thus unfolds as a kind of contest between two opposed figures representing two opposed ethical positions with regard to language use. Akhilleus, the archetypal hero of βίη, strives to uphold the transparency and consequentiality of language as a meaningful medium of communication.Footnote ³⁸ Odysseus, the hero of μῆτις, exploits gaps and silences in an attempt to accomplish an objective—the reintegration of Akhilleus—that, if achieved on the terms proposed by Agamemnon, must be felt by Akhilleus himself as a defeat.Footnote ³⁹ There is a certain similarity here to the ‘narrow road’ motif, and more particularly to the tale of Areithoos, whose story recalls (or rather prefigures) that of Akhilleus with respect to more than just the speed signaled by his name. In both cases, the hero of βίη, encountering an opponent whose μῆτις works in part by disrupting the normal operation of language, is undone by remaining true to words that are somehow central to his heroic identity. Areithoos falls victim to the λόχος because he is constrained by his epithet as much as by the narrowness of the road. Akhilleus, although he manages to avoid Agamemnon's ‘gift-attack’, nevertheless ultimately meets disaster—losing not only his closest companion, but also, ultimately, his own life—because he cannot deviate from his own stated positions.Footnote ⁴⁰ That is not to say that the tale of Areithoos (or, for that matter, the ‘narrow road’ motif more generally) is a direct commentary on the story of Akhilleus. It is, rather, a recapitulation of certain themes that lie at the heart of that story, above all a commitment to the proposition that words can and should be made to bear the full weight of their meanings.

The fact that Akhilleus, like Areithoos, ends up on the losing side of a contest with a representative of a very different view of words and their meaning should not be taken as in any way undermining the value of this commitment. On the contrary, the poem as a whole must be understood as on some level an endorsement of Akhilleus’ position, since it is precisely because of his loyalty to this position that he achieves the ϰλέος enshrined in the epic. To celebrate Akhilleus is to celebrate his unswerving allegiance to transparency. For this reason we are entitled to make a rough equivalence between Akhilleus’ ethical commitments—including what might be called the ‘Akhillean’ ethic of language use—and those of the Iliad. And yet the poem permits us glimpses of an alternative—an ‘Odyssean’ ethic—that cannot be simply rejected as invalid. After all, Akhilleus’ own protégé, Antilokhos, succeeds by adopting an Odyssean strategy of μῆτις in the chariot race. And while Odysseus may seem to fare poorly in Book 9 by comparison with the moral and rhetorical force of Akhilleus’ great speech, the practical value of his mode of action is fully vindicated in those scenes in which he is able to operate on his own terms.

The ‘Odyssean’ Ethic in the Iliad

In fact, Book 9, with its prominent display of Akhilleus’ commitment to transparency, is followed immediately by an episode that seems designed to showcase the ‘Odyssean’ ethic in action. The Doloneia of Book 10, describing a night raid conducted by Diomedes and Odysseus, gives the latter the opportunity to employ the full range of his μῆτις. The controversy over the authenticity of this book is well known. Debate as to whether or not it ‘belongs’ in our Iliad extends back to antiquity.Footnote ⁴¹ Many, perhaps most, contemporary Homerists reject it as un-Homeric. An often-noted redundancy—Books 9 and 10 appear to describe different ways of meeting the emergency presented by a single night—has led some to characterize the two books as alternatives.Footnote ⁴² Without entering into this controversy in detail, I align myself with the minority of scholars who argue that Book 10 is an organic part of the Iliad's design.Footnote ⁴³ In doing so, I propose to find in the apparent redundancy that has been observed in the juxtaposition of Books 9 and 10 precisely the same contrastive strategy that one observes in the juxtaposition of Akhilleus and Odysseus in Book 9. Book 10, in other words, expands on the contrast between the Akhillean and Odyssean ethics that is already adumbrated within Book 9. As a counterpoint to the latter's forceful presentation of Akhilleus’ point of view, the Doloneia shows us an Odysseus who is more than willing to take advantage of an ambiguous way of speaking—and ready to acknowledge the ethical complexity of his methods.

Broadly speaking, Book 10 is a greatly expanded instance of the λόχος theme.Footnote ⁴⁴ It recounts two parallel missions to reconnoiter the enemy's camp, undertaken by Odysseus and Diomedes on one side, and on the other by the Trojan Dolon, who gives the episode the name assigned to it by ancient critics. After some introductory material, relating the recruiting of the spies, the narrative describes the capture, interrogation, and killing of Dolon by Odysseus and Diomedes, and then the killing of the just-arrived Trojan ally Rhesos, along with a number of his men, and the stealing of his horses.

The opposition between μῆτις and βίη resurfaces here in multiple ways. Although the character of Rhesos is relatively undeveloped in the Iliad, the broader tradition clearly identifies him as a figure of βίη and a formidable force on the battlefield.Footnote ⁴⁵ His white horses are described by Dolon as ‘swift as the wind’ (θείειν δ᾽ ἀνέμοισιν ὁμοῖοι, Il. 10.437), an indication that they partake of the same kind of impetuous might as Menelaos’ team. The killing of Rhesos and the capture of his horses by stealth are therefore perfectly intelligible in terms of the μῆτις / βίη opposition. The encounter with Dolon is more complex. The name of this figure signals an affinity with δόλος (‘deception’), and by extension with μῆτις. The wolf-skin he dons for his reconnaissance mission likewise assimilates him to the lupine Lykourgos. All of this is appropriate for a character who appears in the Iliad solely in the role of a nocturnal spy. Dolon does have, however, one quality that aligns him with those representatives of βίη against whom the stratagems of the λόχος are typically directed: he is extraordinarily fast, to the extent that he earns what is otherwise, to use Parry's terminology, a ‘distinctive’ epithet of Akhilleus, ποδώϰης (‘swift-footed’, 10.316).Footnote ⁴⁶

As though anticipating that their foe might be possessed of some such physical advantage, Odysseus devises a plan aimed precisely at neutralizing swiftness when he senses Dolon's approach. He instructs Diomedes:

The trap for Dolon is laid along a road. While this ὁδός is not specifically στεινωπός, nevertheless the μῆτις by which Odysseus overcomes his opponent's superior speed centers on the constricting of the space available for maneuvering. Odysseus instructs Diomedes, in effect, to narrow the road. In the execution of this plan, they ‘turn aside’ in a way that resembles Antilokhos’ swerving from the course in the chariot race.Footnote ⁴⁷ All this is to say that we are dealing here with a passage that is, if not strictly an instance of the ‘narrow road’ motif, certainly closely related.

Once the trap is sprung and Dolon is in the hands of his captors, Odysseus directs his μῆτις to a new end: the extraction of information from the Trojan spy. His cunning now focuses more squarely on linguistic snares, and he is quick to exploit a crucial ambiguity. When Dolon pleads for his life, offering a substantial ransom if he is spared, Odysseus offers words of seeming reassurance: ‘Take courage, and let not death weigh on your heart’ (θάρσει, μηδέ τί τοι θάνατος ϰαταθύμιος ἔστω, Il. 10.383). With this encouragement, Odysseus easily pumps Dolon for information on Hektor's plans and the layout of the Trojan encampment, after which Diomedes kills the prisoner. Some commentators have accused Odysseus of lying outright, and find in this breach of a presumed heroic ethos evidence in favor of the view that the Doloneia is ‘un-Homeric’.Footnote ⁴⁸ Against this verdict one may insist not only that such a blanket notion of heroic ethics is suspect, but also, and perhaps more importantly, that Odysseus does not in fact lie. His carefully-worded reply to Dolon suggests that the latter's life is secure without actually saying so. This is, it would seem, a textbook case of ‘concealing one thing in one's heart and declaring another’—not a lie, but the cultivation of an ambiguity that disrupts the ideal transparency of speech. It is the putting into practice of the ‘Odyssean’ ethic of language use, with results that are obviously beneficial to the Achaeans.

Arguably the most revealing moment in Book 10, so far as this ethic is concerned, involves not Odysseus’ own use of language, but rather the restrictions he imposes on the kinds of language that may appropriately be used of him. Early in the episode, Diomedes, who has agreed to undertake the night mission, asks for another to accompany him; he selects Odysseus from among several volunteers on the grounds that he has just those qualities that are likely to ensure a successful νόστος (‘return’). As he puts it:

Odysseus responds to this encomium by protesting against the very act of evaluating his virtues and flaws:

How should we interpret Odysseus’ curiously self-effacing remark, which is not necessarily the position we would expect to be taken by a Homeric hero? Since Diomedes, with his mention of νόστος and νόος (‘intelligence’), has evoked precisely the kind of heroism that defines Odysseus’ role in the Odyssey, it is possible that Odysseus’ unwillingness to be so described is an expression of an Iliadic impulse to keep the Odyssey at arms length—Monro's Law in reverse.Footnote ⁴⁹ If so, this distancing gesture can only hedge the more or less overtly Odyssean thematics of the episode as a whole.Footnote ⁵⁰ A second possibility is to interpret Odysseus’ remark in light of these thematics, by noting that his reluctance to be explicitly characterized corresponds to the Odyssey's general strategy of indirection in naming and describing its central hero.

There are likely other ways of interpreting these lines, but in any case what is most striking is that Odysseus’ prohibition is directed specifically against ethical descriptions of his character. He resists the application of either praise or blame to his actions, suggesting instead that the Achaeans can and should come to their own conclusions. By extension, the audience member or reader of these lines is likewise challenged to formulate his or her own judgment of Odysseus’ character—and to recognize the ethical complexity of doing so. For, however else we might be inclined to interpret Odysseus’ remark, we must also admit that it implicitly acknowledges, even underscores, the difficulty of either straightforwardly praising or blaming him. Such a cautionary note is appropriately sounded at the beginning of an episode in which Odysseus’ actions—including his exploitation of linguistic ambiguity—are, to say the least, ethically questionable. The ‘Odyssean’ ethic, as dramatized in Book 10, would seem to include not only a willingness to exploit linguistic ambiguity but also a corresponding unwillingness to submit to direct assessment. In other words, the ethic, acknowledging its own ethical ambivalence, demands the cultivation of ambiguity both in its practice and in its evaluation. To adapt a remark made by Pindar in a context that is not without connection to the present discussion, ἄτροπα ἔπεα, ‘inflexible words’, can only do violence to a character as complex as that of Odysseus.Footnote ⁵¹

The ‘Odyssean’ Ethic and the Odyssey

Ἄτροπα ἔπεα are, of course, precisely what Akhilleus demands. I have argued that the Iliad largely endorses his position. To the extent that the poem privileges the Akhillean commitment to words of full and fixed meaning—and it might be said that the testing and validation of formulaic epithets we have observed in connection with the ‘narrow road’ motif is a manifestation of an Iliadic drive to ensure that the poem's ἔπεα are in fact ἄτροπα—Odysseus will always pose something of a challenge to Iliadic poetics. What, then, about Odysseus’ own poem? Can we detect in the Odyssey an attitude toward the use of language, and especially formulaic language, that somehow reflects the constantly-foregrounded πολυτροπία of its protagonist?Footnote ⁵²

I will limit myself here to the discussion of a single example that points in this direction; a complete examination of the question is beyond the scope of this essay. I have chosen my example—the application of the epithet ἀμύμων (‘blameless’) to Aigisthos at Odyssey 1.29 (ἀμύμονος Αἰγίσθοιο), which has been called ‘perhaps the most notoriously inappropriate Homeric adjective’—for two reasons.Footnote ⁵³ In the first place, this phrase has been one of the most visible touchstones in the debate over the meaningfulness of Homeric epithets. Anne Amory Parry adopted it as the title and centerpiece of her book-length rejoinder to Milman Parry.Footnote ⁵⁴ ‘Blameless Aigisthos’ thus brings me back to the problem with which I began this essay. At the same time, as I will argue, the phrase functions as an index of the ethical ambivalence of Odysseus even within his own epic. It therefore offers a convenient means of tracing within the Odyssey the same ethical ambiguity I have argued for in Iliad 10.

It may seem that I am now wandering off the ‘narrow road’ of my title; and indeed the ‘narrow road’ motif, as we have seen it in the Iliad, does not occur in the Odyssey. In his own epic, however, Odysseus in many ways comes into his own as the hero of the ‘narrow road’. He devises a way out of the narrow quarters of Polyphemos’ cave, and he charts a course through the στεινωπός (‘strait’) that divides Skylla from Kharybdis (Od. 12.234). He is the only one, among all his men, who passes successfully through all of the perils of the return journey. On Ithaca, the success of the λόχος he lays for the Suitors hinges on his ability to prevent his adversaries from gaining access to the exits. This restriction of spatial freedom, reminiscent of Odysseus’ plan for capturing Dolon and of Lykourgos’ tactics against Areithoos, is prefigured by the disguised Odysseus himself in these ominous words addressed to the Suitor Eurymakhos:

Odysseus shows himself to be a master of Lykourgan strategy.Footnote ⁵⁵

This brings me to ‘blameless’ (ἀμύμων) Aigisthos. Milman Parry cited the application of this epithet to the seducer of Klytaimnestre and murderer of Agamemnon as a prime example of ‘the illogical uses of the epithet’, and thus as evidence for his claim that generic epithets were used with ‘indifference’ on the part of singers and audience members alike.Footnote ⁵⁶ Anne Amory Parry countered that the illogicality sensed by her father-in-law, and by a line of others stretching back to antiquity, is in fact only apparent, a misunderstanding arising from a misconception of the meaning of ἀμύμων.Footnote ⁵⁷ The word, she argues, does not mean ‘beyond reproach’ in the general or more narrowly ethical sense, but refers primarily to physical excellence, and so can be most often translated as ‘beautiful’.Footnote ⁵⁸ This is a meaning she finds as appropriate to Aigisthos as to the others to whom the word is applied. She readily acknowledges that ‘Homeric epithets are not ordinarily chosen for their special relevance to the immediate context’, but she argues vigorously against Parry's notion of an indifference on the part of singer or hearer.Footnote ⁵⁹ And the debate has continued.Footnote ⁶⁰

My interpretation will, in a sense, chart a middle way between Milman Parry and Anne Amory Parry by holding that an incongruous or ‘illogical’ epithet has been used deliberately in order to suggest a link between Aigisthos and Odysseus that might otherwise be obscured by the way that the story of Agamemnon's homecoming is generally deployed in the Odyssey. The epithet is not, then, used ‘indifferently’, although, I argue, the intentional incongruity of Odyssey 1.29 reflects the real possibility that a formulaic style will occasionally give rise to such ‘indifferent’ usages. My claim is that, in a manner similar to what we have seen in connection with the Iliad's ‘narrow roads’, the poetry is here harnessing a feature of its style self-consciously—not, as in the Iliad, in order to validate the essential meaningfulness of its formulaic language, but, on the contrary, so as to embrace the apparent contradiction as a sign of the ethical complexity of the actions the poem depicts. In other words, the propensity of a formulaic style to produce an occasional mismatch between an epithet and its context is here being put forward as an index of the Odyssean ethic, an ethic that, as I have argued, demands the cultivation of ambiguity in order to accommodate its inherent ambivalence.

References to the story of Agamemnon's murder by Aigisthos (not by Klytaimnestre, as Aiskhylos has it) recur throughout the Odyssey; almost always some direct connection is made to the ongoing story of Odysseus’ return. Telemakhos is advised by Athene/Mentes to take Orestes as his model in putting an end to the Suitors’ depredations (Od. 1.298-302); Nestor uses the story to warn Telemakhos not to stay too long away from home (3.313-16). In the Underworld, Agamemnon cites his own experiences as a cautionary example for Odysseus, who must not, he urges, declare himself openly on Ithaca (11.441-56). On Agamemnon's view, what happened to him is justification for the adoption of what I have termed the ‘Odyssean’ ethic even in relation to Penelope: ‘speak not to her all that you have in mind,’ he advises, ‘but say one thing and let another be hidden’ (μηδ’ οἱ μῦθον ἅπαντα πιφαυσϰέμεν, ὅν ϰ’ ἐῢ εἰδῇς, / ἀλλὰ τὸ μὲν φάσθαι, τὸ δὲ ϰαὶ ϰεϰρυμμένον εἶναι, 11.442f.). Odysseus himself senses that he might have suffered Agamemnon's fate, if not for the warning given him by Athene (13.383-85). Agamemnon's reappearance in the Second Nekyia caps this series of references: the dead man draws a pointed contrast between the treachery of his own wife and Penelope's virtue (24.194-202).

Each of these examples relies on an obvious set of parallels: Agamemnon corresponds to Odysseus, Orestes to Telemakhos, Klytaimnestre to Penelope, and Aigisthos to the Suitors. But the way in which the stories of Agamemnon and Odysseus ultimately diverge opens up the possibility of reconfiguring these parallels, at least in one respect. For Odysseus achieves his homecoming by following the example not of Agamemnon but of Aigisthos. Like Aigisthos—whose most frequent epithet, δολόμητις (‘of deceitful μῆτις’), identifies him as a figure of μῆτις—Odysseus slaughters unsuspecting men at a feast.Footnote ⁶¹ And as in the case of Aigisthos, many of the men he kills ought to be his φίλοι (‘near-and-dear ones’); some are possibly even kinsmen. Odysseus has evidently taken Agamemnon's example to heart and decided that the best way to apply its lesson is to reconfigure his relationship to the paradigm.Footnote ⁶² This reconfiguration is suggested also in the Second Nekyia by the tale of the Suitor Amphimedon, who recounts the Suitors’ story from their perspective. In his telling, Odysseus bears a noticeable resemblance to Agamemnon's treacherous cousin: he conspires with Penelope to bring about the Suitors’ destruction (Od. 24.167); Penelope, for her part, looks more and more like Klytaimnestre.Footnote ⁶³ In this way the Odyssey briefly permits an alternative view of Odysseus’ return to come to the fore, but quickly forces it again into the background by giving the last word to Agamemnon. The sharp distinction he makes between Penelope's virtue—underscored by the epithet ἀμύμων (24.194)—and Klytaimnestre's wickedness not only encourages us to forget whatever shadows may be cast over Penelope's reputation by Amphimedon's account; it also distracts us from Odysseus and from the unsettling problem of the violence he perpetrates on Ithaca.

This violence is, of course, the great scandal of the Odyssey, and the poem goes to some lengths in order to excuse it.Footnote ⁶⁴ The story of the Companions, for example, seems framed in such a way as to license the destruction of the Suitors. In the proem, the narrator asserts that the Companions perished because of their own ἀτασθαλίαι (‘wickedness’) in slaughtering the cattle of Helios, in spite of Odysseus’ best efforts to save them from destruction (Od. 1.6-9). The ἀτάσθαλα (‘wicked deeds’) of which the Suitors are so often accused similarly consist above all in the slaughter of animals to which they have no right.Footnote ⁶⁵ The theodicy put forward at the beginning of the poem by Zeus, who asserts that humans suffer evils ‘beyond their share’ because of their own ἀτασθαλίαι (1.32-34)—Aigisthos being his prime example—provides a divine endorsement for the view that the fates that befall the Companions and the Suitors are entirely their own fault.

And yet there are good reasons to feel that, at least in the case of the Companions, Zeus's theodicy and the frame provided by the narrator in the proem obscure some significant nuances.Footnote ⁶⁶ The Companions have no good choices: trapped on Thrinakie, they are faced with the alternatives of either starving to death or eating the forbidden cattle. Their failure to do what is ‘right’ seems to be a clear case of ‘moral luck’; one wonders if such a failure is fairly described as a matter of ἀτασθαλίαι.Footnote ⁶⁷ Moreover, there are indications that Odysseus is not entirely free of responsibility for the Companions’ fate. After he has neutralized the threat posed by Kirke, Odysseus returns to those he has left behind at the ship to invite them to join the others in Kirke's house. Eurylokhos, suspecting a trap, urges them not to go, claiming that Odysseus is once again leading his men to their destruction, as he did when he brought them to Polyphemos’ cave. He even goes so far as to level the charge of ἀτασθαλίαι against Odysseus himself (τούτου γὰρ ϰαὶ ϰεῖνοι ἀτασθαλίῃσιν ὄλοντο [‘they, too, perished because of this man's ἀτασθαλίαι’], Od. 10.437).Footnote ⁶⁸ This accusation, which neatly reverses the narrator's characterization of the story in the proem, is a highly compressed version of the kind of alternative history provided by Amphimedon in the Second Nekyia.Footnote ⁶⁹ Odysseus’ response is to consider, and apparently intend, violently suppressing this subversive voice by killing Eurylokhos—in fact, he contemplates beheading him—‘even though he was an especially close kinsman’ (ϰαὶ πηῷ περ ἐόντι μάλα σχεδόν, 10.441). (He is dissuaded from doing so by the other Companions.) Eurylokhos will later be the one who convinces the Companions to slaughter Helios’ cattle. While he cannot be said to be wholly innocent in this regard, it is clear that, on Thrinakie as on Kirke's island, he has the best interests of the Companions at heart. And his charge against Odysseus carries some weight. Odysseus’ willingness to kill him, a kinsman, would only seem to demonstrate that Odysseus, too, can legitimately be accused of ἀτασθαλίαι.Footnote ⁷⁰

There are, then, reasons to doubt whether the Companions bear sole responsibility for their eventual destruction. And if on close inspection small cracks appear in the ethical framework erected by the narrator (and endorsed by Zeus) at the beginning of the poem, the whole structure that supports Odysseus’ killing of the Suitors is in danger of collapsing. The Mnesterophonia proves that Odysseus’ thoughts of killing a kinsman were no idle fantasy: here is a man whose violence is readily directed against those who ought to be φίλοι. Of course, Odysseus has suffered a grave offense, and his response is, to an extent, justified. One cannot help wondering, however, whether things might not more justly have turned out otherwise.

These reflections bring me back to ‘blameless’ Aigisthos. It can be said that he, too, has been gravely offended, and that his actions against a kinsman are, to an extent, justified. This argument was put forward by Frederick Combellack in an article that attempts to explain the apparent incongruity of Od. 1.29 in terms of cultural norms: by killing Agamemnon, Aigisthos fulfilled his society's expectation that he should exact vengeance for the crimes of Atreus; by this very act he set himself beyond reproach.Footnote ⁷¹ This seems like an adequate description of what may reasonably be presumed to have been Aigisthos’ own perspective on his actions. And if the poem seems elsewhere to condemn those actions, we might be tempted to see in the ἀμύμονος of 1.29 an instance of what Don Fowler famously called ‘deviant focalisation’: in this incongruous epithet the poem encapsulates an alternative point of view on controversial events, much as it does by permitting Amphimedon and Eurylokhos to voice their perspectives.Footnote ⁷²

Combellack's argument relies in part on his earlier refutation of Anne Amory Parry's claim that ἀμύμων, as applied to Aigisthos, means nothing more than ‘handsome’.Footnote ⁷³ This refutation is, in my view, correct, but one does not need to accept or reject any specific interpretation of the meaning of ἀμύμων in order to perceive that the occurrence of the word at Od. 1.29 forges a link between Aigisthos and Odysseus that unsettles the poem's ethical framework. The word ἀμύμων occurs a total of fifty times in the Odyssey. The person to whom the epithet is most frequently applied is (unsurprisingly) Odysseus, by a wide margin: he receives the epithet ten times, or fourteen, if we include the use of the word in reference to certain of his attributes.Footnote ⁷⁴ Otherwise, ἀμύμων is used no more than three times in connection with any given referent.Footnote ⁷⁵ The association of the word with Odysseus is especially pronounced in the second half of the poem: out of a total of twenty-four occurrences, nine are in direct reference to Odysseus, and two more to one of his attributes. Four of these belong to the same recurring, and highly marked, block of lines: an oath-taking formula repeatedly used by the disguised Odysseus to predict his return and the slaughter of the Suitors.Footnote ⁷⁶ At the very least, then, one can say that the description of Aigisthos as ἀμύμων fosters an association with Odysseus that runs counter to the way in which the story of Agamemnon's downfall is generally connected to Odysseus’ return. (Agamemnon is never so called.) There is no need to accept Combellack's defense of the epithet in order to see that Aigisthos, like Odysseus, is attempting to return to his ancestral home and to recover property of which he has been deprived. It is surely no accident that the first narrative move after the proem is prompted by Zeus's thinking of ‘blameless Aigisthos’. Athene's reply to Zeus (1.45-62) suggests a contrast between Aigisthos and Odysseus—albeit in strikingly ambiguous terms.Footnote ⁷⁷ But the fact that it is the recollection of Aigisthos that sets Odysseus’ story in motion suggests that these two have more in common than may at first appear.

I have argued for a range of connections between Aigisthos and Odysseus. Individually and collectively, these connections work to undermine the positive terms in which Odysseus’ actions vis-à-vis the Companions and the Suitors are generally represented. They suggest a degree of ambiguity that is not evident in the ethical framework set up by the proem and Zeus’s theodicy. The Companions and the Suitors undoubtedly bring their destruction on themselves, but Odysseus’ role in their demise is far from being unquestionably praiseworthy. There is much to admire in Odysseus’ actions, but much, too, to feel uncertain about. In this respect, the Odysseus of the Odyssey is very much like the Odysseus of the Iliad's Doloneia. A reluctance either to praise him or to blame him—a reluctance voiced by Odysseus himself in the Iliad—seems in fact to be the appropriate response to a practitioner of a mode of action that involves ethical compromises and even contradictions.

The incongruous epithet ἀμύμων at Od. 1.29 is, I have suggested, a token of the connections between Aigisthos and Odysseus. Its apparent inappropriateness functions also as a token of the ethical contradictions those connections imply. It is, in short, an index of the ‘Odyssean’ ethic. More than that, it is itself an instance of the ‘Odyssean’ ethic in practice, an example of the cultivation of ambiguity as the only adequate means of representing Odyssean action. This interpretation implies not only that the epithet is appropriate by virtue of its inappropriateness, but also that it has been deliberately selected. I hasten to add that what has been selected is nothing more than a traditional feature of the oral formulaic style, which occasionally gives rise to an epithet that appears to be in conflict with its context. At Od. 1.29 this traditional feature has been self-consciously exploited in order to encapsulate the poetics of an epic that celebrates an ethically complex figure.Footnote ⁷⁸

A few brief remarks by way of summary and conclusion. I have argued that we can discover in both the Iliad and the Odyssey an awareness of a distinctive characteristic of an oral formulaic style. Both poems recognize the possibility that their formulas will be used in contexts to which they are not obviously appropriate. Parry argued that such contextually inappropriate uses of formulaic language are an indication of an ‘indifference’ on the part of performers and their audiences. There is a great deal of truth in this explanation (although I would prefer not to speak of ‘indifference’): at least at the level of the individual word, a formulaic style that has evolved to meet the needs of oral performance must be able to tolerate a certain looseness of fit with the broader context. But the users of such a style and their audiences must nevertheless remain committed to its overall adequacy as a communicative medium. Such a commitment is discernible in the passages I have examined, in which an awareness of a lack of fit between epithet and context is coupled with an effort to underscore the meaningfulness of the epithet—or, in the case of Od. 1.29, of the very lack of fit itself.

In their efforts to harness and make meaningful the propensity of a formulaic style to generate contextual incongruities, the Iliad and Odyssey adopt divergent attitudes—at least in the examples considered here. The Iliad affirms that, in spite of any apparent contradiction, its words fundamentally mean what they say. Like Akhilleus himself, the poem promotes a view of (poetic) language as a system of ἄτροπα ἔπεα, words of immutable meaning. The Odyssey, by contrast, embraces contradiction as a way of capturing all sides of its central hero's complex character, and as an expression of the Odyssean principle of ‘declaring one thing and concealing another in one's heart’. Its words are πολύτροπα, capable of pointing an attentive listener or reader in a variety of directions. Perhaps the most interesting consequence of this difference is that the rhapsode performing the Iliad or the Odyssey comes to adopt the ethical position of the hero whose deeds he celebrates.