Why the Iliad is still Epic

- By Amelia Berthold

On a quiet day in my Year 11 Ancient history class, when no one wanted to work, and my teacher didn't want to teach, we put on a movie. On days like these we tried to maintain the appearance of learning by watching something vaguely historical. As a crooked continuum from our study of the Minoans, ‘Troy’ (2004), directed by Wolfgang Petersen, was the chosen distraction from exam stress. My impression of Troy was mixed. I had a vague knowledge of the Trojan myth, something about Achilles' heel and sacking a city via a giant wooden horse, so I must have had a similar level of education about Homeric myths and Bronze Age Greece as the director did. Despite a gut feeling that this was a Hollywood retelling and only mildly historical at best, my interest was piqued.

I spent the night reading about the Iliad, the Trojan war and Homer. It was my first introduction to the Greek Bronze Age beyond Percy Jackson and studying ancient Crete. I wanted to know everything, particularly how much of it was true. I've always loved stories, and the ones sprinkled with the truth are always the most compelling. It became obvious that for centuries people have been just as fascinated with the Homeric tales and the world that they portray as I was becoming. Greek plays, decoration on Classical pottery, Renaissance paintings and modern works like ‘Troy,’ existed in abundance. Young people like myself had even written fanfiction about the Iliad, imagining young Achilles and Patroclus living in Phithia, and their lives and relationships during the war.

‘Troy’ isn't necessarily a bad film if you suspend your disbelief, and enjoy indulgent, wildly inaccurate and heteronormative adaptations of culture-defining stories. If you are also in it for the attractive Hollywood cast of Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom and Diane Kruger then that's a fair play too. Director Petersen condenses a 10-year Epic into a matter of weeks, kills off half the players and alters some key relationships, most notably of Achilles and Patroclus. They are interpreted as cousins to explain Achilles' reaction to Patroclus’ death as familial anguish. This was an interesting choice given the centuries of media depicting the pair as at the least sharing an intense bond, and often as lovers. The erasure of their relationship is what I most dislike, as the deep love between them, romantic or otherwise, is the driving force behind key aspects of the epic’s plot.

There are other adaptations of the Iliad that I love, such as Madeline Miller’s 2011 Novel ‘The Song Of Achilles,’ reimagining the story of Achilles and Patroclus from their youth and as lovers during the Trojan war. Another interesting interpretation of the story is in the song ‘Achilles come down’ by Gang of Youths, released in 2017, which spends seven minutes chronicling Achilles' internal conflict. I eventually read the Iliad myself, and like its classification, it does feel epic to read. It makes the world seem broad in a time when technology places the universe at our fingertips.  Although only some aspects of the Epic are inspired by real events, it is a story that feels real. The love, anger and grief described are all so integral to the human experience and are something you will find in any area of war or conflict, it doesn’t matter if it is ancient or modern, fact or fiction. While the world may have changed dramatically since the Bronze Age, the essence of who we are as people hasn't.

Homer’s Iliad is so integral to western culture that it has made Archaeological impacts. German Archaeologist Heinrich Schliemann was enraptured to the point that he sought out to discover the city of Troy himself. After little success he connected with British amateur archaeologist Frank Calvert who uncovered the Trojan site at Hissarlik, Turkey, with the first excavations carried out in 1870. Schliemann's fascination with Homeric sites did not end with Troy, as he began to excavate the Bronze Age site of Mycenae in 1874 after its discovery in 1841 by Kyriakos Pittakis. Schliemann discovered Grave Circle A, discovering six royal shaft graves containing unprecedented treasures, including five gold funerary masks interred with their respective people.

 The most famous of Schliemann’s finds is now recognised as the mask of Agamemnon, the Homeric king of Mycenae, who headed the army against Troy for 10 long years. There is no archaeological evidence proving that this is the mask of Agamemnon, or that Agamemnon was ever more than a character in a story. Chronology indicates that the shaft graves were built 500 years before the events of the Iliad would have taken place, and some even believe the mask to be a fake, planted by Schliemann, as it is far more detailed than its counterparts.

The Mask of Agamemnon.
Image Credit: National Archaeological Museum of Athens,
via Wikimedia Commons

What I love about the mask, the Iliad, and the whole romantic ideal of finding things and stories that belonged to people thousands of years ago, is that I can see myself in them. I can understand their human experience, not just someone that existed once with no correlation to me, but someone who felt the same emotions I do. I can gaze upon one of those masks and see the face of someone walking down the street. The humanity of these characters is what I connect with, as I understand history the most when I can humanise it, particularly through storytelling. When I grasp the story of an individual, and the motivation of their character, I feel like I am part of it. Human history could be considered its own epic, not one that I am reading, but one that I am experiencing along with everyone else, regardless of if they are sitting next to me or lived 3000 years before me.

Mycenaean Stirrup jar, Greece, c. 1300-1200 BCE, Macquarie University History Museum (MU0393)

When we enter museums, we aren't just looking at artefacts, but objects that were physically shaped by, and that shaped, people. Within the Mysteries Revisited exhibition, the Mycenaean artefacts were all created by people who lived and breathed as we do. The stirrup jar was formed between someone's fingers, a wet lump of clay going from nothing to something. Something that was carefully painted, something that was used and looked after, as it is now used and looked after by us. 3,300 years ago it held olive oil, and now it is a tool of learning. I have done pottery; I know the feeling of dried clay beneath my fingernails. 

Mycenaean Psi Figurine, terracotta, Greece, Late Bronze Age, Macquarie University History Museum (MU3243)

I can imagine creating the Psi figurine, shaping its arms, moulding its purpose. The Psi Figurine in the display, and similar Phi figurines are named for their arm shape and resemblance to letters of the Greek alphabet. The figurines have many potential functionalities, from symbols of goddess worship to children's toys, or funerary artefacts. Regardless of their specific uses, the Psi figure depicts personhood. It has the resemblance of dress, facial features and raised arms. Knowing this when I look upon the artefacts in the exhibition connects me to someone who could never even fathom my existence. I often think about what will be in a museum in a thousand years. How will our stories be told by the people that follow us? Will they see us as people, or will an iPhone seem as ancient and insurmountable, so removed, as a painted pot does today.

About the Author

Amelia is in her final year of a Bachelor of Archaeology, Majoring in Greece, Rome to Late Antiquity. She loves reading and spends her free time writing stories about love, history and her experience of being on the autism spectrum and having learning disabilities. Next year Amelia is starting a Masters of Archaeological and Evolutionary Science at the Australian National University, and plans to continue her writing, with the dream of eventually becoming a published author.