How the myth of Hephaestus anticipates the idea of intelligent assistants and reshapes our understanding of artificial intelligence
Some texts do not age — they simply change light.
And when the present feels overwhelming — when the words “artificial intelligence” seem to define an entire era — perhaps the clearest move is not to rush forward, but to look backward with renewed attention. Not in search of prophecy, but of continuity: the same human curiosity, now wearing a different name.
For this reason, The Iliad is not an archaeological return. It is an ancient mirror that still reflects brilliance.
In Homer’s poem, Thetis ascends to the palace of Hephaestus as if crossing a threshold — not merely toward a god, but toward the place where worlds are forged. She arrives with an urgency that needs no explanation: a mother’s urgency. Achilles has lost his armor, and war — that ancient and persistent machinery — demands another. But what Thetis asks for is not only metal. She asks for protection. For form. For a second skin capable of accompanying a body destined for legend.
Homer describes Hephaestus at work. His palace is a workshop. Yet what makes the passage unforgettable is not only the forging, but what moves around it.
Because the divine blacksmith does not work alone.
Homer quietly introduces an image that feels impossible — and yet enters the poem naturally: around Hephaestus move golden automatons, beings crafted to assist him, to keep pace with the rhythm of the workshop, to turn labor into choreography. Gold — usually associated with stillness and preservation — here walks. And that movement, at the heart of the myth, is a form of wonder.
Myth and AI
They are not decorative. They are there to help.
This subtle detail builds a bridge to our own time. The palace of Hephaestus is not merely a mythological scene; it is an early intuition of something we continue to seek. The idea that a tool can be more than an object — that it can accompany, support, collaborate. Intelligent assistance.
Artificial intelligence appears in our time as a technical leap — and it is. But it also feels like an echo: something arriving with new language yet touching ancient impulses. The materials have changed — now intangible — as have the names and speeds. But the drive remains: to create something that works alongside us.
In The Iliad, this assistance does not replace the creator. The automatons do not occupy the center of the story; they form its environment. They extend Hephaestus’s craft; they do not substitute his talent. Homer presents them as part of a choreography of workmanship: the artisan at the center, the workshop in motion, technique in service of creation.
This image closely mirrors contemporary promises of AI: assistants that help write, organize, synthesize, translate, calculate, and explore possibilities. Tools that accelerate processes, bring order to chaos, and open new paths — not to replace human imagination, but to expand it.
There is something else in Thetis’s visit that makes this connection universal. In Homer, technique arises from deeply human need. Thetis does not approach Hephaestus out of curiosity, but out of urgency. Her request is born of care. Of fragility. Of the awareness that even heroes are vulnerable.
This gesture runs through the entire history of invention: we create because something is missing. We build because something hurts. Technology, far from cold, is often a form of shelter.
Perhaps that is why Hephaestus’s workshop feels familiar rather than distant. There is not only divine power there, but labor. Method. Craft. An intelligence inseparable from material reality. An intelligence that acts.
At that point, the connection to artificial intelligence no longer feels forced. Not because Homer “predicted” the future, but because he captured the astonishment of seeing creation begin to collaborate with its creator.
Like all human power, this too calls for responsibility. Yet what truly moves us about AI is not merely its performance, but its symbolic place. Its resemblance to a scene humanity has always known: the workshop, the creator, the assistant. The tool that makes possible what once seemed too heavy for one person alone.
