9. Ellipsis in Homeric Poetry*

9§1 This essay concentrates on four questions: (1) What is ellipsis? (2) How does ellipsis work in Homeric songmaking? (3) How does ellipsis typify Homeric songmaking? (4) How does Homeric songmaking use ellipsis to typify itself?

9§2 In the dictionary of Liddell and Scott, the verb elleípō (ἐλλείπω) is defined as (1) leave in, leave behind; (2) leave out, leave undone; (3) fall short, fail. [1] The abstract noun élleipsis, derived from this verb, designates a ‘leaving out’ of something, as we see from the use of the word in a grammatical sense: in Athenaeus 644b, for example, the term élleipsis (ἔλλειψις) is applied to explain the word plakoûs ‘flatbread’ as consisting of an adjective ‘flat’ plus substantive ártos ‘bread’ understood. That is, the substantive can be inferred katà élleipsin ‘by ellipsis’. Where we would say “adjective with substantive understood,” Athenaeus is saying “adjective with substantive by way of ellipsis.” {157|158}

9§3 Let us pursue the idea of “understood” elements in a given combination by highlighting the principle of the elliptic plural in ancient Greek. Ordinarily, the plural of a given entity, let us say A, will designate A + A + A + …. On the other hand, the elliptic plural of an entity A will designate A + B + C + …. Here are two examples:

9§4 Similarly, the elliptic dual will designate A + B, unlike the A + A of the “normal” dual. For example, Sanskrit singular pitā́ is ‘father’ but dual pitárau is not ‘two fathers’ but rather ‘father and mother’.

9§5 What is “left out” by way of ellipsis need not be left out “for good,” as it were. It may be a matter of shading over. What is shaded over in one place may be highlighted in another. In other words, the location of the ellipsis may vary: it can be at the ending, at the middle, or at the beginning of a sequence.

9§6 So far, we have seen examples of ellipsis at the beginning plus the middle or at the middle plus the ending. In the case of πατήρ [patḗr] ‘father’ vs. πατέρες [patéres] ‘ancestors’ = ‘father + his father + his father + his father + …’, for example, the father concludes a sequence of an unspecified number of ancestors, potentially starting with a first father. [4] Here I surmise that the beginning and middle are shaded over, while the ending—one’s own father—is highlighted as an instance of all preceding fathers. In the case of τόξον [tóxon] ‘bow’ vs. τόξα [tóxa] ‘bow and arrows’ = ‘bow + arrow + arrow + arrow + …’, on the other hand, the bow initiates a sequence of an unspecified number of arrows, potentially ending with a last arrow. Here I surmise that the middle and ending are shaded over, while the beginning is highlighted.

9§7 Ellipsis can even highlight what is being said at the very end of a given sequence for the purpose of referring to the very beginning. For example, the ending of the first sentence of Herodotus’ History signals the point of departure for the history: … τά τε ἄλλα καὶ δι᾿ ἣν αἰτίην ἐπολέμησαν ἀλλήλοισι ‘including all the other things [álla] but especially the cause for their entering into war with each other’. Each of the álla ‘other things’ is in {158|159} effect an állo ‘other thing’: thus we have a sequence of álla = állo + állo + állo +…, with the last element of the sequence referring back to the first element which had logically started the sequence of events—and which is yet to be stated by the History—that is, the original cause of the war about to be narrated. [5]

9§8 There is also ellipsis of the middle, the leaving out of the middle man or men, as it were. An example is the figure of the merism, in the sense of “a bipartite, commonly asyndetic noun phrase serving to designate globally an immediately higher taxon.” [6] That is, the combination of two words can express a totality that is merely framed rather than filled by the two individual referents that match these two individual words. Thus for example the Hittite expression ˙alkiß ZÍZ-tar, literally ‘barley (and) wheat’, designates all cereals, not just barley and wheat. [7] It is as if Hittite ‘barley and wheat’ were barley and wheat and every other kind of grain in between.

9§9 We turn to actual cases of ellipsis in Homeric composition. It is important to concede, from the start, that all discourse is to some extent elliptic. Still, keeping the focus on the formal mechanisms that make ellipsis possible, even explicit, I propose to offer a sample of some specific mechanisms, as attested in the Iliad and Odyssey.

9§10 It is instructive to begin with a striking example of a singular of a given noun where we might have expected the plural:

Text 1a We see here at verse 80 an exceptional attestation of the word for ‘Athens’ in the singular, Athḗnē. Elsewhere, ‘Athens’ is Athênai, in the plural. We see the plural form as we look ahead at Text 1d below, verse 546, and we see it in general everywhere in ancient Greek literature.

9§11 As we look back at verse 80 of Text 1a, we notice that this form Athḗnē, meaning ‘Athens’, is identical with the form that means ‘the goddess Athene’—or Athena, in the Latinized spelling—as attested at verse 78 of Text 1a and at verse 547 of Text 1d. Why, then, is ‘Athens’ in the singular at verse 80 of Text 1a? Second, can we even say that this is the same Athens that we know from later sources? Third, can we say that the plural Athênai in the sense of ‘Athens’ is a functionally elliptic construction?

9§12 Let us start with the first question, why is Athens in the singular here? On the level of surface metrical structure, we can justify the combination of singular substantive and singular epithet on the grounds that it scans, that is, on the grounds that it fits the metrical requirements of the dactylic hexameter, whereas the plural of this combination would clash with these requirements. If we look at Text 1b, we can see what would happen if the plural of ‘Athens’ were slotted into the same metrical position within the dactylic hexameter and if it kept the same epithet assigned to the singular form as attested at verse 80 of Text 1a:

Text 1b This combination is purely hypothetical (hence the prefixed asterisk) and in fact untenable for three mechanical reasons: (1) we expect the last syllable of the epithet εὐρυαγυίας to be long; [8] (2) the first syllable of the word for ‘Athens’ in this position has to be short; (3) the second syllable of the word for ‘Athens’ has to be long. These three specific reasons add up to one overriding general reason: such a hypothetical combination of words would produce a rhythmical sequence of long + short + long (the criterion of measure is syllabic length), and this sequence is systematically shunned in Homeric diction. [9] I should add that the same idea, as expressed by this hypothetical epithet + noun combination, could indeed be expressed, within the same metrical framework, by another epithet + noun combination: {160|161}

Text 1c

9§13 Moving to the second question, we may ask: can we even say that this ‘Athens’ in Odyssey vii 80 is the same ‘Athens’ that we know from the historical period? The answer emerges from the next major relevant passage:

Text 1d The ‘Athens’ of text Text 1d must surely be the same place as the ‘Athens’ of Text 1a, as we see from the reference at verse 549 to the temple of Athena as the home of the goddess. At verse 547, we see that the temple is also home for the hero Erekhtheus, whom Athena establishes inside her temple, much as {161|162} the goddess Aphrodite establishes the hero Phaethon inside her own temple in Hesiod Theogony 990–991. [12] Similarly in Text 1a, the singular ‘Athens’ is the home of the hero Erekhtheus at verse 81, and it seems to be the home of the goddess Athena, who is described as going to the palace of Erekhtheus, situated in a place that has a name identical to the name of the goddess. While Odysseus proceeds to the palace of Alkinoos, Athena flies off to the palace of Erekhtheus. So Athena’s city par excellence is presumably Athens.

9§14 It remains to determine, to be sure, how far back in time we may apply this formulation. Already in the era of the Linear B tablets, we find a distinct goddess named Athā́nā (spelled a-ta-na- in the syllabary), equivalent of Homeric Athḗnē:

Text 1e

9§15 The Linear B tablets provide no direct information, however, about the name for the city of Athens. We need not assume that the goddess worshipped at Knossos in the second millennium BCE was known as the goddess of Athens. Still, the city of Athens was perhaps already then understood as belonging to the goddess. (Addendum, dated 2017.08.05... For an alternative interpretation of a-ta-na-po-ti-ni-ja, ‘for the lady [potnia] of Athens’, contradicting the interpretation given here, ‘for the lady [potnia] Athena’, see Nagy, G. 2015.09.10. Classical Inquiries. http://classical-inquiries.chs.harvard.edu/from-athens-to-crete-and-back/, especially §4.)

9§16 Putting such questions aside, let us return to what seems more certain: that Athḗnē the goddess and Athḗnē the city in Text 1a are the same as Athḗnē the goddess and Athḗnai the city in Text 1d. True, Athḗnē and Athênai may be the appropriate designations of the same place at different times. The exceptional instance of singular Athḗnē in Text 1a may reflect a relatively earlier context. According to Martin P. Nilsson, the relationship between goddess (Athene) and king (Erekhtheus) is here still in a “Mycenaean” stage in their relationship. [13] We see here the goddess as a patroness of the king in power and as a resident in his palace. She is his ultimate tenant, Mycenaean style, occupying as her abode a shrine-room within the palace. By contrast, the instances of plural Athênai as in Text 1d reflect a later stage in the relationship of Athena and Erekhtheus, when the palace of the king has been transformed into the temple of the goddess. What we now see, from the perspective of a palace-turned-temple, is a hero who is worshipped within the sacred precinct of a goddess. From the viewpoint of the there-and-then identified with heroic times, Erekhtheus is a king empowered by Athena. {162|163} From the viewpoint of the narrator’s here-and-now, by contrast, he is the protégé of the goddess, a cult-figure sharing in her overall cult.

9§17 In sum, the perspective of the distant past allows a residual situation, where Athens is in the singular, whereas the narrator’s perspective of his own here-and-now requires Athens to be in the plural. We have yet to refine, to be sure, what it means to say “the narrator’s perspective of his own here-and-now.”

9§18 In fact, many questions remain about the semantics of any contrast between singular Athḗnē and plural Athênai. Even when the singular is used to designate the whole city, is that usage not in itself an implicit ellipsis, as distinct from the explicit ellipsis of the plural? Does the identification of the name of the goddess with the name of the city imply that the concept of the goddess subsumes the concept of the city? Or, to put it another way, does the essence of the goddess lead into the essence of her population? Here is a list of some possible parallels:

Text 1f

Text 1g

Text 1h

Text 1i

Text 1j

9§19 Of all available traces of residual ellipsis, the most striking example is this one:

Text 2a

Text 2b There is of course only one island of Crete, and we may readily conclude that the plural usage reflects the idea of “Crete and everything that belongs to it.” Such an idea corresponds to the historical construct of a “Minoan thalassocracy,” as already intuited by Thucydides (1.4), who speaks of King Minos of Crete as the founder of a prototypical naval empire extending throughout the Cyclades Islands and beyond. [21]

9§20 So far, we have looked at elliptic constructions in Homer from a diachronic viewpoint. But what are the implications of ellipsis from the synchronic viewpoint of composition-in-performance? A case in point is the problem of the dual of the heroic name Aíās ‘Ajax’, that is, Aíante. I will summarize the key Homeric contexts of the dual Ajax, which I henceforth write simply as Aiante, by quoting from a 1959 book on the Iliad by Denys Page, representing what he himself calls an “analyst” as opposed to “unitarian” interpretation of the epic. [22] At key moments, I will interrupt Page’s words by noting salient opportunities for alternative explanations. [23]

9§21 Page’s central argument is that the “original” meaning of Aiante is not Ajax Major (son of Telamon) and Ajax Minor (son of Oileus) but Ajax and his half-brother Teucer. He speaks of a place “where the original meaning of Aiante, ‘Ajax and his brother’, is deeply embedded in the Iliad.” [24] The passage is Iliad XIII 177 and following, and here is what Page says about it (wording emphasized by Page is formatted in italics, while wording emphasized by me is formatted in yellow highlights): In the case of a similar problem, the use of the duals where we expect plurals in the “Embassy” passage of Iliad IX, Page again resorts to the rhetorical device of an apostrophe addressed to a Homeric character: “Unhappy Phoenix, Achilles’ oldest friend, not one single word of you; and if that were not enough, your leadership is instantly and silently taken from you.” [26] In this case, Page thinks that Phoenix is the odd man out in the dual references to what seems to be a trio comprised of Phoenix, Ajax, and Odysseus. [27]

9§22 Let us return to the problem of the meaning of Aiante, as Page sees it: I suggest, however, that there is no “confusion,” and that it is inaccurate to speak of “intrusions.” Instead, if we adopt an evolutionary model for the making of Homeric poetry, there are simply different levels of recomposition-in-performance, which are traces of an evolving fixity or textualization—and I use this term without implying the presence of written texts. [31]

9§23 Here we reach the third question to be asked: how does ellipsis typify Homeric songmaking? A related question has just been raised as we contemplated the shift in the meaning of Aiante, from Ajax and Ajax to Ajax and Teucer: what are the implications of ellipsis from the synchronic viewpoint of composition-in-performance? Another related question is this: is it even possible to speak of a synchronic analysis of Homer? The evidence of ellipsis suggests that the answer has to be a complex one.

9§24 A case in point is the reference at Iliad XII 335–336 to Αἴαντε δύω … Τεῦκρόν τε ‘the two Aiante … and Teucer’. According to the commentaries, the explicit mention of Teucer here means that ‘the two Aiante’ must have been understood as Ajax Maior and Ajax Minor. [32] And yet, from a diachronic point of view, this kind of syntactic construction actually retains the elliptic function in the dual, thereafter highlighting what was initially shaded over by the ellipsis. That is, the implicit Teucer in the expression ‘the two Aiante’ is joined to an explicit naming of Teucer. We see parallels in other Indo-European languages, as for example in the Indic expression Mitrā́ … Váruṇo yáś-ca in Rig-Veda 8.25.2, meaning ‘dual-Mitra [= Mitra and Varuṇa] and he who is Varuṇa’ = ‘Mitra and Varuna’; similarly in French, nous deux Paul means ‘I and Paul’ = ‘the two of us, one of whom is Paul’, not ‘I and you (or he / she / it) and Paul’. [33] It is only if Paul gets stranded, as it were, from the two of us that the two of us—nous deux—could default to ‘I and you (or he / she / it)’.

9§25 It is an elusive task, then, to establish the synchrony of the elliptic dual Aíante in the Iliad, or of the singular Athḗnē as opposed to the elliptic plural {166|167} Athênai in the Odyssey. And yet, surely there are synchronic mechanisms in Homeric diction—and surely there must have been at any given historical time and place a synchronic system for generating the language of epic in general. But the question remains: is there a synchronic reality to the world of the epic? My own answer is that there is no such thing. We may perhaps agree that the pattern or system of epic discourse has been for the most part set by, say, the middle of the eighth century BCE, an era of general cultural consolidation in the Greek-speaking world. [34] And yet, this epic discourse may continue to communicate different levels of perspective, even different levels of meaning. We outsiders looking in, as it were, on this system can reconstruct a diachronic dimension in order to highlight some of these different levels of perspective, but there seems to be no level playing field for producing a single perspective. I once said that Homeric diction defies synchronic analysis. [35] This is not to advocate any abandonment of the search for synchronic—or let us say “working”—mechanisms. Rather, it is to emphasize that there are different levels of meaning that cannot be reduced to any one single synchrony.

9§26 These considerations can be brought to bear on the specific problem of duals that seem to be used in the place of plurals in Homeric diction. While some experts have dismissed even the possibility that the dual can be used for the plural, [36] we now know for a fact that the Alexandrian scholars and poets not only admitted the possibility in their Homeric exegesis but also used the device of dual-for-plural in their own poetry when they wished to make specific “citations” of Homer. [37] It can be argued in general that citation, not allusion, is a more accurate term for references to Homeric poetry in Alexandrian poetry: for the Alexandrians, Homer was the absolute source, not only the unsurpassable model. [38]

9§27 In the Alexandrian poetics of figures like Apollonius of Rhodes and Callimachus, citation is a matter of reusing: a given archaic usage, no longer current in the spoken language, becomes re-used as a mark of the poetic language. In the oral poetics of the Homeric tradition, by contrast, there is no reusing, only reactivation. A case in point is Egbert Bakker’s demonstration that Homeric diction can reactivate the use of verbs without {167|168} augment as a newly active mechanism in expressing “epic tense.” [39] Another case, I suggest, is the “Embassy Scene” of Iliad IX, where the use of the dual becomes reactivated to serve the special purpose of expressing an archaic situation where there should be only two ambassadors even though there are now three. [40] Thus the language of Achilles, in addressing two instead of three ambassadors, can develop the side-effect of effectively snubbing one of the three ambassadors in the context of a newer situation that is recreated out of an older one. [41] In both these cases, then, reactivation of older forms results in newer meanings.

9§28 If indeed there exist different levels of meaning that cannot be smoothed over as one single synchrony, then the elusiveness of a synchronic perspective in Homeric discourse may well be a mark of its essential fluidity. Here I return to the perceptive formulation of Albert Lord: I might add that we must cease trying to find an absolutely final version of any traditional song.

9§29 Arguing that we cannot speak of a single “world of Homer” or a single “age of Homer,” I return to my evolutionary model for the making of Homeric poetry. [43] Such an evolutionary model differs radically from some other explanations. Here I focus on two examples, formulated by Geoffrey Kirk (1985) and Richard Janko (1992), two of the contributors to The Iliad: A Commentary (produced under the general editorship of Kirk).

9§30 Kirk posits a “big bang” genesis of Homeric poetry. He argues for a one-time “oral” composition achieved by a so-called “monumental composer” sometime in the eighth century BCE, which then continues to be reperformed “orally” by rhapsodes for around two hundred years. [44] A second kind of “big {168|169} bang” theory is offered by Janko, who as we have seen thinks that the Iliad and Odyssey were dictated by Homer himself around the second half of the eighth century BCE [45]

9§31 So far, I have been testing my evolutionary model on the specific problem of dual-Ajax usages in the Iliad. Now let us test the “big bang” models of Kirk and Janko. [46] To start with Kirk, he says that the Aiante were understood as Ajax Major and Ajax Minor “by the monumental composer himself.” [47] But then he adds: “Despite that association, the Locrian Aias [= Ajax] was not greatly admired in the heroic tradition, a reflection perhaps of his light-armed, unheroic and provincial … side.” [48] He recounts the reprehensible or “stupid” things done by this Ajax; [49] later on, commenting on Iliad IV 272–3, he says that “there can be little doubt that here [the Aiante] are the greater Aias [= Ajax] and Teukros [=Teucer], since the Locrian Aias’ light-armed contingent … would hardly be described as ‘bristling with shields and spears’ as at 282 here.” [50]

9§32 As for Janko, he says that the form of Aiante “was reinterpreted to mean two men called Aias [= Ajax], but Teukros [= Teucer] is always nearby; at [Iliad XIII] 202ff. the same hypothesis explains Oilean Aias’ unexpected intrusion in a killing by Teukros and his brother [177–178].” [51] He goes on to say: “This verse [Iliad XIII 46] originally denoted Teukros and Aias, who clearly derives from Mycenaean epic …, but the dual led Homer to insert Oilean Aias and then add Teukros (66f., 92).” [52] Commenting on Iliad XIII 177–178, Janko says that “the poet has momentarily confused Teukros with Aias ‘son of Telamon’, because he was unsure who was meant by ‘the two [Aiante]’ (46).” [53] In considering the mutually contradictory references to the positioning of the Aiante at the ships of the Achaeans, Janko says: “The contradiction over the [Aiante’s] position surely derives from Homer’s pervasive and creative misunderstanding of Aiante, originally ‘Aias and Teukros’ (46n).” [54] Commenting on Iliad XIV 460, Janko says: “The unusual sense of Aiante in earlier stages of the tradition caused confusion over the [Aiante] and Teukros (13.46n); all three are present in this battle.” [55] {169|170}

9§33 We may have expected both these representatives of “big bang” models of composition in the eighth century to devise a corresponding set of “big bang” explanations for the complexities of the dual-Ajax constructions. Instead, they seem to be resorting to explanations based on assumptions of mostly random misinterpretations on the part of the poet.

9§34 From an evolutionary perspective, on the other hand, it is a question of systematic reinterpretations instead of unsystematic misinterpretations, and I find that the views of an old-fashioned “analyst” like Page are more useful for analyzing the complexities of reinterpretation. [56] I should stress at the outset, however, that I distance myself from Page’s assumptions about older and newer poets, about original poets and later redactors, and, especially, about earlier texts and later texts. Still, his wording is replete with suggestive possibilities, as when he says:

9§35 The notion of systematic reinterpretation may be described as a process of mouvance. For Paul Zumthor, who pioneered the term, mouvance is a widespread phenomenon in medieval manuscript transmission. He defines it as a “quasi-abstraction” that becomes a reality in the interplay of variant readings in different manuscripts of a given work; he pictures mouvance as a kind of “incessant vibration,” a fundamental process of instability. [58] In another work, I have written extensively about this term, pointing out that {170|171} there has been a great deal of mouvance even in the concept of mouvance. [59] Moreover, I suggest that the association of mouvance with “instability” may be misleading if it implies unsystematic change. To the extent that mouvance is the oral poetic process of recomposition-in-performance, it is a stabilizing rather than destabilizing force.

9§36 It is pertinent here to consider the semantics of the word mīmēsis (henceforth spelled “mimesis”) in the older sense of ‘reenactment’. [60] A driving idea behind this word is the ideal of stability in the reenactment of the “same” thing by a succession of different performers. [61] It is as if the composition remained always the same, even though the performers kept changing. [62] It is as if there were no change in the process of recomposition-in-performance. [63]

9§37 There are numerous examples where the process of change through recomposition-in-performance is not recognized by a living oral tradition as change. A case in point is the following passage from Theognis: I have written about this passage: {171|172} With his “seal,” the figure of Theognis is authorizing himself, making himself the author. There is an explicit self-description of this author as one who succeeds in sophíā, the ‘skill’ of decoding or encoding poetry. [65] On the basis of this success, the author lays claim to a timeless authority, which resists the necessity of changing just to please the audience of the here and now, who are described as the astoí ‘townspeople’. [66] The author must risk alienation with the audience of the here and now in order to attain the supposedly universal acceptance of the ultimate audience, which is the cumulative response of Panhellenic fame: [67] Here the notion of mimesis becomes an implicit promise that no change shall ever occur to accommodate the interests of any local audience in the here and now, that is, of the astoí ‘townspeople’. The authorized reperformance of a composition, if it is a true reenactment or mimesis, can guarantee the authenticity of the “original” composition. The author is saying about himself: “But no one who is not skilled [ a-sophos] can reenact my identity.” [69]

9§38 Here we see an ultimate ellipsis, formulated by poetry about poetry, where an entire succession of performers is being shaded over in order to highlight a single “original” composition-in-performance, executed by a prototypical poet who eclipses all his successors.

9§39 We come now to the fourth and last question: how does Homeric songmaking use ellipsis to typify itself? A prime case in point is the Homeric “I,” which highlights the prototypical singer of tales, elliptically shading over an open-ended succession of rhapsodes in the lengthy evolutionary process of countless recompositions-in-performance over time.

9§40 We have already seen an Iliadic passage that reveals a symbolic reference to such a diachrony of rhapsodes. While Achilles, becoming the ultimate paradigm for singers, is represented as actually performing the epic songs of heroes, kléa andrôn ‘glories of men’ at Iliad IX 189, Patroklos is waiting for his own turn, in order to take up the song precisely where Achilles will have left off. [70]

9§41 I have argued that both the plural usage here of kléa andrôn ‘glories of men’ (as opposed to singular kléos ‘glory’) and the meaning of the name Patrokléēs are pertinent to the rhapsodic implications of this passage: “it is only through Patrokléēs ‘he who has the kléa [glories] of the ancestors’ that the plurality of performance, that is, the activation of tradition, can happen.” [71] In this light, I repeat my earlier argument:

9§42 So long as Achilles alone sings the kléa andrôn ‘glories of men’, these heroic glories cannot be heard by anyone but Patroklos alone. Once Achilles leaves off and Patroklos starts singing, however, the continuum that is {173|174} the kléa andrôn—the Homeric tradition itself—can at long last become activated. This is the moment awaited by Patrokléēs ‘he who has the kléa [glories] of the ancestors’. In this Homeric image of Patroklos waiting for his turn to sing, then, we have in capsule form the esthetics of rhapsodic sequencing. [72]

9§43 By contrast, the “I” of Homer, as in the first verse of the Odyssey, implies that it will always be Homer who is told the tale by the Muse and who will in turn continue to tell it each time he invokes her: Still, this “I” of Homer is interchangeable with a “we,” as in the ἡμεῖς ‘we’ of Iliad II 486 or in the καὶ ἡμῖν ‘us too’ of Odyssey i 10, and I propose that such a “we” can refer elliptically to a whole vertical succession of performers. [73]

9§44 Still, no ellipsis can ultimately overshadow the lonely uniqueness of the performer when the vertical succession at long last reaches him, when his moment comes in the here-and-now of his own performance. [74] Though the present of performance, as Egbert Bakker notes, must be included into the “accumulated mass of the tradition,” [75] there must remain nevertheless “a certain distance” between the countless performances of the past and the unique performance of the present. [76] What must happen is a “reexperience.” [77] The singer is just about to have such a reexperience when he says about the number of Achaean warriors who came to fight at Troy:

9§45 All of a sudden, the singer steps out of the elliptic shade, and he starts to sing … {175|177}