Achilles is an ancient Greek warrior who’s prophesized to die during the Trojan War; he is, as a result, obsessed with what he’ll leave behind. His lover, Patroclus, notes that after Achilles dies, “his honor is all that will remain”—in Greek society, honor refers to social status, military rank, fame, and general reputation. Achilles’s honor is the novel’s central focus: the Fates have prophesized that the war will make him famous, so he believes that he’s entitled to honor, often confusing it with pride and violence. Furthermore, the Greeks, including Achilles, believe that warfare is honorable, and that this honor will define their legacies. But by demonstrating the dishonorable tactics that Achilles and the rest of the Greek army use to gain and maintain honor, the novel suggests that there is no real honor in war, and that honor alone can’t define someone’s legacy. In other words, the type of “honor” that the Greek warriors in the novel pursue is inherently dishonorable.
From the novel’s start, the Greeks believe that honor is key to a worthwhile life, and that this honor involves certain forms of acceptable violence. As a child, Patroclus accidentally kills another boy, who tried to steal his dice. The fallout proves that Patroclus violated the unspoken rules of Greek honor: he’s exiled from his kingdom with his name and title stripped. He notes that for the Greeks, “death was preferable” to this loss of reputation and status. Ironically, however, Patroclus had by this point vowed to go to war if anything happened to the Spartan princess Helen. The takeaway is clear: violence in war is permissible, but violence outside of set parameters is dishonorable. Later, Achilles chooses his honor over life itself. The Fates say that he’ll either fight in the Trojan War, attain fame, and die, or live with no glory or fame. Achilles therefore decides to go to Troy—if he doesn’t fight, he’ll be left with nothing, since the Greeks prize honor above all else.
However, despite the Greeks’ emphasis on committing violence honorably, the army’s treatment of innocent bystanders in the Trojan War begins to imply that violence and war are perhaps never honorable. The Trojan War begins because the Trojan prince Paris stole Helen away from her husband, Menelaus; the Greeks are supposedly in Troy to retrieve her. But when they arrive, they decide to raid local villages instead of immediately sending an embassy to the palace. This means that Achilles and the other soldiers murder villagers who, Patroclus notes, had “nothing at all to do with Paris or Helen.” The Greeks believe that these sanctioned raids are honorable, but they’re entirely unrelated to Menelaus’s honor, or to Helen’s. Furthermore, even as the Greeks defend Helen’s honor, they sully that of other women. When they raid villages, they take women captive and allow high-status soldiers to select from the women and rape them. Again, the Greeks see this as an honorable process, with rules and regulations, even though it’s unrelated to their larger goals and brutalizes innocent women. If there’s honor in harming innocent people, then maybe the concept of honor is inherently flawed.
Meanwhile, Achilles’s individual quest for honor also leads him to act dishonorably. Because Achilles believes he’s entitled to honor—the Fates, after all, promised him fame and glory—he lets his pride dictate his actions. After the Greek commander, Agamemnon, insults him, he refuses to fight without an apology. This prideful decision ends up costing thousands of lives and sullying Achilles’s reputation: the Greeks believe that he’s acting dishonorably, even though he’s trying to maintain his honor. In fact, Achilles believes his honor is worth any cost. After his quarrel with Achilles, Agamemnon steals Briseis, a Trojan captive whom he believes is Achilles’s “bed-slave.” Achilles knows that Agamemnon will assault Briseis, but he actually wants him to do so—according to the unspoken rules of honor, Achilles would then have the right to kill Agamemnon. Patroclus puts a stop to this plan, and Achilles accuses Patroclus of trading Briseis for Achilles’s honor, not understanding that Patroclus actually prevented him from doing something dishonorable. Achilles is caught up in the Greeks’ definition of honor, which allows innocent bystanders to be harmed. Later, Achilles’s attempt to maintain his honor leads to Patroclus’s death. Patroclus dresses in Achilles’s armor to fool the Greeks into thinking that Achilles has decided to fight with them, when really, he’s too proud. Patroclus is killed in battle, showing how Achilles’s “honor” comes at a steep price, as it indirectly leads to someone else’s death.
Notably, the book suggests that characters like Achilles won’t be remembered for their “honor” as the Greeks understand it—instead, their legacies will be defined by their morals (or lack thereof). After Achilles and Patroclus die in battle, Odysseus (another Greek soldier) speaks to Achilles’s son, Pyrrhus, about burying the two men together. Pyrrhus refuses to do so because Patroclus wasn’t famous, but Odysseus argues that unexpected people attain fame and jokes that he might be more famous than Pyrrhus someday. And indeed, Odysseus’s character (famous for his role in Homer’s Odyssey) is far better known to modern readers than Pyrrhus. The Greek understanding of “honor” is therefore flawed: even those who believe they’ve attained honor might be forgotten, meaning that the horrors they inflicted could have been pointless. After Odysseus fails to convince Pyrrhus, he says that he hopes others will remember that he tried—and Patroclus, from some otherworldly dimension, says that he does remember. Kindness is therefore Odysseus’s legacy, rather than anything that happened in war.
At the end of the novel, Achilles’s gravestone is marked with his greatest acts of violence, and Patroclus—now a restless spirit—is frustrated that this is how he’ll be remembered. When Achilles’s mother, Thetis, comes to mourn, Patroclus shares his memories of Achilles with her. None of them are violent—instead, Patroclus remembers Achilles’s acts of love and mercy. Given that Patroclus knew Achilles intimately, it’s implied that his memories of Achilles, not the official memorial, comprise the legacy that readers should remember. Achilles’s legacy is therefore defined by his morals, not his “honor.” Achilles misunderstood honor, but Patroclus redefines it: honor is found in small kindnesses, not in war.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Honor, Pride, and Legacy ThemeTracker
Honor, Pride, and Legacy Quotes in The Song of Achilles
I was so small; I was rumored to be simple. If he backed down now, it would be a dishonor. […] Without meaning to, I stepped back.
He smirked then. "Coward."
"I am no coward." My voice rose, and my skin went hot.
“Your father thinks you are." His words were deliberate, as if he were savoring them. "I heard him tell my father so."
"He did not." But I knew he had.
The boy stepped closer. He lifted a fist. "Are you calling me a liar?" I knew that he would hit me now. He was just waiting for an excuse. I could imagine the way my father would have said it. Coward. I planted my hands on his chest and shoved, as hard as I could. Our land was one of grass and wheat. Tumbles should not hurt.
I am making excuses. It was also a land of rocks.
My father had spent his life scrabbling to keep his kingdom, and would not risk losing it over such a son as me, when heirs and the wombs that bore them were so easy to come by. So he agreed: I would be exiled, and fostered in another man's kingdom. In exchange for my weight in gold, they would rear me to manhood. I would have no parents, no family name, no inheritance. In our day, death was preferable. But my father was a practical man. My weight in gold was less than the expense of the lavish funeral my death would have demanded.
Its king, Peleus, was one of those men whom the gods love: not divine himself, but clever, brave, handsome, and excelling all his peers in piety. As a reward, our divinities offered him a sea-nymph for a wife. It was considered their highest honor. […] Divine blood purified our muddy race, bred heroes from dust and clay. And this goddess brought a greater promise still: the Fates had foretold that her son would far surpass his father. Peleus' line would be assured. But, like all the gods' gifts, there was an edge to it; the goddess herself was unwilling.
Everyone, even I, had heard the story of Thetis' ravishment. The gods had led Peleus to the secret place where she liked to sit upon the beach. They had warned him not to waste time with overtures—she would never consent to marriage with a mortal.
His eyes opened. "Name one hero who was happy."
I considered. Heracles went mad and killed his family; Theseus lost his bride and father; Jason's children and new wife were murdered by his old; Bellerophon killed the Chimera but was crippled by the fall from Pegasus' back.
"You can't." He was sitting up now, leaning forward.
"I can't."
"I know. They never let you be famous and happy." He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll tell you a secret."
"Tell me." I loved it when he was like this.
"I'm going to be the first." He took my palm and held it to his. "Swear it."
"Why me?"
"Because you're the reason. Swear it."
"I swear it," I said, lost in the high color of his cheeks, the flame in his eyes.
"I swear it," he echoed.
We sat like that a moment, hands touching. He grinned. "I feel like I could eat the world raw."
She slapped me. Her hand was small but carried surprising force. It turned my head to the side roughly. The skin stung, and my lip throbbed sharply where she had caught it with a ring. I had not been struck like this since I was a child. Boys were not usually slapped, but a father might do it co show contempt. Mine had. […]
She bared her teeth at me, as if daring me to strike her in return. When she saw I would not, her face twisted with triumph. "Coward. As craven as you are ugly. And half-moron besides, I hear. I do not understand it! It makes no sense chat he should- " She stopped abruptly, and the corner of her mouth tugged down, as if caught by a fisherman's hook. […] I could hear the sound of her breaths, drawn slowly, so I would not guess she was crying. knew the trick. I had done it myself.
“That if you do not come to Troy, your godhead will wither in you, unused. Your strength will diminish. At best, you will be like Lycomedes here, moldering on a forgotten island with only daughters to succeed him. Scyros will be conquered soon by a nearby state; you know this as well as I. They will not kill him; why should they? He can live out his years in some corner eating the bread they soften for him, senile and alone. When he dies, people will say, who?”
The words filled the room, thinning the air until we could not breathe. Such a life was a horror.
But Odysseus' voice was relentless. “He is known now only because of how his story touches yours. If you go to Troy, your fame will be so great that a man will be written into eternal legend just for having passed a cup to you. You will be—”
"I do not think I could bear it," he said, at last. His eyes were closed, as if against horrors. I knew he spoke not of his death, but of the nightmare Odysseus had spun, the loss of his brilliance, the withering of his grace. I had seen the joy he took in his own skill, the roaring vitality that was always just beneath the surface. Who was he if not miraculous and radiant? Who was he if not destined for fame?
"I would not care," I said. The words scrabbled from my mouth. "Whatever you became. It would not matter to me. We would be together."
"I know," he said quietly, but did not look at me.
He knew, but it was not enough.
My hand closed over his. "You must not kill Hector," I said. He looked up, his beautiful face framed by the gold of his hair.
"My mother told you the rest of the prophecy."
"She did."
"And you think that no one but me can kill Hector."
"Yes," I said.
"And you think to steal time from the Fates?"
"Yes."
"Ah." A sly smile spread across his face; he had always loved defiance. "Well, why should I kill him? He's done nothing to me."
For the first time then, I felt a kind of hope.
“She must have been willing, though. Menelaus' palace is like a fortress. If she had struggled or cried out, someone would have heard. She knew he must come after her, for his honor if nothing else. And that Agamemnon would seize this opportunity and invoke the oath.”
“So you think she did it on purpose? To cause the war?” This shocked me.
“Maybe. She used to be known as the most beautiful woman in our kingdoms. Now they say she's the most beautiful woman in the world." He put on his best singer's falsetto. "A thousand ships have sailed for her.”
[…]
“Maybe she really fell in love with Paris.”
“Maybe she was bored. After ten years shut up in Sparta, I'd want to leave too.”
“Maybe Aphrodite made her.”
“Maybe they'll bring her back with them.”
We considered this.
“I think Agamemnon would attack anyway.”
“I think so too. They never even mention her anymore.”
“Except in speeches to the men.”
“Her safety for my honor. Are you happy with your trade?”
“There is no honor in betraying your friends.”
“It is strange,” he says, “that you would speak against betrayal.”
There is more pain in those words, almost, than I can bear. I force myself to think of Briseis. “It was the only way.”
“You chose her,” he says. “Over me.”
"Over your pride."
[…]
“My life is my reputation,” he says. His breath sounds ragged. “It is all I have. I will not live much longer. Memory is all I can hope for.” He swallows, thickly. “You know this. And would you let Agamemnon destroy it? Would you help him take it from me?”
“I would not,” I say. “But I would have the memory be worthy of the man. I would have you be yourself, not some tyrant remembered for his cruelty.”
It is strange how well she fits there. How easily I touch my lips to her hair, soft and smelling of lavender. She sighs a little, nestles closer. Almost, I can imagine that this is my life, held in the sweet circle of her arms. I would marry her, and we would have a child.
Perhaps if I had never known Achilles.
[…]
She draws down the blanket, releasing me into the air. She cups my face in her hands. “Be careful tomorrow,” she says. “Best of men. Best of the Myrmidons.”
The thought of Troy's fall pierces me with vicious pleasure. They deserve to lose their city. It is their fault, all of it. We have lost ten years, and so many men, and Achilles will die, because of them. No more.
[…]
I will crack their uncrackable city, and capture Helen, the precious gold yolk within. I imagine dragging her out under my arm, dumping her before Menelaus. Done. No more men will have to die for her vanity.
[… ]
I am delirious, fevered with my dream of Helen captive in my arms. The stones are like dark waters that flow ceaselessly over something I have dropped, that I want back. I forget about the god, why I have fallen, why my feet stick in the same crevices I have already climbed. Perhaps this is all I do, I think, demented—climb walls and fall from them.
He lifts his ashen spear.
No, I beg him. It is his own death he holds, his own blood that he will spill.
[…]
Hector's eyes are wide, but he will run no longer. He says, “Grant me this. Give my body to my family, when you have killed me.”
Achilles makes a sound like choking. “There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw.”
Her skin is whiter than I have ever seen it. “Do not be a fool. It is only my power that—”
“What does it matter?” He cuts her off, snarling. "He is dead. Can your power bring him back?”
“No," she says. "Nothing can.”
He stands. “Do you think I cannot see your rejoicing? I know how you hated him. You have always hated him! If you had not gone to Zeus, he would be alive!”
“He is a mortal,” she says. “And mortals die.”
“I am a mortal!” he screams. “What good is godhead, if it cannot do this? What good are you?”
“I know you are mortal,” she says. She places each cold word as a tile in a mosaic. “I know it better than anyone. I left you too long on Pelion. It has ruined you.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Priam says. “And sorry that it was my son who took him from you. Yet I beg you to have mercy. In grief, men must help each other, though they are enemies.”
[…]
Priam's voice is gentle. “It is right to seek peace for the dead. You and I both know there is no peace for those who live after.”
“No,” Achilles whispers.
Nothing moves in the tent; time does not seem to pass. Then Achilles stands. “It is close to dawn, and I do not want you to be in danger as you travel home. I will have my servants prepare your son's body.”
“Is it right that my father's fame should be diminished? Tainted by a commoner?”
“Patroclus was no commoner. He was born a prince and exiled. He served bravely in our army, and many men admired him. He killed Sarpedon, second only to Hector.”
“In my father's armor. With my father's fame. He has none of his own.”
Odysseus inclines his head. “True. But fame is a strange thing. Some men gain glory after they die, while others fade. What is admired in one generation is abhorred in another.” He spread his broad hands. “We cannot say who will survive the holocaust of memory. Who knows?” He smiles. “Perhaps one day even I will be famous. Perhaps more famous than you.”
[…]
Odysseus looks at the young man's implacable face. “I have done my best,” he says. “Let it be remembered I tried.”
I remember.
Others stand at the base to look at the scenes of his life carved on the stone. They are a little hastily done, but clear enough. Achilles killing Memnon, killing Hector, killing Penthesilea. Nothing but death. This is how Pyrrhus’ tomb might look. Is this how he will be remembered?
[…]
You said that Chiron ruined him. You are a goddess, and cold, and know nothing. You are the one who ruined him. Look at how he will be remembered now. Killing Hector, killing Troilus. For things he did cruelly in his grief.
Her face is like stone itself. It does not move. The days rise and fall.
Perhaps such things pass for virtue among the gods. But how is there glory in taking a life? We die so easily. Would you make him another Pyrrhus? Let the stories of him be something more.
"What more?" she says.
For once I am not afraid. What else can she do to me?
Returning Hector's body to Priam, I say. That should be remembered.
