War

Antiquity and Its Legacy

Alfred S Bradford

• Publisher: I.B. Tauris
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9780857735133
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Storia
• Subtopic: Storia antica

Over 2600 years ago the Parian poet Archilochus wrote "we chased seven and killed them.. the thousand of us." In all parts of the world, and in all civilizations, the history of warfare, as well as the ironic humour of those who fight and die, can be traced back to the earliest records. But the vocabulary of modern warfare - army, military, strategy, tactics - derives from Greek and Latin, while metaphors of conflict similarly evoke ancient times. Such expressions and phrases as "Live by the sword and die by the sword", "Pyrrhic victory", and "arms and the man" are commonplace, and all come from the classical age. Wilfred Owen, famous soldier of the Great War, could write the bitter line "the old lie: Dulce et decorum est/pro patria mori" while expecting his readers to understand both Latin and allusion. Combining astute analysis of the logistics of conflict with the ethics of war, and drawing on a diverse range of cultural texts (from the Iliad to Hugo Grotius and von Clausewitz), Alfred S Bradford draws fascinating parallels between warfare and battle in ancient and modern societies.
He shows that despite huge differences in weaponry and firepower, the basic principles of warfare have remained unchanged over thousands of years. War in the modern age is persistently illuminated by antiquity.

CHAPTER I

THE ILIAD: WARFARE IN THE AGE OF HOMER

The Iliad is the first work of western literature, the first work of war literature, and the only work from classical antiquity that describes individual combat, individual feelings in combat and the fine balance between heroism and cowardice. The Iliad remains the premier literary work of war. (That it is also the premier work of all literature can by no means be dismissed.) The Iliad is itself a legacy, a book we can hold in our hands and read.

The Iliad influenced every generation of Greeks in the ancient world from its composition in the eighth century down to the fall of the Byzantine Empire in 1453. In the West it captivated Romans – and inspired Virgil to write the Aeneid (and later Stephen Vincent Benet to write John Brown’s Body) – but the Iliad was lost in the West after the fall of the Roman Empire and its subject, the Trojan War, was known only through the tradition of two lesser authors (Dictys Cretensis and Daros of Phrygia). The Iliad, brought to Italy in the early 1400s, first appeared in English translation (by Arthur Hall) in 1581 and then in the seminal and influential translation of George Chapman (1611).¹ From that day to this, it has never been out of print and, as a rule, has been retranslated in every generation (sometimes more than once – in America recently by Richmond Lattimore, Robert Fagles and Steven Mitchell), it has never been given a bad review and it still sells well in multiple languages. Even as I wrote this paragraph, the New York Theater Workshop was presenting a one-man show, The Iliad, ‘illuminating both the heroism and the horrors of warfare’. The reviewer writes, ‘A cracking good yarn it certainly is’.²

The Iliad relates an episode in a brief period of the tenth year of the Trojan War. Achilles quarrels with Agamemnon, withdraws from the fighting, returns to avenge the death of his friend Patroclus and fights and kills the principal champion of Troy, Hector.

The Iliad describes primitive warfare (in the technical sense), but the psychology is exact, and the participants are distinct individuals with striking personalities (unlike the earlier Epic of Gilgamesh and the later Indian epic, the Mahabharata). The Iliad is a deep, sophisticated work of literature in which readers can find the glory or the pathos of war, depending on what they themselves bring to the epic. Every reading of the Iliad reveals something new. Every soldier can find himself in the Iliad. It depicts wounds accurately and does not minimise the brutality of war nor the advantages of peace. Part of the uniqueness of the Iliad is that we, the readers, learn the names of the slain, their antecedents and often also the family who will mourn them; for instance, Axylos (killed by Diomedes), the son of Teuthras was (vi 12ff) ‘well-loved; he lived a prosperous life in pleasant Arisbe, a friend to all who passed on the road by the house where he lived, but none of them was present to save him from tearful destruction’.

In the Iliad we have a complete picture of war: gore, brutality, loss, tenderness and love, and an answer to the question: if war is so brutal and dangerous, why go into combat at all? Sarpedon, the son of Zeus, explains it to his friend (xii 309–28):

Glaucus, why are we two honoured most of all in Lycia with the best seats and cuts of meat and full cups, and all look upon us as gods and we have large plots of fertile land by the banks of the Xanthus River and beautiful orchards and wheat-bearing fields – is it not because we are the first among the Lycians to go into battle and throw ourselves into the maelstrom of war so that someone of the stoutly armoured Lycians would say.

‘It is just . . . because our kings fight in the front ranks.’

But, my friend and companion, if we two, by fleeing this battle, could always live without sorrow or death, I would not go into the front ranks. Alas, ten thousand ways of death stand over us and it is not for mortals to flee them or avoid them, so let us go and seize glory from someone or perhaps give it to another.

This speech explains the code by which heroes live, but it also makes clear that life, if it were not limited, would be sweeter even than honour. Achilles, the most heroic of heroes, expresses the same opinion, but . . . ‘the generations of men are no more than the generations of leaves; the winds pour the leaves on the ground, but the trees in their new growth display others in the season of spring’ (ix 401–2; vi 146–9).

The only immortality we can attain is the honour we win in life.

Men are mortal but the gods are not, and in the Iliad the gods are the primary movers of events: Apollo’s anger that his priest was mistreated by Agamemnon creates the situation in which Achilles and Agamemnon quarrel, although Achilles’ fury is part of his personality and he needs no urging from a god to express it; indeed, he would have drawn his sword and attacked Agamemnon if Athena had not caught him by the hair and pulled him back.

The gods act for personal reasons completely familiar to human beings. In stark contrast to the army assembly, they gather for dinner on Mount Olympus (viii 1–27, 198–211) very much like a contemporary human family. Zeus, because of a debt he owed to Thetis (the beautiful sea-goddess and mother of Achilles) and also because he was susceptible to her beauty, has acceded to her plea to avenge the insult to her son. His decision has angered his wife, Hera, and his daughter, Athena, who berate him for his decision and for helping Hector. In his position as father and husband, he threatens to use force, if he must, to compel them to obey him. Athena is chastened but, like any daughter confident in her relationship with her father, says that he will soon again be calling her his ‘darling, grey-eyed girl’ (viii 373). Hera, on the other hand, no match for Zeus physically, sets out to seduce him, using the magical bra of lust (xiv 214–7), borrowed from Aphrodite – it drives sane males, men and gods, mad. Zeus takes one look at Hera, dressed up, and longs for her more, he says, than any other of his conquests – and he names them! Afterwards Hera and Sleep cast Zeus into a deep slumber, so Hera can slip away and help the Achaeans (xiv 312–55). The word of Zeus among gods and men may be supreme but he can be outmanoeuvred, and he, himself, is subject to a greater force . . . Fate.

Because men believed that they were controlled by fate and by the gods, they considered courage and fear to be attributes now granted to some and now taken away. Success in battle depended upon the prowess of the hero, certainly, but also upon his standing in the divine world and, ultimately, upon his fate. To retreat was not necessarily a disgrace but simply an aspect of divine activity – although cowardice was recognised and condemned.

In the first 400 lines of the Iliad Homer sets forth all the issues: the anger of Achilles; honour; rivalry; the will and personal role of the gods; Zeus the father and husband and his relationship with his wife, Hera; family dynamics; personalities; the weakness and futility of Agamemnon; the influence of Achilles in the assembly and with the gods; army morale; the personal relationships between some gods and some men and between man and man; strife personified (Eris); plague; the nature of command and the corruption of power; human mortality; the suffering of the soldiers; the nature of siege warfare; looting and wealth; the ego, heroism and cowardice; the emotions; and the individual motives for going to war – Achilles for one had no personal grievances against the Trojans, but he ‘longed for the war cry and battle’. Homer delineates the two worlds of men and gods and the role of the seer in observing and interpreting the divine world (i 492).

The seer treads a dangerous path. He looks into the divine world and he reports to kings, but the kings (in this case, Agamemnon) do not necessarily like what he tells them, even if they do believe him, and they should believe him because, without the help of a seer, human beings can have no certainty in the interpretation of signs. In Book II (1–34) Agamemnon has a dream sent by Zeus, but the dream is false, sent to deceive him. Agamemnon, however, decides, without consulting an expert, that the dream is true, and on this basis he tests his army by suggesting that they all go home. The army fails the test miserably and rushes for the ships: Agamemnon is at a complete loss.

The king’s failure to accede to the advice of the seer or to seek an interpretation of his dream are characteristics of a far-from-perfect king, but Agamemnon has been given the sceptre by Zeus and, therefore, he is king, even with his flaws: he is self-centred, greedy, slow to take personal risks, quick to take offence and of suspect judgement, but he does command a prickly bunch, as quick to take offence as he is. When he chides a noble, he chooses his words with care (or he risks getting backtalk or worse); when he chides a common man, he is free (as are the other nobles) to use force. His army comprises the aristocratic leaders (lesser kings) and their followers, who are personally loyal to their own ‘kings’ and have come to Troy in obedience to them. Agamemnon must persuade the aristocrats to follow him and then their retainers will follow them. Agamemnon could never appeal over Achilles’ head to the Myrmidons. When the army meets in assembly, they meet to hear what their leaders have to say, not to debate the issues.

After Odysseus – and other heroes – restore order and summon the army back to assembly, Agamemnon describes the battle that is to come (the first in the Iliad): a battle to be fought until dark, in which the men’s hands will sweat on their spears and on their shield straps while they themselves, and their horses, too, will be soaked with sweat (ii 385–90). Each man, as he prepared to enter the battle (ii 401), prayed to escape the death dealt by Ares.

And in the heart of each arose the desire for battle and for war; for them war had become sweeter than their return in the hollow ships to their beloved native land [. . .] and the gleam of the bronze reached up to heaven. (ii 450ff)

But first they eat and drink, because, as Odysseus says (xix 225–6, 231–2), ‘We do not grieve for the dead with our stomachs, for when would we stop our fasting, if we did? [. . .] We must remember food and drink to be all the stronger to battle the enemy’.

Agamemnon and Hector realise that the coming battle will be so ferocious, so full of suffering and death, that they try to avert it by arranging a duel between Menelaus and Paris. The preparations for the duel take up almost the whole of Book III – the oaths, some digressions to give more of a description of Menelaus and, finally, the sacrifices. Agamemnon ‘slit the throats of the lambs with the pitiless bronze and they fell to the ground gasping, losing their lives’ (iii 293f). So, too, might the man who loses this duel fall gasping to the ground.

The two sides measure out the field, supervise the drawing of lots, and then the two combatants arm themselves. Arming is one of the standard scenes in literature and art. The warrior is variously shown putting on each piece of equipment: his greaves, his breastplate and helmet; picking up his shield; and hefting his spear. After donning his armour he moves in it to determine that it fits properly (xix 385–6) and then the two combatants advance to the duelling ground.

This duel should hold no surprises. Menelaus is by far the better warrior, he has justice on his side and he is certain to win, unless, that is, a god intervenes. Paris throws his spear first and hits Menelaus’ shield but cannot penetrate it. Then Menelaus throws his spear and it pierces Paris’ shield and his breastplate and the linen underneath, but Paris swerves and avoids the point. Menelaus draws his sword, rushes forward and strikes Paris on the helmet, but the sword shatters into half-a-dozen pieces. Menelaus drops the sword and seizes Paris by the crest of his helmet and starts to drag him to the Greek side. Aphrodite breaks the helmet strap. Menelaus picks up a spear to finish Paris off and Aphrodite wraps Paris in a cloud of dense air and whisks him away to the arms of Helen . . . who is not so happy to see him:

So you are back from the duel! You ought to have died there,

Killed by a mightier man, who once in the past was my husband [. . .]

He is better far than you in the strength of his hand and spear (iii 428–31)

Paris replies that Menelaus won because he had Athena to help him (which the reader knows to be untrue but which, nonetheless, is plausible). Paris, however, is a man who is ever ready to find an excuse for himself. And he goes on to tell her that he wants her, and that he had never wanted her more (iii 442), which is another instance of Homer’s keen insight into human psychology – the affirmation of life through sex after a close call.

Book IV begins with Athena convincing the archer Pandarus to break the truce by firing an arrow at Menelaus, and then Athena turns the arrow aside slightly, so that it penetrates the armour of Menelaus and the linen underneath, but makes only a shallow wound (iv 140ff). The duel has not settled the issue, but rather has inflamed it, and both sides marshal for battle. (As always in the Iliad, the situation is ambiguous – is the violation of an oath a moral wrong when it has been instigated by a god?)

Later, in Book VII, Homer describes how honourable men conduct a duel. Hector issues a challenge. Menelaus prepares to accept it and arms himself, but is held back by Agamemnon because Hector is by far the stronger warrior in ‘battle where men win glory’ (iv 113). Nestor has to shame the reluctant Achaean heroes into volunteering. Aias is chosen by lot, he strides forth to fight the duel, and Hector feels a bit of fear upon seeing him (iv 235ff): Aias and Hector confront each other, Aias boasts about his own prowess and Hector replies:

I, myself, understand battle where men are slain

I know how to swing my shield now to the right, and now to the left,

And I know all the steps to use on the dancing-floor of Ares.

They each cast one of their spears and then they fight with the other. Aias wounds Hector in the neck. Hector picks up a rock and hurls it at Aias and Aias retaliates with a bigger rock, which strikes Hector’s shield. The shield crumples and Hector falls to the ground. Apollo brings him to his feet again and the two heroes are about to continue the duel with swords, but the herald intervenes because both have amply proved their prowess and courage, and also because night is falling. Hector agrees, as the challenger, and the two exchange gifts and part friends. This is the way honourable men fight a duel.

Agamemnon goes the rounds of his army (iv 223ff), praising and encouraging those who are preparing for battle – ‘vultures will feed on the flesh of the oath-breakers and we will carry off their wives and dear little children in our ships’ – but when he sees some men shirking their duty he berates them and compares them to fawns which run across the plain and then stop when they are tired ‘because they have no strength in their hearts’ (iv 242–3). Not everyone in the Iliad is a hero, not everyone is eager for battle and, sometimes, even the heroes themselves are unwilling to enter into combat.

Agamemnon visits the leaders and he praises or criticises them depending on their enthusiasm. He praises the Cretan Idomeneus, the two Aiantes and Nestor, who has arranged his army with the chariots in front, his finest troops in the rear and the rest – the hesitant or suspect – in the middle where they will have no choice but to advance. Agamemnon encounters Odysseus who appears to be holding back – because he has received no orders – and chides him for his hesitancy. Odysseus glowers at him and says (iv 350), ‘What nonsense you talk, son of Atreus!’ A...

Table of contents

• Cover
• About the Author
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication Page
• Contents
• MAPS
• FOREWORD
• PREFACE
• INTRODUCTION
• CHAPTER I: THE ILIAD: WARFARE IN THE AGE OF HOMER
• CHAPTER II: WAR FROM THE EARLIEST RECORDS TO THE FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE
• CHAPTER III: WAR FROM THE FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE TO OUR OWN TIMES
• CHAPTER IV: THE STUDY OF WAR
• CHAPTER V: WRITING WAR
• CHAPTER VI: IMAGES OF WAR
• CONCLUSION
• NOTES
• BIBLIOGRAPHY