"La société achéenne de l'âge héroïque, pour lointaine qu'elle

paraisse à nos yeux de modernes, n'est en aucune manière une

société primitive. A l'éclat de la civilisation matérielle et de l 'art,

dont témoignent notamment les vases d'or ciselés de Vaphio ou

de Dendra, se joint déjà un grand raffinement de moeurs."

- Jean Bérard in Homère, 1963

In his book Die Welt der Polis, German philosopher Eric Voegelin remarked that Homer was "the blind man who sees", who looked with high scorn upon the brutal and unjust "Age of Heroes" (1). With The Odyssey Homer is said to have constructed a history in which an assembly of gods have restored justice and punished the evildoers. It is believed that Homer was an advocate of another age, where older traditions and rituals were strictly observed. Alain de Benoist notes: "Mais Homère était plus encore: le dépositaire du vieil esprit hellène dans sa pureté, le maître de toute sagesse, le gardien des traditions." (2)

Regardless of whether Homer's motivations for creating The Odyssey were those of a conservative, or whether the verses had been entirely handed down to him from earlier poets and bards, his epic recounts King Odysseus's wanderings and provides us with a host of rituals, customs, traditions, and remarkable socio-cultural and religious attitudes that may seem unfamiliar from a modern, individualistic Western perspective. The original Homeric epics were committed to writing in the 7th and 6th centuries BC. Today, Hesiod and Homer, alongside many other poets, are of immense importance to the reconstruction of ancient Mediterranean theology (3). This essay offers a critical and explanatory overview of these cultural features, examining this rich array of practices and ideas from a broad cultural perspective.

Many of the rituals and beliefs of the Achaeans were deeply intertwined with religion and the existential dimensions of human existence. In The Odyssey, we observe both funeral rites and sacrificial practices. Both Odysseus and the people of Ithaca realise that erecting a burial mound for their deceased is essential – not only for the soul’s passage into the afterlife, but also for preserving the individual's honour and memory. As long as Odysseus remains missing, the Ithacans – including his wife Penelope and his son, Prince Telemachus – cannot be certain whether they are mourning a hero who died valianly in battle, or a warrior who perished on a lonely island in some other inglorious fashion. Fortunately, reports of Odysseus's exploits circulate, indicating that he was indeed a noble warrior. Yet Telemachus sighs:

Thus, for Odysseus and his family (6), glory (kleos) remains unattainable as long as he fails to achieve his homecoming (nostos), despite the overall Greek victory at Troy. Penelope, too, cannot experience true renown if Odysseus never returns, as she observes when speaking to the stranger whom she does not yet recognise as her husband:

We shall return to the concepts of fame and glory later in this essay. Proper funeral rites were crucial not only for the next of kin, but also for the repose of the deceased's soul. The fate of Odysseus's brother-in-arms Elpenor clearly illustrates what happens to the souls of those who are denied a proper burial. At Circe's palace, Elpenor, heavy with wine, fell from the roof and broke his neck. In the haste of departure, there was no time to build him a grave-mound and to weep over him. Consequently, Elpenor's spirit cannot rest. In one of the most chilling scenes of The Odyssey, when Odysseus descends to the Underworld, Elpenor is the first spirit among hundreds to confront him:

As this passage illustrates, neglecting a sacred ritual risks incurring divine wrath. Yet these rituals and customs serve more than a strictly religious imperative; they are also vital to the characters' emotional and social well-being. The English philosopher Roger Scruton noted that Odysseus's encounter with his sorrowful supplicant offers a compelling example of the nature of rituals and their significance to human life. Scruton observes:

According to Scruton, the characters in The Odyssey instinctively understand how to act in any given situation; their emotions are unmediated, and their actions flow naturally from them. The rituals and customs of a shared, public culture bridge the gap between emotion and deed: they provide Odysseus with a framework for action, particularly in situations governed by love, sorrow, pain, anger, or revenge, and when encountering others. In such a public culture, mourning and weeping are not subject to deliberation or personal interpretation: they are things that one simply does:

In Book I, Athena instructs Telemachus to wait for a year if news reaches him that Odysseus is still alive; otherwise, he must build a mound, weep for him, and expel the suitors. Both The Iliad and The Odyssey feature the traditional custom of mourners shearing their hair as a sign of grief. In Book IV, Menelaus advises Telemachus to perform this rite if Odysseus's death is confirmed, ensuring his cheeks remain wet with tears. Similarly, in Book IX (verses 72–75), Odysseus recounts that he 'would not let his ships set sail until the crews had raised the triple cry, saluting each poor comrade cut down by the fierce Cicones.' (10)

Dying in battle is a noble act. Conversely, for a triumphant commander to perish alone at sea is, according to Odysseus, both humiliating and devoid of fame:

What Odysseus seeks is kléos: glory and fame. These are qualities bestowed upon an individual by comrades, compatriots, and the gods. One cannot possess glory without external validation ("my glory spread by comrades"). Perishing without glory is as meaningless as surviving without it. Our present age is far less focused on the collective and social dimensions of a person's achievements. Today, an individual may feel validated without constant recognition from their community, ancestors, or descendants. This was not the case in ancient Greece, where social structures, beyond the generations, heavily dictated one's personal experience and identity. In this non-individualistic society bound by strong communal ties, kléos served as a fundamental driving force: one's renown had to be spoken of and heard.

Indeed, the word derives from the Proto-Indo-European root *k̂leu̯os, meaning 'fame' – cognate with Sanskrit śrávas. Across the Indo-European language family, this root yields words associated with 'to listen', 'word', 'call', , 'sound' and the like. The ultimate reward for Odysseus is undying fame, kléos áphthiton, spoken on the lips of men. This two-word Homeric formula dates back to Proto-Indo-European antiquity; compare the exact Vedic equivalent, śrávas ákṣitam , which consists of the exact same words. (13) Indo-Europeanists maintain that this formula – reconstructed as *k̂leu̯os n̥dhg^whitom – survived through millennia of oral epic tradition, as evidenced by parallel formulaic expressions across Greek, Vedic, and other early Indo-European literatures.

In the final book of the epic, the shade of King Agamemnon recounts to Achilles's ghost how the Achaeans erected a grand and noble mound for him – one visible from afar to generations yet unborn. Eternal fame (kléos) also secures high esteem among the gods:

In such a culture, it is imperative for an aristocrat such as Odysseus to adhere strictly to the codes that govern nobility and heroism. Personal pride is inextricably bound up with public esteem. When Odysseus arrives on the island of Scheria, the Phaeacians host a magnificent banquet in his honour. Exhausted by his wanderings and consumed by sorrow, he desires only respite. Yet he is soon challenged by Laodamas to participate in athletic contests:

But when Broadsea – King Alcinous's son – calls Odysseus a mere profit-driven skipper rather than an athlete, he enrages the hero, who cannot bear the humiliation of being equated with a merchant. In contemporary society, a simple denial or indifference might suffice, supported by the knowledge of one's own status. Indeed, in our commercialised world, financial success often grants entry into the elite, where traditional aristocracy easily mingles with commercial wealth. We literally see European aristocracy mingling with merchants: hundreds of princes of the European Gotha marrying rich bankers' and businessmen's daughters, etc. Claims to distinction nowadays frequently rest upon the accumulation of fortune in sports, entertainment, or business.

For Odysseus, however, nobility is not measured by wealth, but by arete – an inherent excellence defined by style, tradition, prominence, and noble lineage. To prove his status as an aristos, Odysseus reluctantly accepts the athletic challenge. Yet what is most striking is his sharp rebuttal: he counters the insult by condemning Broadsea's own lack of noble breeding. In doing so, Odysseus articulates the true hallmarks of nobility:

Here, the concept of arete – or excellence – serves as a defining measure of a person's nobility. In Homeric epic, a hero's arete is demonstrated specifically through his skill and prowess as a warrior in times of battle, and as an athlete in times of peace. (17) To a modern reader, Odysseus's decision to enter the competition might appear overly ambitious or prideful. Yet Homer is not presenting a boastful man; rather, he depicts Odysseus as a man of principle, steadfastly adhering to the ancient codes of the aristocracy. Athletic competition is not mere recreation, but a structured attempt to reaffirm one's renown through the display of arete. Only the nobility, rather than the common people, manifest arete, for "the aristoi compete among themselves 'always to be the best and to be superior to others.' In his personal conduct, the Homeric hero possesses aidos, or a sense of duty. An affront to this sense of duty is known as nemesis, and is aroused in the hearts of others when aidos is slighted." (18)

Broadsea's challenge is especially offensive to Odysseus, who has earned supreme excellence through a decade of warfare, slaughter, and grief on the plains of Troy. In this encounter, we see how excellence and honour become inextricably merged.

Ancient Greece was an aristocracy (from the Greek aristoi = 'the best' and kratos = 'power') governed by kings, royalty, and individuals of exceptional talent and lineage. In his response to Broadsea, Odysseus outlines several essential qualities of the aristocrat:

1. Build (a strong, athletic physique)

2. Brains (intelligence and wisdom)

3. Flowing speech (eloquence)

4. Bearing (beauty, grace, and charm)

5. Self-control (exemplified by Odysseus's endurance and restraint with the suitors)

That Odysseus explicitly includes beauty, grace, and charm may initially surprise us. Yet throughout The Odyssey, we encounter this physical and aesthetic ideal of the nobility. Laodamas remarks that Odysseus cannot be a man of low standing with a build like his. Similarly, in Book IV, King Menelaus tells Prince Telemachus that his noble lineage is revealed through his wise words, reflecting the belief that distinguished ancestry imparts an inherent nobility of character. In Book XVII, Odysseus – disguised as a beggar – appeals to the suitor Eurymachus for a morsel of food by appealing to his noble stature: "You're hardly the worst Achaean here, it seems. The noblest one, in fact. You look like a king to me!" [Book XVII, 458–460] (19) A noble person is duty-bound to offer hospitality to a guest – a foundational principle known as xenia, to which I shall return later.

Simply by judging an individual's physical appearance, one could discern whether they were destined for wisdom and prominence. In Book XVIII, Penelope reproachfully tells her son Telemachus:

Characters in The Odyssey take immense pride in their lineage; they are routinely addressed by patronymics and identified by the deeds of their ancestors in battle. Indeed, Odysseus's driving desire is to return to his ancestral home. Past generations and those yet to be born are constantly weighed in the Homeric worldview, for kléos s meant to span across generations. In ancient Greek culture, the dead and the unborn play just as important a role as the living. Names, esteem, and the very charisma of the aristocrat are hereditary. Menelaus pays Telemachus a profound compliment when he remarks:

"Not even an older man could speak and do as well.

Your father's son your are – your words have all his wisdom.

It's easy to spot the breed of a man whom Zeus

Has marked for joy in birth and marriage both."

[Book IV, 228-231] (21)

This ideal of an aristocracy encompassing both body and soul is exceptionally powerful, evoking Friedrich Nietzsche's striking observations in Twilight of the Idols (Götzen-Dämmerung) regarding the philosopher Socrates. Deeply conversant with Pre-Socratic ethics and values, Nietzsche perceives in Socrates's physical ugliness the initial symptoms of the decay of aristocratic values:

"By birth, Socrates belonged to the lowest class: Socrates was plebeian. We are told, and can see in sculptures of him, how ugly he was. But ugliness, in itself an objection, is among the Greeks almost a refutation. Was Socrates a Greek at all? Ugliness is often enough the expression of a development that has been crossed, thwarted in some way. Or it appears as declining development. The anthropological criminologists tell us that the typical criminal is ugly: monstrum in fronte, monstrum in animo. But the criminal is a decadent. Was Socrates a typical criminal? At least that would be consistent with the famous judgment of the physiognomist that so offended the friends of Socrates. This foreigner told Socrates to his face that he was a monstrum – that he harboured in himself all the worst vices and appetites. And Socrates merely answered: 'You know me, sir!'" (22)

Slaves and commoners are thus depicted as requiring firm governance. Yet ruling through force is by no means the ideal state for a noble ruler endowed with refined sensibilities. Referring to the lawless suitors, Odysseus's old friend Mentor reluctantly remarks during an assembly of nobles on the bitter dilemma that arises when order breaks down:

Although this is a tradition, and therefore something you just do, Homer shows that there are two pragmatic reasons for xenia: you acquire a good reputation and the gods are watching you. A king feels that it is his honour to be the most hospitable man in the land if a king's son visits the country. Odysseus wants to continue his journey home, as his host Alcinous says:

The gods are watching, too. All guests, even beggars, have been sent by Zeus, Eumaeus says in Book XIV, verses 63-66  (34), and the suitors volley back Antinous' shamelessly aggressive and inhospitable behaviour towards Odysseus the helpless beggar, as follows:

Transposed to our present days, Antinous' behaviour would be the same as swearing at a monk. The gods were regarded with a lot of ambiguity; deceitful yet just and wrathful as they could be. It reminds us of Elpenor's inappropriate burial which cannot be left unavenged or uncorrected. When Telemachus received Athena, daughter of Zeus in Book I, he did not know that it was she, but he was most hospitable to the stranger. He stood the divine test of xenia.

In the ancient poem Metamorphoses by the Roman poet Ovid (43 BC – AD 17), this concept of the divine test of hospitality yields the beautiful story of the couple Baucis and Philemon. This poor, elderly Phrygian couple was being visited by Jupiter and his son Mercury in human shape. The couple showed great hospitality to the strangers and gave them their finest food, wine and fowl. When the strangers showed their divine powers, Bausic and Philemon were shocked. The pious couple was saved from destruction whereas their whole impious, inhospitable town was changed into a lake. Their house remained untouched and the gods changed it into a temple. The couple was transformed into two strong trees (35). The strength of this imperative is reminiscent of the Judeo-Christian Flood where sinful people are being drowned.

In The Odyssey, with every meal or slaughtering ritual the table companions perform sacrificing rituals. If the rituals are performed appropriately, the gods will be well-disposed towards man. In Book XIV we are given an exact step-by-step description of a sacrifice performed by the loyal swineherd. It is his fattest hog: he plucked tufts from its head, threw them into the fire, prayed to all the powers, begging them to bring Odysseus back; he then sprinkled barley over strips of fatty pork, and so it goes on for more verses. (36) The reason for Homer to describe it so elaborately could be that he wants to show that the swineherd performs the rituals meticulously, as a man of God. After eating, the swineherd and all the other people in The Odyssey pour their best wine as a libation.

In Book XII, Cattle of the Sun, Odysseus' men have organised a cattle raid by stealing the Sungod's cows. This is an act of desacration. But they also commited desacration when performing the ritual inappropriately:

After this Odysseus' wanderings went into their longest, most luckless stage. The gods would have all men killed, except for Odysseus, who would be confined to Calypso's island for many years. Interestingly, The Odyssey begins with a short reference to this event, as if this cattle raid and the descration were the reason for our hero's exile.

Let us turn to the fine traditional fabric of society: society in The Odyssey is clearly patriarchal. Men are warriors, they rule over their houses and families (oikos) and over their people. The main reason why Odysseus' oikos is being terrorised by suitors is that the man of the house is gone. Telemachos is the only heir to the estate and to the throne, but when Odysseus had left for Troy Telemachus was still a child. Telemachus tells Eumaeus:

"It's not that our people have turned against me,

Keen for a showdown. Nor have I any brothers at fault,

Brothers a man can trust to fight beside him, true,

No matter what deadly blood-feud rages on,

Zeus made our line a line of only sons.

Arcesius had only one son, Laertes,

And Laertes had only one son, Odysseus,

And I am Odysseus' only son."

[Book XVI, 127-134] (38)

The palace had hitherto been ruled by his mother Penelope, but as a widow she is unable to chase away the suitors. If Odysseus does not return, it is time for Telemachus to grow up soon and for Penelope to get married and leave the palace. In Indo-european societies a widow is a problem; the widower is not. Interestingly, Indo-europeanists have reconstructed a Proto-Indo-European word for 'widow': *uidheuo-, denoting 'separated' (39). But they have not found a Proto-Indo-European word for widower. For example, Dutch weduwnaar and English widower both go back to widow + er/naar. The final roots -er or -naar are male suffixes, which have been added to the word later. The other Indo-european languages have, later on, added similar male suffixes to the word (40).

The rich widow is the target of suitors and of shame and grief; Penelope must be lead by a man. The suitors will continue to slaughter her cattle if she does not choose either one of them (Book II). In Book XV Athena tells Telemachus (while he is still at Nestor's palace, ready to look for his father):

I would like to note the following: apparently, a widow forgets about her former husband and about her first children. According to tradition, the lives of children who have lost one parent will never be the same. This is reminiscent of many ancient Germanic stories like that of Frau Holle: here a sweet and diligent stepdaughter is unloved by her stepmother, who is also a widow. The widow's own daughter is lazy and ugly, but she receives all the love. Eventually the diligent stepdaughter falls through a well into the Underworld where she meets the goddess of Death, Frau Holle (Hölle = Hell). Scholars have explained this as an attempted suicide. (41)

If Penelope gets married, it means that she will have to leave the house that she is living in now. That is what Telemachus knows, embedded as he is in his society's traditions:

A woman cannot take care of all the estate and the estate should be inherited through the male line. The act of wedding implies that the man leads the woman to his house. Indo-europeanists have also reconstructed the root *uedh-, 'to lead home', which is cognate with English 'to wed'. It implies marriage purely from the man's point of view. This emphasises the importance of the man's perspective in these societies.

Suddenly Telemachus displays his manly power, and tells his mother that she is no longer in charge of the house. After all, he is older now and Athena has made him a man by sending him off on a voyage. He knows by now that the beggar is Odysseus. His mother does not. Telemachus interrupts his mother and he allows the beggar to use Odysseus' bow:

Homer shows us that tradition is important to ancient Greek society. He does this, not only by demonstrating traditions, rituals and customs in an anecdotal way, but he also shows that there is a deeper layer hidden within tradition. According to The Odyssey, tradition and good behaviour are things you do and which have serious consequences for your personal consitution. Unlike written laws, they form a part of the characters's conscience; it is a conscience that is enforced by the gods, who are the final law-givers. We see that rules, traditions, honour, glory and gods are closely intertwined. Maybe Homer was detecting lawless and honourless behaviour by younger people in his age. Maybe he wanted to tell the listeners how to conduct. In any case, he has provided us with an ancient window that has been allowing us for over two millennia to look into the world of the colourful, proud age of presocratic aristocracy.