Diomedes

Coin showing forepart of a wolf in relief. Argos, c. 465-430 BCE

This is a coin my dad acquired recently. I'm not sure if it's a tri-obol or a hemi-drachma or both. The value seems to be determined by how much of the wolf you can see. So I'll call it a tri-wolf.

It's quite a thought. This coin may well have been in existence at the time of the first performance of Aeschylus' Oresteia (458 BCE), and almost certainly by the time Euripides wrote the Medea (431 BCE).

It made me think about the city of Argos in Greek mythology. An important place, but seemingly its mythology was not such attractive material for the tragedians as the gruesome chronicles of Mycenae and Thebes. 

Among the early heroes of Argos, Perseus stands out. Euripides wrote three lost plays that relate to him: Danae, Dictys and especially Andromeda. Another king, Adrastus, and his son-in-law Tydeus, are off-stage presences in two plays that do survive: Aeschylus' Seven Against Thebes and Euripides' Phoenician Women.  The Virgilian tag "dulcis moriens reminiscitur Argos" (and dying he remembers sweet Argos) is much more famous than the minor character it refers to,  Antores in Aeneid, Book X.

It's Adrastus' successor, his grandson Diomedes, that most of us think of as the quintessential king of Argos. This is the Diomedes who was a Greek leader in the expedition against Troy and is such a memorable figure in the first half of the Iliad.

The men of Argos, again, and those who held the walls of Tiryns, with Hermione, and Asine upon the gulf; Troezene, Eionae, and the vineyard lands of Epidaurus; the Achaean youths, moreover, who came from Aegina and Mases; these were led by Diomed of the loud battle-cry, and Sthenelus son of famed Capaneus. With them in command was Euryalus, son of king Mecisteus, son of Talaus; but Diomed was chief over them all. With these there came eighty ships.

(from the Iliad, Book II, translated by Samuel Butler)

He was always my favourite of the Greek heroes when I was a boy. His image seemed uncomplicated and pleasing. Though we don't see him doing much except slaughtering large numbers of Trojans, Homer somehow contrives to make us love him. His reckless courage is second to none. Yet he lacks Achilles' petulance, Menelaus' jealousy, Agamemnon's high-handedness, Odysseus' absence of principle. Without any particular stake in the Greek expedition, Diomedes is reliably loyal, makes no enemies on his own side, and seems to give sound advice. A practical man, someone you'd want on your team.

[Agamemnon] then left them and went on to others. Presently he saw the son of Tydeus, noble Diomed, standing by his chariot and horses, with Sthenelus the son of Capaneus beside him; whereon he began to upbraid him. "Son of Tydeus," he said, "why stand you cowering here upon the brink of battle? Tydeus did not shrink thus, but was ever ahead of his men when leading them on against the foe- so, at least, say they that saw him in battle. . . . Tydeus slew every man of them, save only Maeon, whom he let go in obedience to heaven's omens. Such was Tydeus of Aetolia. His son can talk more glibly, but he cannot fight as his father did."
  Diomed made no answer, for he was shamed by the rebuke of Agamemnon; but the son of Capaneus took up his words and said, "Son of Atreus, tell no lies, for you can speak truth if you will. We boast ourselves as even better men than our fathers; we took seven-gated Thebes, though the wall was stronger and our men were fewer in number, for we trusted in the omens of the gods and in the help of Jove, whereas they perished through their own sheer folly; hold not, then, our fathers in like honour with us."
  Diomed looked sternly at him and said, "Hold your peace, my friend, as I bid you. It is not amiss that Agamemnon should urge the Achaeans forward, for the glory will be his if we take the city, and his the shame if we are vanquished. Therefore let us acquit ourselves with valour."
  As he spoke he sprang from his chariot, and his armour rang so fiercely about his body that even a brave man might well have been scared to hear it.

(from the Iliad, Book IV, in Samuel Butler's translation. This passage is discussed in detail in Ch 1 of Barker, Elton T. E., and Joel P. Christensen. 2019. Homer's Thebes: Epic Rivalries and the Appropriation of Mythical Pasts. Hellenic Studies Series 84. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies.

http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_BarkerE_ChristensenJ.Homers_Thebes.2019.)

The tragedians preserved Diomedes' unblemished image, because for the most part they took no interest in him.  He had done nothing very dreadful, and nothing very dreadful had happened to him.

True, he appears in Rhesus, a peculiar play traditionally (but surely incorrectly) assigned to Euripides.

Rhesus does what no other Greek tragedy does: it takes a bit of Homer (Iliad, Book X) and makes a play out of it. The result is exciting, but it's more like a serial episode in an adventure story than a tragedy. The whole play takes place at night. Diomedes is typically imperturbable, bloodthirsty, a seeker of honour but without personal ego; the perfect soldier.

Here's an extract from the 2010 translation by George Theodoridis:


Enter Odysseus and Diomedes, furtively, guardedly. Both have their swords drawn.

They have just killed Dolon so they are carrying some “spoils.” Possibly Dolon’s wolf skin and sword, shield, belt, etc.

Suddenly a sound of chains clashing against other metal is heard within.

Odysseus  Diomedes, what was that noise?
Was that a clash of swords my ears picked up or was it something unimportant?

Diomedes  Nothing important, Odysseus.
Some horse’s harness hit against the rails of a chariot.
It got me frightened as well at first, but then I figured out what it was.
No, just the noise of a harness.

Odysseus  Right…
Careful you don’t bump onto any guards in the dark.

Diomedes  I always walk carefully.

Odysseus  But what if you do? What if you wake someone up, do you know the watchword they use?

Diomedes  Yes, Odysseus, it’s “Phoebus.” Dolon told me.

Odysseus  Look here! Enemy beds. No one in them!

Diomedes  Yes, Dolon told me there’d be no one here.
This is where Hektor sleeps.
My sword is ready for him!

They slowly enter Hektor’s tent, check it out and come out again.

Odysseus  I wonder what it means. Where do you think they might all be? Could they be setting up some ambush for us?

Diomedes  Probably. Cooking up some scheme somewhere, no doubt.

Odysseus  Now that Hektor is on a winning streak, nothing will stop him. He’s become very daring, our Hektor!

Diomedes  So, what do we do now, Odysseus?
The man is clearly not in his tent and so, well, there go our hopes of capturing him.

Odysseus  I think we'd better hurry back to our ships.
This man is being protected by the same god that’s giving him all these victories.
We'd better not go against Fate.

Diomedes  Why don’t we go over and, with these swords, cut off the head of Aeneas? As well as that of Paris, the Trojan I hate the most!

Odysseus  Too dark, Diomedes! Too risky and too difficult to find them. This is their camping ground.

Diomedes  But it’s a shame to go back to the ships without inflicting some pain upon our enemy!


*

Some indeed say that, back in Argos, Diomedes' wife was unfaithful to him (his punishment for wounding Aphrodite in the arm, outside the walls of Troy). This story might have been the foundation for a tragedy. In the lost epic Nostoi, it appears that Diomedes returned safely to Argos. But in other accounts he never succeeded in returning home. Instead, he sailed off to the heel of Italy and founded a new colony (Argyripa in Apulia).

Reverse of the Argos coin: incused with the letter alpha (for "Argos"?) and volute decoration.

Coin from Metapontion showing head of Athene, c. 350 BCE

Diomedes became the object of hero cults in Metapontion (aka Metapontum, Metapontium), as well as Cyprus and other colonies in "Magna Graecia". Perhaps that historic reverence for Diomedes was something Virgil recalled when he gave the warlike Diomedes the unexpected role of peacemaker in the Aeneid.


When Venulus began, the murmuring sound
Was hush'd, and sacred silence reign'd around.
"We have," said he, "perform'd your high command,
And pass'd with peril a long tract of land:
We reach'd the place desir'd; with wonder fill'd,
The Grecian tents and rising tow'rs beheld.
Great Diomede has compass'd round with walls
The city, which Argyripa he calls,
From his own Argos nam'd. We touch'd, with joy,
The royal hand that raz'd unhappy Troy.
When introduc'd, our presents first we bring,
Then crave an instant audience from the king.
His leave obtain'd, our native soil we name,
And tell th' important cause for which we came.
Attentively he heard us, while we spoke;
Then, with soft accents, and a pleasing look,
Made this return: 'Ausonian race, of old
Renown'd for peace, and for an age of gold,
What madness has your alter'd minds possess'd,
To change for war hereditary rest,
Solicit arms unknown, and tempt the sword,
A needless ill your ancestors abhorr'd?
We -- for myself I speak, and all the name
Of Grecians, who to Troy's destruction came,
Omitting those who were in battle slain,
Or borne by rolling Simois to the main --
Not one but suffer'd, and too dearly bought
The prize of honor which in arms he sought;
Some doom'd to death, and some in exile driv'n.
Outcasts, abandon'd by the care of Heav'n;
So worn, so wretched, so despis'd a crew,
As ev'n old Priam might with pity view.
Witness the vessels by Minerva toss'd
In storms; the vengeful Capharean coast;
Th' Euboean rocks! the prince, whose brother led
Our armies to revenge his injur'd bed,
In Egypt lost! Ulysses with his men
Have seen Charybdis and the Cyclops' den.
Why should I name Idomeneus, in vain
Restor'd to scepters, and expell'd again?
Or young Achilles, by his rival slain?
Ev'n he, the King of Men, the foremost name
Of all the Greeks, and most renown'd by fame,
The proud revenger of another's wife,
Yet by his own adult'ress lost his life;
Fell at his threshold; and the spoils of Troy
The foul polluters of his bed enjoy.
The gods have envied me the sweets of life,
My much lov'd country, and my more lov'd wife:
Banish'd from both, I mourn; while in the sky,
Transform'd to birds, my lost companions fly:
Hov'ring about the coasts, they make their moan,
And cuff the cliffs with pinions not their own.
What squalid specters, in the dead of night,
Break my short sleep, and skim before my sight!
I might have promis'd to myself those harms,
Mad as I was, when I, with mortal arms,
Presum'd against immortal pow'rs to move,
And violate with wounds the Queen of Love.
Such arms this hand shall never more employ;
No hate remains with me to ruin'd Troy.
I war not with its dust; nor am I glad
To think of past events, or good or bad.
Your presents I return: whate'er you bring
To buy my friendship, send the Trojan king.
We met in fight; I know him, to my cost:
With what a whirling force his lance he toss'd!
Heav'ns! what a spring was in his arm, to throw!
How high he held his shield, and rose at ev'ry blow!
Had Troy produc'd two more his match in might,
They would have chang'd the fortune of the fight:
Th' invasion of the Greeks had been return'd,
Our empire wasted, and our cities burn'd.
The long defense the Trojan people made,
The war protracted, and the siege delay'd,
Were due to Hector's and this hero's hand:
Both brave alike, and equal in command;
Aeneas, not inferior in the field,
In pious reverence to the gods excell'd.
Make peace, ye Latians, and avoid with care
Th' impending dangers of a fatal war.' . . .


(from Aeneid, Book XI, in John Dryden's translation.)

Reverse of the Metapontion coin, showing an ear of barley

Metapontion, on the gulf of Tarentum, was a colony of Achaea in the Peloponnese

Thus matters stood with Diomedes for the next 1200 years. But then there was a dramatic development.

Somewhere near the city of Tours and some time before 1173 CE, Benoît de Sainte-Maure composed his 30,000-line poem Le Roman de Troie. He drew on Dares Phrygius, a Trojan priest -- who "Fu de Troie norriz e nez" (Prologue l. 95) -- and Dictys Cretensis, a Greek serving under Idomeneus, who left a war diary. (As for Homer, "clers merveillos / Et sages e esciëntos" though he was, he'd lived a hundred years after these events, and had introduced foolish stories of the gods fighting on each side.) 

Benoît also added some material of his own, in particular the tragic courtly-love-gone-wrong story of Troilus, Briseida and her smooth seducer Diomedes. The story passed via Boccaccio (who renamed its heroine Criseida) to Chaucer, then Henryson, then Shakespeare, then Dryden.

Here's how Chaucer's poem continues from the point when Troilus has to part from Criseide (because of a hostage exchange); Diomede is here to escort her to the Greek camp.


               With that his courser torned he a-boute
               With face pale, and un-to Diomede
               No word he spak, ne noon of al his route;
               Of which the sone of Tydeus took hede,
               As he that coude more than the crede
               In swich a craft, and by the reyne hir hente; 
               And Troilus to Troye homwarde he wente.

               This Diomede, that ladde hir by the brydel,
               Whan that he saw the folk of Troye aweye,
               Thoughte, `Al my labour shal not been on ydel,
               If that I may, for somwhat shal I seye, 
               For at the worste it may yet shorte our weye.
               I have herd seyd, eek tymes twyes twelve,
               "He is a fool that wol for-yete him-selve."'

               But natheles this thoughte he wel ynough,
               `That certaynly I am aboute nought, 
               If that I speke of love, or make it tough;
               For douteles, if she have in hir thought
               Him that I gesse, he may not been y-brought
               So sone awey; but I shal finde a mene,
               That she not wite as yet shal what I mene.' 

               This Diomede, as he that coude his good,
               Whan this was doon, gan fallen forth in speche
               Of this and that, and asked why she stood
               In swich disese, and gan hir eek biseche,
               That if that he encrese mighte or eche
               With any thing hir ese, that she sholde
               Comaunde it him, and seyde he doon it wolde.

               For trewely he swoor hir, as a knight,
               That ther nas thing with whiche he mighte hir plese,
               That he nolde doon his peyne and al his might
               To doon it, for to doon hir herte an ese.
               And preyede hir, she wolde hir sorwe apese,
               And seyde, `Y-wis, we Grekes con have Ioye
               To honouren yow, as wel as folk of Troye.'

               He seyde eek thus, `I woot, yow thinketh straunge, 
               No wonder is, for it is to yow newe,
               Thaqueintaunce of these Troianis to chaunge,
               For folk of Grece, that ye never knewe.
               But wolde never god but-if as trewe
               A Greek ye shulde among us alle finde 
               As any Troian is, and eek as kinde.

               `And by the cause I swoor yow right, lo, now,
               To been your freend, and helply, to my might,
               And for that more aqueintaunce eek of yow
               Have ich had than another straunger wight,
               So fro this forth, I pray yow, day and night,
               Comaundeth me, how sore that me smerte,
               To doon al that may lyke un-to your herte;

               `And that ye me wolde as your brother trete,
               And taketh not my frendship in despyt; 
               And though your sorwes be for thinges grete,
               Noot I not why, but out of more respyt,
               Myn herte hath for to amende it greet delyt.
               And if I may your harmes not redresse,
               I am right sory for your hevinesse,

               `And though ye Troians with us Grekes wrothe
               Han many a day be, alwey yet, pardee,
               O god of love in sooth we serven bothe.
               And, for the love of god, my lady free,
               Whom so ye hate, as beth not wroth with me.
               For trewely, ther can no wight yow serve,
               That half so looth your wraththe wolde deserve.

               `And nere it that we been so neigh the tente
               Of Calkas, which that seen us bothe may,
               I wolde of this yow telle al myn entente;
               But this enseled til another day.
               Yeve me your hond, I am, and shal ben ay,
               God help me so, whyl that my lyf may dure,
               Your owene aboven every creature.

               `Thus seyde I never er now to womman born;
               For god myn herte as wisly glade so,
               I lovede never womman here-biforn
               As paramours, ne never shal no mo.
               And, for the love of god, beth not my fo;
               Al can I not to yow, my lady dere,
               Compleyne aright, for I am yet to lere.

               `And wondreth not, myn owene lady bright,
               Though that I speke of love to you thus blyve;
               For I have herd or this of many a wight,
               Hath loved thing he never saugh his lyve.
               Eek I am not of power for to stryve
               Ayens the god of love, but him obeye
               I wol alwey, and mercy I yow preye.

               `Ther been so worthy knightes in this place,
               And ye so fair, that everich of hem alle
               Wol peynen him to stonden in your grace.
               But mighte me so fair a grace falle,
               That ye me for your servaunt wolde calle,
               So lowly ne so trewely you serve
               Nil noon of hem, as I shal, til I sterve.'

               Criseide un-to that purpos lyte answerde,
               As she that was with sorwe oppressed so
               That, in effect, she nought his tales herde,
               But here and there, now here a word or two.
               Hir thoughte hir sorwful herte brast a-two.
               For whan she gan hir fader fer aspye,
               Wel neigh doun of hir hors she gan to sye.

               But natheles she thonked Diomede
               Of al his travaile, and his goode chere,
               And that him liste his friendship hir to bede;
               And she accepteth it in good manere,
               And wolde do fayn that is him leef and dere;
               And trusten him she wolde, and wel she mighte,
               As seyde she, and from hir hors she alighte.


(Troilus and Criseyde, Bk V, ll. 85 - 189)


We are much less favourably disposed to this Diomede than to the hero of the Iliad or the patriarch of the Aeneid; and yet I find him credibly the same person, though now seen from a harsher perspective. I still perceive the same intelligence, the same courage; the combination of self-confidence and modesty; the shrewd calculation, the easy friendliness, the ability to contain his feelings. What chance have a forcibly separated Troilus and Criseyde against Diomede's sheer effectiveness?

*

Apparently Diomedes was the favourite Greek hero of the composer Gottfried Heinrich Stölzel. The music of his large-scale opera Diomedes oder die triumphierende Unschuld (Diomedes, or Innocence Triumphant), performed at Bayreuth in November 1718, is unfortunately lost, except for five of its seventy-plus arias. Far the best known is Bist du bei mir (long thought to be by Bach; it was transcribed for soprano in his wife Anna Magdalena's notebook: she was an accomplished singer). According to the surviving Bayreuth libretto, the aria was originally sung by Diomedes in Act III Scene 8.

Bist du bei mir, geh ich mit Freuden

zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh.

Ach, wie vergnügt wär so mein Ende,

es drückten deine schönen Hände

mir die getreuen Augen zu.

If you are with me, then I will go gladly

    unto [my] death and to my rest.

Ah, how pleasing were my end,

if your dear hands then

shut my faithful eyes!

(The words were probably Stölzel's own. I wish I could find some account of this libretto online but so far I can't, so the only thing I know about the plot is the names of three other characters: Mosthenes, Copele and Desania.)

"Bist du bei mir", sung by Laura Heimes:

On Shakespeare's (and Dryden's) Troilus and Cressida:

https://michaelpeverett.blogspot.com/2021/04/a-choice-of-pandars.html