Why Does Diomedes In The Iliad Attack Aphrodite And Ares?

I still remember the thrill of reading the "Iliad" for the first time and stumbling into Diomedes' streak of glory — he bursts off the page. In Book 5 his aristeia reads like a masterclass in heroic excellence: courageous, ruthless in battle, and alarmingly effective. Homer gives him knife-edge clarity in combat scenes, a kind of focused ferocity that makes him stand out among the Greek warriors. What I love is how Homer balances sheer skill with the machinery of the gods; Diomedes is brilliant, but his success is inseparable from Athena's permission and guidance. He isn't just a one-note fighter, though. Homer humanizes him through moments that complicate the warrior ideal: he respects guest-friendship rules (that poignant exchange with Glaucus comes to mind), he shows tactical judgment, and he sometimes checks his own impulses. Despite slaying enemies and even wounding divine figures like Aphrodite and Ares (which is wild), he never struts into full-blown hubris. There's a humility beneath the armor. So Homer portrays Diomedes as one of the most compelling, multifaceted heroes: a near-peer to Achilles in technique and courage, yet different in temperament. He’s a reminder that Homer admired more than single-minded rage — he celebrated craft, honor, and the messy tension between mortal ability and divine intervention. Reading those scenes still makes me want to rewatch every skirmish in my head.

Every time I reread the scene where Diomedes shines on the battlefield in the "Iliad", I get a little caught up in how Homer makes weapons feel alive. For me, Diomedes is first and foremost a spear-man: he fights with the doru (the long bronze-tipped spear), hurling and thrusting it from his chariot or in close quarters. Homer repeatedly shows him casting spears to fell foes and using the spear in hand-to-hand clashes. His spearwork is central to that famous aristeia in Book 5. But he’s not just about spears. Diomedes also wears the usual bronze armor—helmet, shield, greaves—and carries a short sword for finishing enemies once the spear is broken or when the fight becomes too close for a long lance. And of course, he fights from and alongside a chariot, which changes the dynamics: spear throws, rapid movement, and the ability to strike from a running platform. There's also the memorable, almost supernatural moment when, with Athena’s backing, he even wounds divine figures—he wounds Aphrodite (and, in some readings, wounds Ares) while using his spear, which underscores how Homer blends technique, gear, and divine favor into a hero’s identity.

Every time I reread the battle scenes in "Iliad", Diomedes feels like that friend who never ducks a dare — but there’s more than bravado fueling him. I see a mix of personal honor and social pressure: he’s carved into the world of timē (honor) and kleos (glory), so fighting fiercely is how he secures reputation and respect among the Achaeans. It’s not just ego; it’s the economy of worth in that society, and Diomedes knows his stature depends on deeds on the plain. On top of that, Athena literally backs him up during his aristeia in Book 5. Divine favor emboldens him, lets him push past mortal limits, and that gift becomes both incentive and validation. He’s also fiercely loyal to comrades and the collective cause—defending fellow warriors, avenging wounds, keeping the line intact. There's a practical leadership streak: a commander leads from the front. So when I picture him charging, I get a layered portrait: youth and ambition, a code of honor, devotion to his peers, and the intoxicating boost of a goddess. It’s a cocktail of motives that makes his fury plausible and oddly admirable to read.

I still get a little thrill every time I read that chapter in "The Iliad" where Athena picks out Diomedes for the spotlight. In Book 5 she essentially anoints him for an aristeia — she appears to him on the battlefield and heightens his courage and strength, so his limbs and heart work like a champion's. More than a raw power-up, she gives him practical help: sharp counsel, tactical confidence, and the uncanny ability to perceive divine interference on the field. That sudden clarity is crucial — it lets him see gods at work and act decisively, which culminates in him wounding Aphrodite and driving back Ares (with Athena’s backing). Reading that scene now, I like to think Athena favours him because he embodies what she prizes: skill, quick judgment, and a sort of disciplined piety. He’s not reckless glory-hunting; he listens, he sacrifices, and he fights with craft. In the poem this relationship shows how the gods pick favorites not just for whimsy but because certain human qualities mirror a god’s own values — Athena’s love of strategy and excellence finds a match in Diomedes, and she rewards him, though the gift also drags him into dangerous, unforgettable moments on the plain.

The first time I read the "Iliad" I was totally smitten by Achilles’ scenes—the fury, the duel with Hector, the whole armor moment—and only later did I circle back to Diomedes and think, “Wait, this guy’s awesome too.” But that’s exactly part of why Diomedes is less famous: Homer gives Achilles the emotional spine of the poem. Achilles drives major plot points (Patroclus’ death, the rage that gives the epic its central theme), and he gets those big, cinematic scenes that stay in people’s heads. Diomedes has spectacular moments, especially his aristeia in Book 5 where he wounds Ares and Aphrodite with Athena’s help, and he’s a model of mortal excellence—clever, brave, respected. Still, he doesn’t get the tragic, personal arc that makes Achilles linger in memory. Achilles is also semi-divine, loved by Thetis, and later traditions add his dramatic death and cult; that extra mythic material compounds his fame. Diomedes survives and returns to rule—great for a stable ending, less useful for legend-making. So if you want the raw heroics, check Diomedes’ run in Book 5 and his exchanges with Odysseus; if you want mythic pathos, Achilles is built for that. I personally find Diomedes’ steadiness quietly brilliant, even if it’s less headline-grabbing than Achilles’ fury.

I love how translators act like different tour guides on the same battlefield — each one makes Diomedes feel like a slightly different person. In my copy of "Iliad" translated by Lattimore, he’s blunt and liturgical: the lines are spare, the epithets sit heavy, and Diomedes reads as a disciplined, almost stoic warrior. Lattimore’s literalness keeps the harshness of the aristeia (that glorious slaughter in Book 5) very visible; you feel the mechanical clarity of combat and the ritual weight of honor. By contrast, when I read Robert Fagles’ version I remember being swept along by the rhythm and the heat. Fagles makes Diomedes roar and sparkle — more human, more cinematic. The same scenes feel energetic and present, which pulls you toward admiration and excitement. Some translations, like Lombardo’s, tilt even more toward colloquial bluntness; Diomedes becomes grittier, almost contemporary in his outbursts. Small choices — whether a translator preserves the repetitive epithets, softens the divine-wounding of Aphrodite, or renders the dialogue between Diomedes and Glaucus as formal versus friendly — change how sympathetic or fearsome he feels. I keep several translations on my shelf and flip between them; it’s the easiest way to see how translators are really co-authors, framing Diomedes either as a tragic, heroic ideal or as a sharply human, sometimes brutal man.

I still remember the first time I read how Roman poets reworked Greek heroes — it felt like watching the same actor play a very different role in a new movie. When Virgil borrows Diomedes from Homer’s "Iliad", he doesn’t just copy the fighting scenes; he refashions the whole moral costume around him for Roman spectators. To me, Virgil treats Diomedes as a useful contrast figure. In the "Iliad" Diomedes is the bright, ruthlessly competent warrior — he wounds gods, excels in single combat, and even stages that famous night-raid with Odysseus to steal the Palladium. In the "Aeneid" those same traits are reframed: the Greek cunning and violence get presented as part of a past that cleared the way for Rome rather than a model to imitate. Virgil often underlines Diomedes’ brutality and trickery so Aeneas’ pietas and mission look morally superior. Practically, Virgil uses allusion and selective detail: he echoes Homeric moments but compresses or tweaks them, adding Roman ideological shades — destiny, pietas, and Augustan order — so readers feel that Greek heroism was great but ultimately outmoded. I love how that makes the epic feel like a conversation between cultures rather than a straight copy; it made me read both poets more carefully afterward.

I still remember the thrill of re-reading the battlefield scenes and suddenly noticing how natural their teamwork feels — Diomedes and Odysseus in the "Iliad" are like two very different specialists who just happen to trust each other completely. Diomedes is the fiery hoplite with Athena’s favor, charging and scoring dramatic feats (his aristeia in Book 5 is unforgettable), while Odysseus is the schemer, the voice of strategy and night-work. When they pair up, you can see complementary strengths rather than rivalry. One clear moment is the night-raid in Book 10 (the Doloneia): their cooperation there — deceit, quick decisions, and ruthless efficiency — shows real mutual confidence. They share plans, cover each other, and accept moral ambiguity for the army’s sake. I love how the poem lets both shine without reducing one to the other’s role; it feels like comradeship earned on the sharp edge of war. Reading those scenes late at night with a mug of tea, I always root for this duo — they’re an alliance of brains and brawn that feels honest and human.