Homer: The Odyssey
The Plainspoken Classics - Scriptorium Press (First Edition, 2026)
An original AI translation made directly from the source language.
https://openscriptorium.com


======== Book 1 ========

Tell me, Muse, of the man of many turns, who wandered far and wide after he sacked the sacred citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many men and came to know their minds, and on the sea he suffered many pains within his heart, struggling to save his own life and bring his comrades home. Yet not even so did he save his comrades, though he longed to — they were destroyed by their own recklessness, the fools, who ate the cattle of Helios, the sun above, and so he took away the day of their return. Of these things, goddess, daughter of Zeus, tell us too, beginning wherever you please.
By then all the others who had escaped sheer destruction were home, safe from war and sea alike. But Odysseus alone, longing for his homecoming and his wife, was held back by the queenly nymph Calypso, shining among goddesses, in her hollow caves, wanting him for her husband. But when, as the years rolled on, the season came that the gods had spun for him to return home to Ithaca, not even there was he free of trials, even among his own people. All the gods pitied him, except Poseidon, who raged on without ceasing against godlike Odysseus until he reached his own land.
But Poseidon had gone off to visit the Ethiopians, who live far away and are split into two peoples, the most remote of men, some where the sun goes down and some where it rises, to receive a sacrifice of bulls and rams. There he sat enjoying the feast, while the other gods were gathered together in the halls of Olympian Zeus. Among them the father of gods and men was first to speak, for in his heart he remembered noble Aegisthus, whom far-famed Orestes, son of Agamemnon, had killed.
Thinking of him, he spoke these words to the immortals: "How strange it is that mortals blame the gods! They say their troubles come from us, yet it is through their own recklessness that they suffer pain beyond what is fated. So it is now with Aegisthus, who beyond his portion married the wife of Atreus's son and killed that man on his return, though he knew it meant sheer ruin — for we ourselves had warned him, sending Hermes, the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus, to tell him not to kill the man nor court his wife, since vengeance for Atreus's son would come through Orestes, once he grew up and longed for his own land. So Hermes told him, but for all his good will he could not persuade the mind of Aegisthus. Now he has paid for everything at once."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Our father, son of Cronus, highest of the powers, that man indeed lies in a death he deserved — so may anyone else die who does such things. But my heart aches for wise Odysseus, that unlucky man, who has long suffered pains far from his loved ones, on an island washed by the sea, where the sea has its very navel.
It is a wooded island, and a goddess lives there in her halls, the daughter of grim-minded Atlas, who knows the depths of every sea and himself holds up the tall pillars that keep earth and sky apart. His daughter holds that unhappy, grieving man there, and forever with soft and coaxing words she works to make him forget Ithaca. But Odysseus, longing to see even the smoke rising from his own land, wishes only to die. Yet your heart does not turn to pity him, Olympian. Did Odysseus not please you with sacrifices beside the ships of the Argives, in the wide land of Troy? Why then, Zeus, do you rage at him so?"
Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, answered her: "My child, what a word has escaped the fence of your teeth! How could I ever forget godlike Odysseus, who surpasses all mortals in wisdom and has given the most offerings to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven? No — it is Poseidon, the earth-holder, who nurses an unrelenting grudge because of the Cyclops whose eye Odysseus blinded, godlike Polyphemus, the strongest of all the Cyclopes,
whose mother was the nymph Thoosa, daughter of Phorcys, lord of the barren sea, who lay with Poseidon in her hollow caves. Ever since then Poseidon, the shaker of the earth, does not kill Odysseus outright, but drives him wandering far from his own country. Come then, let all of us here plan his homecoming, how he may return; and Poseidon will let go of his anger, for he cannot fight alone against the will of all the immortal gods."
Then the goddess, grey-eyed Athena, answered him: "Our father, son of Cronus, highest of the powers, if indeed this is now pleasing to the blessed gods, that wise Odysseus return to his own home, then let us send Hermes, the guide, the slayer of Argus, to the island of Ogygia, so that at once he may tell the nymph with the lovely braids our firm decision — the homecoming of steadfast Odysseus — that he may set out. And I myself will go to Ithaca, to rouse his son the more and put courage in his heart, to call the long-haired Achaeans to assembly
and speak out against all the suitors, who keep slaughtering his crowding sheep and his shambling, curved-horned cattle. I will send him also to Sparta and sandy Pylos to ask after his dear father's homecoming, in case he hears something, and so that good fame may follow him among men."
So she spoke, and bound beneath her feet the beautiful sandals, immortal, golden, that carried her over water and over the boundless earth swift as the blowing wind. She took up her mighty spear, tipped with sharp bronze, heavy, huge, and strong, with which she beats down the ranks of warriors, of any hero at whom the daughter of a mighty father is angry. Down she darted from the peaks of Olympus and came to stand in the land of Ithaca, at the outer gate of Odysseus's court, on the threshold of the yard, holding the bronze spear in her hand, disguised as a stranger, Mentes, leader of the Taphians.
There she found the overbearing suitors. They were amusing themselves at that moment with games of draughts before the doors, sitting on the hides of cattle they themselves had slaughtered, while heralds and busy attendants mixed wine and water for them in bowls, and others wiped down the tables with porous sponges and set them out, and still others carved great quantities of meat and served it round.
Godlike Telemachus was by far the first to see her, for he sat among the suitors with a heavy heart, picturing in his mind his noble father — how he might come from somewhere and scatter the suitors through the house, and win back his own honor, and rule over his own household. Thinking of these things as he sat among the suitors, he caught sight of Athena. He went straight to the gate, ashamed in his heart that a stranger should stand so long at the doors, and coming close
he took her right hand and received the bronze spear from her, and spoke to her, saying, "Welcome, stranger — you will be treated kindly here. And afterward, once you have had your fill of dinner, you can tell us what you need."
So saying, he led the way, and Pallas Athena followed. When they had come inside the lofty house, he set the spear he carried against a tall pillar, inside the polished spear-rack where many other spears of steadfast Odysseus stood, and led her to a chair and seated her, spreading a fine cloth beneath her,
a beautiful, ornate chair, with a footstool beneath it. He placed his own inlaid seat nearby, apart from the suitors, so that his guest, troubled by their uproar, should not lose his appetite for the meal among such overbearing men, and so that he could ask him about his absent father. A servant girl brought water for washing in a fine golden pitcher and poured it out over a silver basin, and drew up a polished table beside them. A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it out, adding many good things, generous with what she had.
A carver lifted platters of every kind of meat and set them before the guests, and placed golden cups beside them, while a herald kept coming round to pour them wine. Then in came the overbearing suitors, and they took their seats in order on chairs and benches. Heralds poured water over their hands, the maidservants heaped bread beside them in baskets, and the young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine. They reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them, and when they had put away their desire for food and drink,
the suitors turned their minds to other things they cared for — song and dance, the crowning glories of a feast. A herald placed a beautiful lyre in the hands of Phemius, who sang for the suitors under compulsion, and he struck up a fine song as he played. Meanwhile Telemachus spoke to grey-eyed Athena, leaning his head close so the others would not hear: "Dear stranger, will you be angry with me for what I say? These men care only for such things, the lyre and song, and easily so, since they devour another man's wealth without paying for it —
a man whose white bones, I imagine, rot in the rain somewhere on the mainland, or roll in the waves of the sea. If they should ever see him come back to Ithaca, all of them would pray to be swifter on their feet rather than richer in gold and clothing. But now he has died some wretched death, and there is no comfort for us, even if some man on earth says he will return — the day of his homecoming is lost forever. But come, tell me this and speak the plain truth: who are you, and where are you from? Where is your city, who are your parents?
What kind of ship did you come on? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaca? Who did they claim to be? For I do not imagine you came here on foot. And tell me this truly, so that I may know well — are you visiting for the first time, or are you a guest-friend of my father's house from before? For many other men used to come to our home as well, since he too traveled much among men."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Very well, I will tell you all this quite truthfully. I am Mentes, son of wise Anchialus, and I am lord over the oar-loving Taphians.
Now I have put in here with my ship and crew, sailing over the wine-dark sea to men of a foreign tongue, bound for Temese after bronze, and I carry gleaming iron. My ship lies out near the fields, away from the city, in the harbor of Rheithron, under wooded Neion. We claim to be guest-friends of one another from our fathers' time, from long ago, as you may learn if you go and ask the old hero Laertes, who they say no longer comes to the city
but stays apart, out on his farm, suffering hardship, with an old serving-woman who gives him food and drink whenever weariness overtakes his limbs as he crawls along the slope of his vineyard terrace. I have come now because they told me your father was at home; but it seems the gods are hindering his journey. For godlike Odysseus has not yet died on the earth — he is still alive somewhere, held back on the wide sea, on some sea-washed island, kept there by hard, savage men who no doubt hold him against his will.
Now I will make you a prophecy, as the immortals put it in my heart and as I think it will be accomplished, though I am no seer and know nothing sure of birds. He will not be away much longer from his own dear country, not even if bonds of iron hold him — he will find a way to return, for he is endlessly resourceful. But come, tell me this and speak truly: are you really, grown so tall, the son of Odysseus himself? You are wonderfully like him about the head and the fine eyes, since we used to meet with each other often,
before he embarked for Troy, where the other best of the Argives also went in their hollow ships. Since that time I have not seen Odysseus, nor has he seen me."
Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Very well, stranger, I will tell you quite truthfully. My mother says I am his son, but I myself do not know it — no man ever really knows his own father for certain. How I wish instead I had been born the son of some fortunate man whom old age overtook among his own possessions! But as it is, the most ill-fated of mortal men is said to be my father, since you ask me this."
Then the goddess grey-eyed Athena answered him: "The gods have not made your line nameless in time to come, since Penelope bore a son such as you. But come, tell me this and speak truly: what is this feast, this crowd here? What need calls for it? A banquet, or a wedding? For it is clearly no potluck where each brings his share — so overbearingly, it seems to me, do these men feast throughout the house. Any sensible man who came upon such shameful behavior would be angry to see it."
Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Stranger, since you ask me this and question me closely — this house was once destined to be rich and beyond reproach, while that man was still at home. But now the gods have willed otherwise, in their malice, and have made him vanish from all men's sight more completely than anyone. I would not grieve so much even for his death, if he had fallen among his comrades in the land of Troy, or died in the arms of his loved ones once he had wound up the war. Then the whole body of Achaeans would have built him a grave mound, and he would have won great glory for his son as well, for all time to come.
But as it is, the storm-spirits have snatched him away without fame. He is gone, unseen, unheard of, and has left me only grief and lamentation. Nor is it for him alone that I weep and grieve — the gods have made other troubles for me too. For all the chief men who hold power in the islands, in Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus, and all who lord it over rocky Ithaca, all of them court my mother and waste away our household. She neither refuses the hateful marriage nor is able to end the matter, while they consume and devour
my house — and soon they will destroy me too."
Deeply moved, Pallas Athena spoke to him: "How terrible — you truly need Odysseus, gone as he is, to lay his hands on these shameless suitors. If only he would come now and stand at the outer gate of his house, wearing helmet, shield, and two spears, such as he was when I first saw him in our own house, drinking and taking his ease, on his way back from Ephyra, from Ilus son of Mermerus —
for Odysseus had gone there too, in his swift ship, seeking a deadly poison to smear on his bronze-tipped arrows. Ilus would not give it to him, out of respect for the gods who live forever, but my father gave it to him instead, for he loved him greatly. If Odysseus, as he was then, could come face to face with these suitors, they would all find a swift death and a bitter wedding. But truly these things lie on the knees of the gods, whether he will return and take vengeance in his own halls, or whether he will not. As for you, I urge you to consider now how you yourself may drive the suitors from your house.
Come now, listen carefully and take my words to heart. Tomorrow call the Achaean lords to assembly, and speak your mind to all of them, with the gods as your witnesses. Order the suitors to scatter, each to his own home; and as for your mother, if her heart is set on marrying again, let her go back to the house of her mighty father, and her family will arrange her marriage and provide the many gifts that should go with a beloved daughter. To you myself I will give careful advice, if you will take it: fit out the best ship you have with twenty oarsmen,
and go to learn of your father, gone so long, in case some mortal can tell you, or you hear a rumor sent by Zeus, which most often carries word to men. Go first to Pylos and question noble Nestor, and from there to Sparta, to fair-haired Menelaus, who was the last of the bronze-armored Achaeans to reach home. If you hear that your father is alive and on his way back, then, worn as you are, you could bear to wait one more year. But if you hear that he is dead and gone,
then return to your own dear country, raise him a grave mound, and offer him all the funeral honors that are fitting, and give your mother to a husband. And once you have finished and done all this, then turn your mind and heart to how you might kill the suitors in your halls, whether by trick or in the open. You should no longer cling to childish ways — you are not a boy any longer. Have you not heard what fame noble Orestes won among all men, when he killed the man who murdered his father,
cunning Aegisthus, who had slain his glorious father?
"And you, my friend — I look at you and see someone handsome and tall — be brave, so that men not yet born will speak well of you. As for me, I will go down now to my swift ship and my crew, who must be growing impatient waiting for me. Look to these things yourself, and take my words to heart."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered her: "Stranger, you have spoken all this out of true kindness, the way a father speaks to his son, and I will never forget it. But come, stay a while longer, eager as you are to be on your way, so that you may first bathe and refresh your heart,
and then go to your ship carrying a gift, a fine and precious thing, which will be yours to keep as a token from me — the kind of gift that host-friends give to host-friends."
But the grey-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "Do not hold me back any longer, eager as I am to be gone. Whatever gift your heart moves you to give me, give it when I come again, to carry home — choose something truly fine, and it will earn you as much in return."
So spoke the grey-eyed Athena, and she was gone — she flew up and out like a bird, straight into the air. But in Telemachus's heart she had planted courage and daring, and had made him think of his father
even more than before. And he, turning it over in his mind, felt wonder in his heart, for he sensed that a god had been with him. At once, godlike, he went to join the suitors.
The famous singer was singing for them, and they sat in silence listening; he sang of the Achaeans' bitter homecoming from Troy, the one Pallas Athena had laid upon them. And from her room above, Penelope, wise daughter of Icarius, caught the inspired song in her heart,
and came down the tall staircase from her chamber — not alone, for two handmaids went with her. And when this shining woman reached the suitors, she stood by the doorpost of the well-built hall,
holding a shining veil before her cheeks, and a faithful handmaid stood on either side of her. Then, in tears, she spoke to the godlike singer:
"Phemius, you know many other things to charm the heart, deeds of men and gods, which singers make famous. Sing them one of those, sitting among them, and let them drink their wine in silence — but stop this song,
this bitter one, which always wears at the heart in my breast, since a grief beyond bearing has come upon me above all others. For it is such a head I long for, remembering it always — a man whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered her: "Mother, why do you begrudge the good singer his pleasure in singing as his mind moves him? It is not the singers who are to blame, but Zeus, surely, who gives to men who live by their labor whatever he wishes, to each as he chooses. There is no cause to be angry with this man for singing the grim fate of the Danaans —
for people praise more highly whatever song is newest to reach their ears. Let your heart and spirit steel themselves to listen; for Odysseus was not the only one to lose his day of homecoming at Troy — many other men perished there as well. Go back into the house, and take up your own work, the loom and the spindle, and tell your handmaids to get on with their tasks. Talk is men's business,
all men's, but mine above all, for the authority in this house is mine."
She went back to her room in wonder, for she had taken her son's wise words to heart. She climbed up to her upper chamber with her handmaids about her, and wept there for Odysseus, her beloved husband, until grey-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids.
The suitors broke into uproar throughout the shadowed hall, and every one of them prayed to lie beside her in bed. Then wise Telemachus began to speak among them:
"Suitors of my mother, you who wear such overweening insolence — for now, let us feast and take our pleasure, and let there be no shouting, since it is a fine thing to listen to a singer
such as this one, whose voice is like the gods'. At daybreak let us all go and take our seats in the assembly, so that I may speak my mind to you plainly and tell you to clear out of this hall. Go feast elsewhere, eating your own goods, taking turns from house to house.
But if it seems to you a better and finer thing that one man's livelihood should be destroyed without payment, then go on wasting it — but I will call upon the gods who live forever, in hope that Zeus may somehow grant that these deeds be repaid in kind: then you would perish inside this house, and no one would pay for it."
So he spoke, and all of them bit their lips, marveling at Telemachus, that he spoke with such boldness. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: "Telemachus, surely the gods themselves are teaching you to talk big and speak with such daring. May the son of Cronus never make you king in seagirt Ithaca, though it is yours by birthright."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered him: "Antinous, will you be angry with me for what I am about to say? I would be glad to take that very thing, if Zeus should grant it.
Or do you claim this is the worst fate that can befall a man? No, there is nothing bad about being king — a man's house grows rich at once, and he himself is held in greater honor. But there are, in fact, other kings of the Achaeans, many of them, in seagirt Ithaca, young and old alike;
let one of them have the title, now that great Odysseus is dead. But I will be lord of my own house and of the slaves that great Odysseus won for me."
Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him in turn: "Telemachus, this indeed lies on the knees of the gods —
which of the Achaeans will be king in seagirt Ithaca. But keep your own possessions and be master in your own house; may no man ever come who would tear your goods from you by force against your will, while Ithaca is still standing. But I want to ask you, best of men, about the stranger —
where this man comes from, what land he claims for his own, where his family and his native soil lie. Does he bring some news of your father's coming, or has he come here on some business of his own? How suddenly he sprang up and was gone — he did not wait
to be known, and yet he did not look like a common man by his face."
Telemachus, keeping his wits about him, answered him: "Eurymachus, surely my father's homecoming is lost for good. I no longer put faith in any news, wherever it may come from, nor do I heed any prophecy my mother may draw from a seer she calls into the hall. That stranger is a family friend of ours from Taphos;
he claims to be Mentes, son of wise Anchialus, and he rules over the oar-loving Taphians." So Telemachus spoke, but in his heart he knew it had been an immortal goddess.
The suitors turned to dancing and to the pleasures of song, and made merry, waiting for evening to come on. And while they made merry, the dark evening came upon them; then at last each man went off to sleep in his own house.
Telemachus went to the room where his own high chamber had been built, in a spot with a clear view, within the beautiful courtyard, and there he went to his bed, turning many things over in his mind. Beside him, carrying blazing torches, walked Eurycleia, wise in good counsel, daughter of Ops son of Peisenor,
whom Laertes had once bought with his own wealth,
while she was still in the first bloom of youth, paying the price of twenty oxen; and he honored her in his household as much as his own faithful wife, but he never took her to his bed, for he wished to avoid his wife's anger. She it was who now carried the blazing torches beside Telemachus, and she loved him best
of all the household slaves, for she had nursed him when he was small. He opened the doors of his well-built chamber and sat down on the bed, and pulled off his soft tunic, and put it into the careful old woman's hands.
She folded the tunic and smoothed it neatly, and hung it on a peg beside the jointed bedstead,
then went out of the chamber, drawing the door shut by its silver handle, and slid the bolt home by its strap. There, all night long, wrapped in a fleece of wool, he lay pondering in his heart the journey Athena had shown him.

======== Book 2 ========

When Dawn came, rose-fingered and early-born, Odysseus's dear son rose from his bed. He put on his clothes, slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, bound fine sandals beneath his shining feet, and strode out of his chamber looking like a god. At once he told the clear-voiced heralds to summon the long-haired Achaeans to assembly. They cried the summons, and the people gathered quickly. When they had assembled and stood together, he went to the meeting-place, a bronze spear in his hand — not alone, for two sleek dogs trotted at his side. Athena poured a marvelous grace over him, and all the people stared as he came forward. He sat in his father's seat, and the elders made way for him.
Then the old hero Aegyptius rose to speak among them, a man bent double with age and full of years. His own dear son had gone with godlike Odysseus in the hollow ships to Troy of the fine horses — the spearman Antiphus, whom the savage Cyclops had killed in his hollow cave, making him the last of his meal. Three other sons the old man had: one, Eurynomus, kept company with the suitors, while the other two still worked their father's lands. Even so he never forgot the lost son, still grieving and mourning for him. Weeping, he now stood up to address the assembly, and said:
"Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and let me speak. Never once has our assembly met, never once have we sat in council, since godlike Odysseus sailed away in the hollow ships. Who has called us together now? What need presses so urgently, whether on some young man or on one of the older among us? Has he heard news of an army on the march, that he might tell us plainly, having learned of it first? Or is it some other public matter he wishes to declare and lay before us? Whatever it is, he seems to me a good man, and blessed. May Zeus bring to pass whatever good thing is in his heart!"
So he spoke, and Odysseus's dear son rejoiced at the words of good omen. He did not stay seated long, but rose eager to speak, and stood in the middle of the assembly. The herald Peisenor, skilled in wise counsel, put the staff into his hand. First he turned to the old man and addressed him:
"Old sir, the man is not far off — you will soon see for yourself — for it is I who called the people together. It is I whom grief has struck hardest. I have heard no news of an army on the march, to report to you plainly, having learned it first, nor is there any other public matter I mean to declare. It is my own private trouble, the double evil that has fallen on my house. First, I have lost my noble father, who once ruled among you here, and was as gentle as a father could be. And now comes a second, still greater trouble, one that will soon utterly destroy my household and consume my whole livelihood.
"Suitors beset my mother against her will — the very sons of the men who are foremost here. They shrink from going to the house of her father Icarius, so that he might himself set the bride-price for his daughter and give her to whomever he wishes, the man who pleases him. Instead they haunt our house day after day, slaughtering our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats, feasting and drinking our glowing wine without restraint, squandering it all. For there is no man here like Odysseus, to drive this ruin from the house. We ourselves are not equal to defending it —
we would only prove wretched and unpracticed in strength, even should we try. I would defend my house if only I had the power. But intolerable deeds are being done now, and my house is being destroyed shamefully. You yourselves should feel outrage at this, and shame before the neighboring peoples who dwell around us. Fear the anger of the gods, lest they turn in wrath against these wicked deeds. I beg you, by Olympian Zeus and by Themis, who dissolves and convenes the assemblies of men — hold back, my friends, and leave me alone with my bitter grief,
unless indeed my noble father Odysseus ever did some wrong to the armored Achaeans, for which you now take revenge on me by encouraging these men against me. It would be better for me if you yourselves were eating my stored goods and my livestock. If you consumed them, there might in time be some repayment — for then we could go about the city pressing our claim, demanding back our goods, until everything was restored. But as it is, you load my heart with pains I cannot resolve."
So he spoke in anger, and dashed the staff to the ground, bursting into tears; and pity seized the whole assembly. All the others sat in silence, and no one had the heart to answer Telemachus with harsh words. Only Antinous spoke up in reply:
"Telemachus, big talker, unrestrained in temper, what a thing to say, trying to shame us! You would fasten blame on us, but the suitors of the Achaeans are not the ones at fault here — it is your own dear mother, who is far too clever at scheming. It is now the third year, and soon the fourth will come, since she has been deceiving the hearts of the Achaeans in their chests.
"She gives every man hope, sends promises to each one separately, but her mind is set on other things. Here is the trick she devised in her heart: she set up a great loom in the hall and began weaving a large and delicate cloth, and said to us at once, 'Young men, my suitors, since noble Odysseus is dead, wait, eager as you are for my marriage, until I finish this cloth — I do not want my spinning wasted — a shroud for the hero Laertes, ready for the day when the deadly fate of grim death lays him low,
so that no woman of the Achaeans might reproach me if he who won so much should lie without a shroud.' So she spoke, and our proud hearts consented. Then by day she would weave the great web, but by night she would unravel it by torchlight. For three years her trick deceived the Achaeans and went undetected. But when the fourth year came round with its seasons, one of her women, who knew the truth, told us, and we caught her in the act of unraveling the shining cloth. So she was forced to finish it, against her will, under compulsion.
"Now this is the suitors' answer to you, so that you may know it in your own heart, and all the Achaeans may know it too: send your mother away, and tell her to marry whomever her father names and whoever pleases her. But if she goes on much longer tormenting the sons of the Achaeans, relying on the gifts Athena has given her beyond all women — skill in fine handwork, a keen mind, and cunning such as we have never heard of, even among the women of old,
the fair-haired women of Achaea long ago, Tyro, Alcmene, and crowned Mycene — not one of them had wits to equal Penelope's, though in this last matter she has not judged rightly. For as long as this scheme runs on, so long will your goods and your livelihood be eaten away, so long as she keeps to the purpose the gods now put in her heart. Great fame she is winning for herself, but for you, only the loss of your great livelihood. As for us, we will not go back to our own affairs, nor anywhere else, until she marries whichever of the Achaeans she wishes."
Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Antinous, there is no way I can drive from my house the woman who bore me and reared me,
my mother — while my father is somewhere on the earth, alive or dead. And it would go hard for me to repay Icarius, if I sent my mother home of my own will. For I would suffer evils from her father, and the god would send yet more, since my mother, leaving the house, would call down the terrible Furies against me — and men, too, would hold it against me. So I will never speak that word. But if your own hearts feel any shame at this, then leave my halls, and go feast elsewhere, eating your own goods, trading turn and turn about among your own houses.
But if it seems to you better and more profitable to go on destroying one man's livelihood without payment, then go on despoiling it — but I will call upon the everlasting gods, in hope that Zeus may somehow grant that these deeds be repaid in kind. Then you would perish inside these halls unavenged."
So Telemachus spoke, and far-thundering Zeus sent two eagles flying down from a mountain peak above. For a while they flew on the wind's breath, side by side, wings spread wide; but when they reached the very middle of the crowded assembly,
they wheeled about, beating their wings rapidly, and looked down on all the heads below, foreboding death. Then, tearing at each other's cheeks and necks with their talons, they sped off to the right, over the houses and the city. The people were amazed when they saw the birds with their own eyes, and pondered in their hearts what this sign meant, what was fated to come. Then the old hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, spoke among them — he alone of his generation surpassed all others in reading birds and speaking of what was fated. With good will toward them he rose and said:
"Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and let me speak — and to the suitors especially I declare this: a great disaster is rolling down upon them. For Odysseus will not be long away from his own people — indeed he is already near, and is sowing death and doom for these men, all of them. And it will bring trouble too for many others of us who live in clear-seen Ithaca. So let us think, well before it comes, how we may stop this, or rather let them stop themselves — that would be better for them, and soon. For I do not prophesy without experience, but with sure knowledge.
I say that all has come to pass for Odysseus just as I foretold when the Argives set sail for Troy, and cunning Odysseus went with them. I said that after suffering many evils and losing all his companions, unknown to everyone, he would come home in the twentieth year — and now all of this is coming true." Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him in turn: "Old man, go home now and prophesy to your own children, in case they suffer some harm hereafter.
As for this, I am far better at prophecy than you. Many birds fly about beneath the sun's rays, and not all of them mean anything. Odysseus has perished far away — you should have died along with him! Then you would not be uttering all these prophecies, nor stirring up Telemachus, already so angry, hoping for a gift for your own house, if he should give one. But I tell you this plainly, and it will indeed come to pass: if you, knowing many old things, lead this younger man astray with your words and provoke him to anger,
it will go worse for him first of all — nothing will come of it because of us — and as for you, old man, we will lay a fine on you, one that will grieve your heart to pay, and it will be a bitter pain for you. As for Telemachus, I myself will advise him before you all: let him tell his mother to go back to her father's house. Her family will arrange the marriage and prepare the bride-gifts in plenty, as many as is fitting to accompany a beloved daughter. For I do not think the sons of the Achaeans will give up their difficult courtship before then, since we fear no one at all —
certainly not Telemachus, for all his fine speeches — nor do we pay any heed to your prophecy, old man, which you utter in vain, only making yourself more hated. His goods will go on being eaten up wastefully, and there will be no repayment, so long as she keeps the Achaeans waiting over her marriage. We ourselves, waiting day after day, keep contending over her excellence, and go seeking no other women whom each of us might properly marry." Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Eurymachus, and the rest of you proud suitors, I will no longer plead with you or speak of this.
The gods already know it, and all the Achaeans too. But come, give me a swift ship and twenty companions, who will help me complete a voyage there and back. For I mean to go to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to ask after my father's return, so long delayed — in case some mortal can tell me, or I may hear some rumor from Zeus, which most of all carries word to men. If I hear that my father lives and is coming home, then, worn as I am, I could still endure one more year. But if I hear that he is dead and gone,
then I will return to my own dear native land, build him a grave-mound, and give him all the funeral rites that are fitting, as many as befit him, and give my mother to a husband." Having spoken so, he sat down, and among them rose Mentor, who had been the companion of noble Odysseus, and to whom, when he sailed with the ships, Odysseus had entrusted his whole household, bidding it obey the old man and keep everything safe. With good will toward them he rose and spoke:
"Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and let me speak. Let no sceptered king any longer be truly kind and gentle in heart, or mindful of what is right —
let him instead always be harsh and do lawless deeds — since not one of the people whom godlike Odysseus once ruled remembers him now, though he was as gentle as a father. And yet I do not so much blame the overbearing suitors for doing violent deeds out of their wicked scheming — for they risk their own necks when they violently devour Odysseus's household, saying he will never return. What angers me now is the rest of you, the people — how you all sit in silence, and do not so much as speak out and rein in
the suitors, few as they are against your many numbers." Then Leocritus, son of Evenor, answered him: "Mentor, reckless one, unsound of mind, what have you said, urging them to stop us? It is hard, even for more numerous men, to fight over a feast. Even if Odysseus of Ithaca himself should come and find us, the proud suitors, feasting in his hall, and set his heart on driving us from his palace,
his wife would take no joy in his return, much as she longs for him — instead he would meet an ugly death right there, if he tried to fight against so many. What you have said is not fitting. But come, let the people scatter, each to his own work; Mentor and Halitherses will speed this young man's journey — they have been his father's friends from the beginning. Yet I think he will sit here a long while yet, gathering news, and will never complete this voyage."
So he spoke, and broke up the assembly in haste. The people scattered, each to his own house, and the suitors went off to the house of godlike Odysseus. But Telemachus walked apart, down to the shore of the sea.
There he washed his hands in the gray salt water and prayed to Athena: "Hear me, you who came yesterday as a god to our house, and bade me sail over the misty sea in a ship to learn of my father's return, so long delayed. But the Achaeans are hindering all of this, the suitors most of all, in their wicked arrogance." So he prayed, and Athena came near to him, taking the likeness of Mentor in form and voice, and speaking winged words she said to him: "Telemachus, you will not turn out cowardly or foolish hereafter,
if truly your father's noble spirit has been instilled in you — such a man was he at accomplishing both deed and word. Then this journey of yours will not be in vain or unfulfilled. But if you are not the true son of that man and of Penelope, then I have no hope that you will accomplish what you now intend. Few sons indeed turn out equal to their fathers; most are worse, and only a few better. But since you will not turn out cowardly or foolish hereafter, and since Odysseus's cunning has not utterly deserted you, there is good hope that you will bring these things to pass.
So now, put aside the plans and purposes of the suitors, senseless and unjust men that they are, for they know nothing of the death and black doom that is close upon them, fated to destroy them all in a single day. As for your own voyage, it will not be long delayed now, since you desire it so. I am your father's old comrade, and I will fit out a swift ship for you and come along myself. But go now to the house and mingle with the suitors; prepare provisions and stow everything in vessels — wine in jars, and barley meal, the marrow of men,
in stout skins — while I go through the town and quickly gather willing companions. There are many ships in sea-girt Ithaca, new and old alike; I will look them over and choose whichever is best, and we will make her ready and launch her swiftly onto the broad sea." So spoke Athena, daughter of Zeus, and Telemachus did not linger long once he had heard the goddess's voice. He went toward the house, his heart heavy with grief, and found the proud suitors there in the hall, skinning goats and singeing fattened pigs in the courtyard.
Antinous came straight toward Telemachus, laughing, and gripped his hand and spoke, calling him by name: "Telemachus, loud talker, temper unchecked, don't let any other ugly deed or word take root in your chest. Just eat and drink with us, as you always have. The Achaeans will see to all of this for you soon enough — a ship and picked oarsmen — so you can get to holy Pylos faster and ask after news of your noble father."
Telemachus, keeping his head, answered him: "Antinous, there's no way I can sit quietly at your table and enjoy myself among men so full of themselves, at ease. Isn't it enough that you suitors have already stripped away so much of my fine property, back when I was still a child? Now that I've grown, and I listen to what others say, and I understand it, and now that my spirit is swelling inside me, I'm going to try to bring down a bad fate on you, whether I go to Pylos or find the means right here in this land. I am going, and the journey I speak of won't be wasted, even as a passenger — since I own no ship of my own, nor any crew. That, I suppose, is exactly how you'd prefer it."
So he spoke, and pulled his hand free from Antinous's grip, easily. Meanwhile the suitors went on preparing their feast through the house, mocking him and jeering with cutting words. And one of the arrogant young men would say something like this:
"Telemachus is really plotting our murder now! He'll bring back help from sandy Pylos, or maybe even from Sparta, since he's burning to go so badly. Or else he means to go to Ephyra, that rich farmland, to fetch back deadly poison from there, to drop into the mixing bowl and kill every one of us."
And another of the arrogant young men would answer: "Who knows — maybe he'll wander off himself in a hollow ship, far from his friends, and die lost just like Odysseus. That would only pile more work on us — we'd get to divide up all his property, and we'd give the house itself to his mother, to keep, along with whoever marries her."
So they talked. But Telemachus went down into his father's high-roofed storeroom, a wide chamber where gold and bronze lay piled up, and clothing in chests, and abundant fragrant oil. There too stood jars of old, sweet wine, holding the pure, god-given drink inside, ranged in a row against the wall, in case Odysseus should ever come home again, after all his hard suffering. The doors were fastened shut with double-folded, close-fitted planks, and a woman, the housekeeper, held watch there night and day — Eurycleia, daughter of Ops son of Peisenor, who guarded everything with the shrewdness of her mind.
Telemachus called her then into the storeroom and said to her: "Nurse, come now, draw off wine for me into jars — the sweetest kind, the finest after the one you're keeping in reserve for that unlucky man, in case he should ever come back from somewhere, god-born Odysseus, having escaped death and doom. Fill twelve jars and seal every one with lids. And pour barley meal for me into well-stitched skins — let there be twenty measures of ground barley meal. Keep this to yourself alone; let it all be gathered together. I'll come for it myself this evening, once my mother has gone up to her room and turns her thoughts to sleep. For I am going to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to ask after my dear father's homecoming, in case I hear anything."
So he spoke, and his beloved nurse Eurycleia burst into a wail, and grieving she spoke to him in winged words: "Why, dear child, has this thought come into your mind? Where do you want to go, over so much land, you who are our only beloved son? He has perished far from his homeland, god-born Odysseus, in some land of strangers. And these men, the moment you're gone, will plot evil against you for later, so that you'll die by treachery, and they'll divide up everything you own among themselves. No — stay here among your own people. There is no need for you to suffer hardship wandering over the barren sea."
Telemachus, keeping his head, answered her: "Take heart, nurse — this plan of mine isn't without a god behind it. But swear to me you won't tell my dear mother this, not until the eleventh or twelfth day comes, or until she misses me herself and hears that I've gone — so that she won't spoil her lovely skin with weeping."
So he spoke, and the old woman swore a great oath by the gods. And when she had sworn and finished the oath, she drew off wine for him at once into the jars, and poured barley meal into well-stitched skins. Then Telemachus went back into the house and mingled with the suitors.
Meanwhile the bright-eyed goddess Athena thought of something else. Taking the shape of Telemachus, she went everywhere through the city, and stopping beside each man she spoke to him, telling them to gather that evening at the swift ship. She went, too, to Noemon, the shining son of Phronius, and asked him for a swift ship — and he readily agreed. The sun set, and all the streets grew shadowed, and then she drew the swift ship down to the sea and loaded into it all the gear that well-benched ships carry.
She moored it at the harbor's edge, where the loyal crew gathered together, and the goddess roused each one on. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena thought of yet another thing. She went to the house of godlike Odysseus, and there she poured sweet sleep over the suitors, scattered their drinking, and knocked the cups from their hands. They rose to go to bed throughout the city, and did not sit long, since sleep was falling on their eyelids.
Then the bright-eyed Athena called Telemachus out from the well-built hall, taking the shape and voice of Mentor: "Telemachus, your well-greaved companions are already sitting at the oars, waiting for you to give the signal to set out. Come, let's go — we shouldn't delay the journey any longer."
So speaking, Pallas Athena led the way quickly, and he followed in the goddess's footsteps. When they came down to the ship and the sea, they found their long-haired crew waiting on the shore. The strong and holy Telemachus spoke among them: "Come, friends, let's bring the supplies aboard — everything is already gathered in the hall. My mother knows nothing of this, nor do the other maids; only one heard what I planned."
So speaking he led the way, and they followed with him. They carried everything and stowed it aboard the well-benched ship, just as the beloved son of Odysseus had ordered. Telemachus climbed aboard the ship, and Athena went first, and sat down in the stern of the ship, and Telemachus sat close beside her. The crew loosed the stern cables, climbed aboard themselves, and took their seats at the benches.
Bright-eyed Athena sent them a favoring wind, a fresh west wind, singing over the wine-dark sea. Telemachus called out to his crew, urging them to lay hold of the rigging, and they heard his call and obeyed. They raised the pine mast and set it upright in its hollow socket, lashed it fast with forestays, and hauled up the white sail with well-twisted oxhide ropes. The wind filled the sail's belly, and the dark wave roared loudly around the stem as the ship went on her way; she ran skimming over the waves, cutting her course.
When they had made the gear fast throughout the swift black ship, they set up mixing bowls and filled them to the brim with wine, and poured libations to the deathless gods who live forever, and above all to the bright-eyed daughter of Zeus. All night long and into the dawn the ship cut her way through the sea.

======== Book 3 ========

The sun sprang up, leaving the beautiful sea, into the bronze sky, to shine for the immortals and for mortal men on the grain-giving earth. And they came to Pylos, Neleus's well-built city, where the people were on the shore of the sea offering sacrifice, black bulls without blemish, to the dark-haired Earthshaker. Nine companies sat there, five hundred men in each, and each company had nine bulls set before it. They had just tasted the entrails and were burning the thigh-pieces to the god when the travelers ran their ship straight in.
They furled the sail, lifted it down, moored the ship, and stepped out. Telemachus climbed down from the ship, with Athena leading the way. The goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke to him first: "Telemachus, you must set aside shyness now, every bit of it. You sailed the sea for this very reason, to learn about your father, where the earth hid him and what fate he met. So go now, straight to Nestor, breaker of horses. Let us see what counsel he keeps hidden in his heart. Beg him yourself to tell you the plain truth. He will not lie to you, for he is a man of great good sense."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Mentor, how shall I go up to him? How shall I greet him? I have no practice yet in shrewd speech, and besides, a young man feels shame questioning an elder." And the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him again: "Telemachus, some things you will think of yourself in your own heart, and the rest a god will put into your mind. I do not believe you were born and raised against the will of the gods." So speaking, Pallas Athena led the way briskly, and he followed after in the tracks of the goddess.
They came to the gathering and the seats of the Pylian men, where Nestor sat with his sons, and around them his companions were preparing the feast, roasting some meats and spitting others. When they saw the strangers, all of them came together in a body, clasped their hands in welcome, and bade them sit. Nestor's son Peisistratus came forward first, took the hands of both, and seated them at the feast on soft fleeces spread on the sandy shore, beside his brother Thrasymedes and his father. He gave them portions of the entrails and poured wine
into a golden cup. Then, welcoming Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, he spoke to her: "Pray now, stranger, to lord Poseidon, since it is his feast you have come upon on your arrival here. When you have poured the libation and prayed, as custom requires, give this cup of honey-sweet wine to your companion too, so that he may pour and pray, for I think he also must pray to the immortals -- all men have need of the gods. But he is younger, of an age with myself, so I will give the golden cup to you first."
So saying he placed the cup of sweet wine in her hand, and Athena rejoiced that the sensible, righteous man had given the golden cup to her first. At once she prayed at length to lord Poseidon: "Hear me, Poseidon, holder of the earth, and do not begrudge us the fulfillment of these prayers. Grant glory first of all to Nestor and his sons, and then give to all the rest of the Pylians a gracious reward for this splendid hecatomb. And grant that Telemachus and I may go home again
having accomplished what we came here for, sailing in our swift black ship." So she prayed, and she herself was bringing it all to pass. Then she gave Telemachus the fine two-handled cup, and Odysseus's dear son prayed in the same way. When they had roasted the outer meats and drawn them off the spits, they divided the portions and feasted on the glorious meal. And when they had put away their desire for food and drink, Nestor, the old horseman of Gerenia, opened the talk among them: "Now it is more fitting to ask and question our guests as to who they are, since they have had their fill of eating.
Strangers, who are you? Where do you sail from over the watery paths? Is it on some business, or do you wander at random over the sea, like pirates, who roam risking their lives and bringing harm to strangers in foreign lands?" Thoughtful Telemachus answered him, taking courage -- for Athena herself put courage in his heart, so that he might ask about his absent father and win a good name for himself among men: "Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, you ask where we are from, and I will tell you.
We have come from Ithaca, under Mount Neion. The business I bring is my own, not the city's, as I will explain: I am seeking word, wide word, of my father, in case I may hear something of noble Odysseus, of the enduring heart, who they say once fought at your side and sacked the city of Troy. Of all the others who fought against the Trojans, we have learned where each one met his grim death, but of him the son of Cronus has made even his death a thing unknown. No one can say for certain where he perished, whether he was brought down on land by hostile men,
or at sea, among the waves of Amphitrite. That is why I have come now to clasp your knees, in hope that you might be willing to tell me of his grim death, whether you saw it with your own eyes or heard the story from another wanderer -- for his mother bore him to more sorrow than most. Do not soften your words out of pity or respect for me, but tell me plainly all you witnessed. I beg you, if ever my father, noble Odysseus, promised you anything, word or deed, and carried it out, in the land of the Trojans where you Achaeans suffered hardship,
remember it now, and tell me the truth without fail." Then Nestor, the old horseman of Gerenia, answered him: "Friend, since you have reminded me of the misery we endured there, we sons of the Achaeans, our fury unrestrained -- all we suffered roaming the misty sea in our ships after plunder, wherever Achilles led, and all we suffered fighting around the great city of lord Priam, where the best of us were killed one after another. There lies warlike Ajax, there lies Achilles,
there lies Patroclus, wise in counsel as a god, and there my own dear son, both strong and blameless, Antilochus, outstanding in running and in battle. And we suffered many other evils besides these -- who among mortal men could tell the whole tale? Not if you stayed and questioned me five years, even six, about all the hardships the noble Achaeans suffered there, could you hear it all; you would grow weary and go back to your own native land first. For nine years we wove evils against them,
working every kind of stratagem, and only with difficulty did the son of Cronus bring it to an end. In that whole time no one dared to match wits with him,
since noble Odysseus far surpassed all in every kind of stratagem -- your father, if indeed you truly are his son. Wonder holds me as I look at you. Your speech, too, is just like his; one would not expect so young a man to speak with such fitness. All the while great Odysseus and I never spoke against each other, neither in the assembly nor in council, but shared one mind, and with foresight and understanding we planned how things might turn out best for the Argives. But when we had sacked the steep city of Priam
and boarded our ships, and a god scattered the Achaeans, then Zeus devised in his heart a grim homecoming for the Argives, since not all of them were sensible or just. So many of them met an evil fate through the deadly wrath of the gray-eyed daughter of a mighty father, who stirred up strife between the two sons of Atreus. The two of them called all the Achaeans to assembly, recklessly, not in proper order, at sunset, and the sons of the Achaeans came heavy with wine.
They spoke their reasons for gathering the army. Then Menelaus urged all the Achaeans to turn their minds to the homeward voyage over the sea's broad back, but this did not please Agamemnon at all, for he wished to hold the army back and offer sacred hecatombs, to appease the terrible wrath of Athena -- fool that he was, not knowing she would not be won over so; the minds of the gods who live forever do not change so quickly. So the two of them stood there exchanging harsh words, and the well-greaved Achaeans sprang up
with a tremendous roar, and their counsel was split two ways. That night we lay down, nursing bitter thoughts against one another, for Zeus was preparing disaster for us. At dawn some of us hauled our ships down into the bright sea and loaded our goods and the deep-girdled women aboard. Half the army held back and stayed there with Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, while the other half of us boarded and rowed away; and our ships sped on very swiftly, for a god smoothed the great sea's swell. When we reached Tenedos we offered sacrifice to the gods,
longing for home, but Zeus had no thought yet of granting us return; cruel god, he stirred up bitter strife a second time. Some turned their curved ships back, following lord Odysseus of the many wiles, wanting to please Agamemnon once again. But I fled onward with the ships that followed me, for I saw that the god was planning disaster. The warlike son of Tydeus fled too, and roused his men. Fair-haired Menelaus caught up with us late, and found us on Lesbos debating the long voyage,
whether to sail above rugged Chios, keeping the island of Psyria on our left, or below Chios, past windy Mimas. We asked the god to show us a sign, and he showed it, bidding us cut across the open sea to Euboea, so that we might escape disaster as quickly as possible. A shrill wind rose to speed us, and our ships ran swiftly over the fish-filled paths, and came in to Geraestus in the night. There we laid many thighs of bulls on Poseidon's altar, having measured the great expanse of sea. It was the fourth day when the companions of Diomedes, breaker of horses,
son of Tydeus, brought their trim ships to anchor at Argos. But I held on for Pylos, and the wind never once died down from the moment the god first sent it blowing. So I came home, dear child, without any word, and know nothing of who among the Achaeans survived and who perished. But whatever I have learned sitting here in my own halls, as is right, you shall hear, and I will hide nothing from you. They say the Myrmidons, famous spearmen, came home safe, led by the shining son of great-hearted Achilles, and Philoctetes too, the glorious son of Poeas, came home safe.
And Idomeneus brought all his companions to Crete, all who survived the war; the sea took none of them from him. As for the son of Atreus, you have heard yourselves, far off as you are, how he came home, and how Aegisthus devised his grim death. But Aegisthus paid a terrible price for it in the end -- so good a thing it is for a man to leave a son behind him when he dies, since that son took vengeance on his father's killer, cunning Aegisthus, who slew his glorious father. And you too, friend -- for I see you are handsome and tall --
be brave, so that even men not yet born will speak well of you." Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, yes, he took full vengeance, and the Achaeans will spread his fame far, for men yet to come to hear of it. If only the gods would clothe me in such strength, to take vengeance on the suitors for their grievous outrage, who scheme wicked things against me and insult me without end. But the gods have spun no such fortune for me,
for my father or for me. Now I must simply endure it." Then Nestor, the old horseman of Gerenia, answered him again:
"Friend, since you have reminded me of this and spoken of it, they say that many suitors, for your mother's sake, work evil in your halls against your will. Tell me, do you submit to this willingly, or do the people of the land hate you, following some word from a god? Who knows -- perhaps he may yet come and pay them back for their violence, either alone, or with all the Achaeans behind him. If only gray-eyed Athena chose to love you as she once cared for glorious Odysseus
in the land of the Trojans, where we Achaeans suffered our pains -- for I have never seen gods show such open love as Pallas Athena showed, standing openly at his side -- if she chose to love you like that and care for you in her heart, then many a suitor would forget all about marriage." Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Old man, I do not think that word will ever come true. What you have said is too great; astonishment holds me. I could not hope for such a thing myself, not even if the gods willed it."
Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke to him again: "Telemachus, what a word has escaped the fence of your teeth!
A god, if willing, could easily save a man even from far away. As for myself, I would rather come home after suffering many hardships and see the day of my return, than come home and be killed at my own hearth, as Agamemnon was killed by the treachery of Aegisthus and his own wife. But death itself, the common death, not even the gods can ward off from a man they love, whenever the deadly fate of grim death lays hold of him." Thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Mentor, let us speak of this no more, much as it grieves us.
There is no true homecoming left for him now; the immortals have already marked out for him death and black doom. But now I wish to ask Nestor about another matter, since he knows justice and wisdom beyond all other men -- they say he has ruled over three generations of men, so that looking at him he seems like an immortal to me. Nestor, son of Neleus, tell me the truth: how did Agamemnon, wide-ruling son of Atreus, die? Where was Menelaus? What death did cunning Aegisthus devise for him,
since he killed a man far braver than himself? Was Menelaus not in Achaean Argos, but wandering somewhere else among men, so that Aegisthus took courage and killed him?" Then Nestor, the old horseman of Gerenia, answered him: "Then I will tell you the whole truth, my child. You yourself can guess how it would have gone if fair-haired Menelaus, son of Atreus, coming home from Troy, had found Aegisthus alive still in the halls.
Then no one would have heaped up even a burial mound over him once dead; instead dogs and birds would have torn him apart, lying out on the plain far from the city, and none of the Achaean women
would have wept for him -- so monstrous was the deed he plotted. For while we were there toiling through our many labors, he sat at ease in a corner of Argos, land of good pasture, and worked on Agamemnon's wife with endless flattering words. Now noble Clytemnestra had at first refused the shameful act, for she had a good mind; and besides, there was a minstrel with her, whom the son of Atreus, going off to Troy, had charged strictly to guard his wife. But when the doom of the gods bound her to be overcome,
then Aegisthus took that minstrel to a desert island and left him there, a prize and prey for the birds, and led her off, willing as he was willing, to his own house. He burned many thigh-pieces on the gods' holy altars, and hung up many offerings, woven cloth and gold, having brought off a great deed he never expected in his heart to accomplish. "We were sailing together at the same time, coming from Troy, the son of Atreus and I, close friends. But when we reached holy Sunium, the headland of Athens,
there Phoebus Apollo attacked Menelaus's helmsman with his gentle arrows and killed him as he held the steering oar of the running ship in his hands -- Phrontis, son of Onetor, who surpassed all men living in steering a ship whenever the storm winds bore down. So Menelaus was held there, eager as he was to press on, so that he might bury his companion and give him due funeral honors. But when he too, sailing on over the wine-dark sea in his hollow ships, reached the steep headland of Malea,
then far-thundering Zeus devised a hateful path for him, pouring down a blast of shrieking winds, and monstrous waves rose up, like mountains. There he split the fleet in two, and drove some of the ships toward Crete, where the Cydonians dwelt around the streams of the Iardanus. There is a smooth cliff, sheer to the sea, at the edge of Gortyn, in the misty deep, where the South Wind drives a great wave against the western headland, toward Phaestus, and a small rock holds back the great wave. The ships came there, and the men barely escaped destruction,
though the waves smashed the ships themselves against the rocks. But the other five dark-prowed ships were carried on by wind and current to Egypt.
So he made port there, though eager for his journey, so that he might bury his companion and give him the rites owed to the dead. But when he too, sailing on over the wine-dark sea in his hollow ships, reached the steep headland of Malea, then far-seeing Zeus devised a hateful road for him, and poured down a blast of shrieking winds, and the waves rose monstrous, tall as mountains.
There he split the fleet in two, and drove some toward Crete, where the Cydonians lived around the streams of the Iardanus. There is a smooth cliff, sheer to the sea, at the edge of Gortyn, in the misty water, where the South Wind drives a great wave against the western headland, toward Phaestus, and a small rock holds back a great sea. The ships came there, and the crews barely escaped death, but the waves smashed the hulls against the rocks. As for the other five dark-prowed ships, wind and current carried them on to Egypt.
So Menelaus wandered there among people of a foreign tongue, gathering great wealth and gold, while at the very same time Aegisthus was plotting his grim scheme at home. For seven years he ruled over Mycenae rich in gold, after he had killed the son of Atreus, and the people were held under his hand. But in the eighth year, Orestes, sprung from Zeus, came back from Athens to strike him down — divine Orestes came home and struck down his father's killer, cunning Aegisthus, who had murdered his own glorious father. And once he had killed him, he held a funeral feast for the Argives, for his hateful mother and cowardly Aegisthus alike.
On that very day warlike Menelaus arrived, bringing back all the treasure his ships could carry.
"So you too, friend, must not wander far from home too long, leaving your possessions behind and men in your house so insolent that they may divide up everything and devour it, and your journey come to nothing. Still, I urge you and command you to go to Menelaus, for he has only just come home from abroad, from a people so distant that no one would hope in his heart ever to return from there, once the storms had first swept him out onto that vast sea,
onto that great gulf from which not even birds of prey make their way back within the year, so huge and terrible it is. But go now, with your own ship and your companions. Or if you would rather go by land, a chariot and horses stand ready for you, and my own sons are ready too, to be your escorts to holy Lacedaemon, where fair-haired Menelaus lives. Beg him yourself to tell you the plain truth — he will not lie, for he is a man of great good sense."
So he spoke, and the sun went down and darkness came on. Then the goddess, grey-eyed Athena, spoke among them.
"Old man, all this you have said rightly, as is fitting. But come, cut out the tongues and mix the wine, so that once we have poured libations to Poseidon and the other immortals, we may turn our thoughts to sleep, for it is the hour. Already the light has gone down into darkness, and it is not right to sit long at a feast of the gods, but to go home."
So spoke the daughter of Zeus, and they listened to her voice. Then heralds poured water over their hands, and young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with drink, and served it round to all, pouring first a portion into every cup. They cast the tongues into the fire and rose to pour libations over them. And when they had poured and drunk as much as their hearts desired, then Athena and godlike Telemachus both were eager to go back together to the hollow ship.
But Nestor held them back, taking hold of them with these words: "Zeus forbid this, and the other immortal gods as well, that you should go from my house to your swift ship as though from some man with no cloaks at all, some poor wretch who has no blankets or coverlets in his house for himself or his guests to sleep soft.
"No, I myself have plenty of fine cloaks and coverlets. Never will the dear son of this man Odysseus lie down on the deck-planks of a ship, not while I am alive, and after me my sons remain in my halls to welcome whatever guest comes to my door."
Then the goddess, grey-eyed Athena, answered him: "You have spoken well in this, dear old man, and it is right that Telemachus should yield to you, since that is far better. Let him now go with you, so that he may sleep in your halls, but I will go back to the black ship, to encourage the crew and tell them all that is needed.
"For I alone among them claim to be the elder; the rest are younger men who follow out of friendship, all of an age with great-hearted Telemachus. There I will lie down beside the hollow black ship tonight, but at dawn I will go among the great-hearted Cauconians, where a debt is owed me, no small or recent one. As for this young man, since he has come to your house, send him on with your son and chariot, and give him horses, the swiftest you have for running and the strongest in power."
So having spoken, grey-eyed Athena went away, in the form of a sea-eagle, and wonder seized all who watched. The old man marveled, seeing it with his own eyes, and he took Telemachus by the hand and spoke to him, calling him by name.
"Friend, I do not think you will turn out cowardly or weak, if at your young age gods like this already walk beside you as guides. For this was no other than the daughter of Zeus, the glorious Trito-born, she who honored your noble father too among the Argives. But be gracious, my queen, and grant me good fame,
to myself and my children and my honored wife; and in return I will sacrifice to you a yearling heifer, broad of brow, unbroken, one that no man has yet led under the yoke — her I will offer to you, gilding her horns with gold."
So he spoke in prayer, and Pallas Athena heard him. Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor led the way for them, his sons and his sons-in-law, back to his beautiful halls. And when they reached the famous house of that lord, they sat down in order on couches and chairs, and the old man, as they took their seats, mixed for them a bowl
of sweet wine, which in the eleventh year the housekeeper had opened, loosing its seal for the first time. From this the old man mixed the bowl, and poured out much in prayer to Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis. And when they had poured and drunk as much as their hearts desired, the others went off, each to his own house, to take their rest, but Telemachus, dear son of godlike Odysseus, was given a bed there by the Gerenian horseman Nestor, on a corded bedstead beneath the echoing gallery, and beside him lay Peisistratus of the strong ash spear, marshal of men,
the one of his sons still unwed who remained in the halls. Nestor himself slept in the innermost chamber of his high house, and his wife the lady of the house prepared his bed and rest beside him. When early Dawn appeared with her rose-red fingers, the Gerenian horseman Nestor rose from his bed and went out and sat down on the polished stones that stood before his lofty doors, white stones, gleaming with oil, on which before him Neleus used to sit, a counselor equal to the gods; but he had already gone down to Hades, overcome by fate,
and now Gerenian Nestor sat there in his place, guardian of the Achaeans, holding his staff. Around him his sons gathered close, coming from their rooms — Echephron and Stratius, Perseus and Aretus, and godlike Thrasymedes. Then, sixth among them, came the hero Peisistratus, and they brought godlike Telemachus and set him down beside them. And Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, began to speak among them: "Quickly now, dear children, fulfill my wish, so that I may first of all the gods win the favor of Athena, who came to me plainly, in person, at the rich feast of the god.
"Come, let one of you go to the plain for a heifer, so that she may come as quickly as possible, driven by the herdsman who tends the cattle; let another go to great-hearted Telemachus's black ship and bring back all his crew, leaving only two behind; and let another summon the goldsmith Laerces here, so that he may gild the heifer's horns with gold. The rest of you stay here together, and tell the servants within to prepare a feast in the famous hall, and to bring seats, and wood, and clear water."
So he spoke, and they all busied themselves at once. The heifer came in from the plain, and the crew of great-hearted Telemachus came from the swift, trim ship, and the smith came bringing in his hands the bronze tools of his craft, the instruments of his art — anvil, hammer, and well-made tongs, with which he worked gold. And Athena came too, to receive the sacrifice. The old horseman Nestor gave him gold, and the smith worked it skillfully around the heifer's horns, so that the goddess might delight to see the offering. Stratius and godlike Echephron led the heifer in by the horns.
Aretus came from the chamber bringing water for their hands in a flowered basin, and in his other hand he carried barley grains in a basket; battle-hardy Thrasymedes stood near, holding a sharp axe in his hand, ready to strike the heifer down. Perseus held the bowl to catch the blood. Then the old horseman Nestor began the rite with the water and the barley, and prayed long to Athena, casting hairs from the heifer's head into the fire as the first offering. And when they had prayed and cast the barley grains forward, at once Nestor's proud son Thrasymedes stepped close and struck; the axe cut through the tendons of the neck and loosed the heifer's strength. And the women raised the ritual cry —
the daughters and daughters-in-law and the honored wife of Nestor, Eurydice, eldest of the daughters of Clymenus. Then the men lifted the heifer from the wide-wayed earth and held her fast, while Peisistratus, marshal of men, cut her throat. And when the dark blood had drained from her and life had left her bones, they quickly cut her apart, and at once sliced out the thigh-pieces, all according to custom, and wrapped them round in fat, folding it double, and laid raw flesh upon them. The old man burned these over split wood, and poured gleaming wine over them, while the young men beside him held the five-pronged forks in their hands.
When the thigh-pieces were burned and they had tasted the inner parts, they cut up the rest into small pieces and skewered them, and roasted them, holding the pointed spits in their hands. Meanwhile fair Polycaste, Nestor's youngest daughter, born of Neleus's line, bathed Telemachus. And when she had bathed him and rubbed him with rich olive oil, she threw a fine cloak and tunic around him, and he stepped out of the bath looking like a god in build. He went and sat down beside Nestor, shepherd of his people. And when the others had roasted the choice meat and drawn it from the spits,
they sat down and feasted, and noble men rose to pour wine into golden cups. But when they had put away their desire for food and drink, Gerenian Nestor the horseman began to speak among them: "My sons, come, yoke fine-maned horses to a chariot for Telemachus, so that he may press on with his journey." So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed, and quickly yoked swift horses to the chariot. The housekeeper stored bread and wine aboard, and meat too, such food as kings, cherished by Zeus, eat.
Then Telemachus climbed up into the splendid chariot, and beside him Peisistratus, son of Nestor, marshal of men, mounted the car and took the reins in his hands, and whipped the horses on to run, and they flew onward eagerly toward the plain, leaving behind the steep citadel of Pylos. All day long they shook the yoke that held them both. The sun went down and all the roads grew shadowed, and they came to Pherae, to the house of Diocles, son of Ortilochus, whom the river Alpheus had fathered. There they spent the night, and he set before them the gifts owed to guests.
When early Dawn appeared with her rose-red fingers, they yoked the horses once more and climbed up into the painted chariot, and drove out through the gateway and the echoing gallery. He whipped the horses on to run, and they flew onward eagerly. They came to the wheat-bearing plain, and from there they finished the journey swiftly, so fast did the swift horses carry them onward. The sun went down and all the roads grew shadowed.

======== Book 4 ========

They came to the hollow land of Lacedaemon, ringed by its hills, and drove on to the palace of glorious Menelaus. They found him there feasting with his many kinsmen, celebrating the marriage of his son and his flawless daughter, all within his own house. The daughter he was sending off to the son of Achilles, breaker of men — for at Troy he had first promised and pledged to give her, and now the gods were bringing that marriage to pass. So with horses and chariot he was sending her on her way to the famous city of the Myrmidons, over whom the bridegroom ruled. For his son he had brought home a bride from Sparta, the daughter of Alector — the strong Megapenthes, his son late-born and dear, born of a slave woman, since the gods no longer granted Helen any child after she bore her lovely daughter Hermione, who had the beauty of golden Aphrodite.
So they feasted there beneath the high-roofed hall, the neighbors and kinsmen of glorious Menelaus, and made merry; and among them a inspired singer sang to the lyre, and two acrobats whirled and tumbled through their midst as he led the song.
At that moment, at the gates of the house, Telemachus and Nestor's noble son reined in their chariot and horses. Old Eteoneus, the brisk attendant of glorious Menelaus, came forward and saw them, and hurried in through the hall to bring word to the shepherd of the people. He came close and spoke winged words:
"Here are two strangers, Menelaus, sprung from Zeus — two men who look the very image of the line of great Zeus. Tell me, shall we unyoke their swift horses, or send them on to find another host who will welcome them?"
Fair-haired Menelaus, greatly troubled, answered him:
"You were no fool before, Eteoneus, son of Boethous — but now you talk like a child. Think of it — the two of us ate the hospitality of many other men before we came home at last, if only Zeus will someday give us rest from hardship. Go, unyoke the strangers' horses, and bring the men themselves in to share our feast."
So he spoke, and Eteoneus hurried back through the hall, calling the other brisk attendants to follow him. They loosed the sweating horses from beneath the yoke and tied them at the mangers, throwing down spelt before them and mixing in white barley. They leaned the chariot against the gleaming inner wall, and led the two guests into the godlike house. Seeing it, they marveled, gazing about the palace of the Zeus-nourished king — for a radiance as of the sun or the moon played over the high-roofed hall of glorious Menelaus.
When they had filled their eyes with looking, they went and bathed in the polished tubs. Once the serving women had washed them and rubbed them with oil, and thrown fine cloaks and tunics about them, they took their seats on chairs beside Menelaus, son of Atreus. A maidservant came and poured water for their hands from a fine golden pitcher over a silver basin, and drew up a polished table beside them. A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, laying out many good things, generous with what she had. A carver lifted platters of every kind of meat and set them down, and placed golden cups beside the guests. And fair-haired Menelaus, gesturing toward the food, said to them:
"Help yourselves to the food, and welcome. When you have both eaten, we will ask who you are among men — for the blood of your fathers is not lost in you; you are clearly sprung from the race of scepter-bearing kings nourished by Zeus, for no common men could father sons like these."
So he spoke, and taking in his hands a rich cut of roasted ox-chine that had been set before him as his own honored portion, he placed it before them. They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready. When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, Telemachus leaned his head close to Nestor's son, so the others would not hear, and said:
"Look, son of Nestor, dear to my heart — see the gleam of bronze through these echoing halls, the gold, the amber, the silver, the ivory! Surely the court of Olympian Zeus must be like this within, such is the boundless wealth here — I am struck with awe to see it."
Fair-haired Menelaus overheard what he was saying, and spoke to them both, winged words:
"Dear children, no mortal could rival Zeus — his halls and his possessions are undying. But among men, some might rival me in wealth, or perhaps not. Truly I suffered much and wandered far before I brought it home in my ships, coming back in the eighth year — I roamed to Cyprus, Phoenicia, and Egypt, I reached the Ethiopians, the Sidonians, the Erembi, and Libya, where the lambs grow horns almost from birth, for the ewes there bear young three times within the year. There no lord and no shepherd ever lacks cheese or meat or sweet milk, for the flocks always yield milk enough. While I was gathering great wealth in my wanderings through those lands, another man murdered my brother — secretly, without warning, by the treachery of his accursed wife. So I take no joy as lord of these riches.
And you must have heard of these things from your own fathers, whoever they are, for I suffered greatly, and lost a house well-built and stocked with many fine things. I wish I dwelt in my halls now with only a third of that wealth, if only the men were safe who died then in the wide land of Troy, far from horse-pasturing Argos. Yet even so, though I mourn and grieve for all of them, sitting often in these halls of mine, sometimes I ease my heart with weeping and sometimes I stop again — for a man tires quickly of cold grief. Yet for all of them together I do not grieve as I do for one man alone, who makes sleep and food hateful to me when I remember him, since no other of the Achaeans labored and suffered as Odysseus labored and suffered. For him it seems only sorrow was destined, and for me an endless, unforgettable grief for him — how long he has been gone, and we do not even know whether he lives or has died. He must be mourned now by old Laertes, and by steady Penelope, and by Telemachus, whom he left a newborn child in his house."
So he spoke, and stirred in Telemachus a longing to weep for his father. Tears fell from his eyes to the ground as he heard his father's name, and he lifted his purple cloak with both hands before his eyes. Menelaus noticed him, and pondered in his heart and mind whether to let him remember his father on his own, or to question him first and test him point by point.
While he weighed this in his heart and mind, Helen came down from her fragrant high-roofed chamber, looking like Artemis of the golden distaff. Adraste set a well-made chair for her, Alcippe brought a rug of soft wool, and Phylo brought a silver basket that Alcandre had given her, the wife of Polybus, who lived in Egyptian Thebes, where the greatest wealth lies stored in houses. Polybus had given Menelaus two silver bathtubs, two tripods, and ten talents of gold, and besides these his wife had given Helen beautiful gifts of her own: a golden distaff, and a basket running on wheels, made of silver with a rim finished in gold.
This basket, filled with fine-spun yarn, her maid Phylo now brought and set beside her; and across it lay the distaff, holding dark violet wool. Helen sat down in her chair, with a footstool beneath her feet, and at once began questioning her husband about everything:
"Do we know, Menelaus, nourished by Zeus, who these men claim to be who have come to our house? Shall I speak falsely, or shall I speak the truth? My heart bids me speak. For I say I have never seen anyone so alike — neither man nor woman — I am struck with wonder looking at him — as this man resembles the son of great-hearted Odysseus, Telemachus, whom that man left a newborn child in his house when the Achaeans went up under Troy for the sake of me, shameless woman that I was, waging bold war."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered her:
"That is just what I too now see, wife, as you point it out. Such were his feet, such his hands, the glance of his eyes, his head, and the hair above it. And just now, as I was speaking of Odysseus, remembering all he suffered and toiled through for my sake, this young man let a bitter tear fall beneath his brows, holding up his purple cloak before his eyes."
Then Peisistratus, Nestor's son, answered him:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nourished by Zeus, leader of men — this is indeed that man's true son, as you say. But he is modest, and it shames his heart to come here for the first time and pour out bold words before you, whose voice we both delight in as if it were a god's. Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, sent me along as his companion, since Telemachus longed to see you, hoping you might counsel him with some word or deed. For a son whose father is gone endures many griefs in his halls when he has no other helpers — just as now, with Telemachus: his father is gone, and there is no one else among his people to ward off ruin."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered him:
"Well, well — so the son of my dear friend has come to my house, a man who endured so many hardships for my sake! I always said that if he came back, I would welcome him above all other Argives, if only Olympian Zeus, whose voice carries far, had granted us both a safe voyage home across the sea in our swift ships. I would have settled him in Argos and built him a house, bringing him from Ithaca with his possessions, his son, and all his people, emptying out one of the cities near me under my own rule, so they could live close by. Then we would have met often here, and nothing would have parted us in our love and delight in each other, until the black cloud of death came down and covered us. But this, I suppose, some god himself must have grudged us, since he alone of all men denied that poor man his homecoming."
So he spoke, and stirred in them all a longing to weep. Helen of Argos wept, Zeus's daughter; Telemachus wept, and Menelaus, son of Atreus; nor could Nestor's son keep his eyes dry, remembering in his heart the noble Antilochus, whom the shining son of Dawn had killed. Remembering him, he spoke winged words:
"Son of Atreus, old Nestor always used to say you were the wisest of men, whenever we spoke of you in his halls and questioned one another. So now, if it is right, listen to me — for I take no pleasure in weeping after supper, and besides, dawn will soon be here again. Not that I count it any shame to weep for a mortal man who has died and met his fate — indeed, this is the only honor left to wretched mortals, to cut off our hair and let tears fall from our cheeks. For I too have lost a brother, by no means the weakest of the Argives — you must have known him yourself, though I never met him or saw him. They say Antilochus surpassed all others — swift of foot and a fierce fighter."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered him:
"Friend, you have spoken exactly as a wise man would speak and act, even one older than you — and no wonder, coming from such a father, for you speak with his same good sense. Easy it is to know the offspring of a man for whom the son of Cronus spins good fortune, both at his marriage and at his birth — just as now he has granted Nestor, all his days, to grow old in comfort in his own halls, with sons who are wise and the best of spearmen. So let us set aside this weeping that has come over us, and turn our thoughts again to supper — let water be poured over our hands. There will be time enough at dawn for Telemachus and me to tell our stories to each other."
So he spoke, and Asphalion, the brisk attendant of glorious Menelaus, poured water over their hands, and they reached out to the good food laid ready before them.
Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, thought of something else. Into the wine they were drinking she cast a drug that dissolved grief and anger and brought forgetfulness of every sorrow. Whoever drank it mixed in the wine would not let a tear fall down his cheeks for that whole day, not even if his mother and father both lay dead, not even if before his very eyes men cut down his brother or his own dear son with bronze. Such were the cunning drugs the daughter of Zeus possessed, potent ones, given to her by Polydamna, wife of Thon in Egypt, where the fertile soil bears the greatest store of drugs — many good when mixed, and many baneful — and every man there is a healer, skilled beyond all others, for they are of the race of Paeon.
When she had put the drug in the wine and told them to pour it out, she spoke to them again, taking up the thread:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nourished by Zeus, and you two, sons of noble fathers here — Zeus gives good and evil in turn to one man and another, for he has power over all things. So now, sit and feast in these halls, and take pleasure in our talk, for I will tell a fitting tale. I could not recount every one of the labors of steadfast Odysseus, but I will tell you this one thing that the mighty man dared and did in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered your hardships.
He had beaten his own body with cruel blows and thrown wretched rags over his shoulders, disguised as a slave, and went down into the wide-streeted city of the enemy. He hid himself in another guise, made himself look like a beggar, quite unlike what he was among the Achaean ships — and in this disguise he slipped into the city of the Trojans, and all of them were taken in. I alone recognized him for who he truly was, and questioned him, but he cleverly evaded me. Only when I had bathed him and anointed him with oil, and dressed him in fresh clothing, and sworn a mighty oath not to reveal Odysseus among the Trojans before he returned to the swift ships and the huts — only then did he tell me all the plan of the Achaeans.
He killed many Trojans with his long bronze blade before he made his way back to the Argives, bringing much intelligence with him. The other Trojan women wailed aloud, but my heart rejoiced, for already it had turned toward going home again, and I grieved now for the madness Aphrodite had given me, when she led me there, away from my own dear country, forsaking my child, my bridal chamber, and my husband — a man lacking nothing, either in mind or in looks."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered her:
"Yes, wife, all that you have said is fitting and true. I have come to know the plans and minds of many heroes, and traveled over much of the earth, but never have I seen with my own eyes a heart like that of steadfast Odysseus. Consider what that mighty man dared and did inside the wooden horse, where all we best of the Argives sat, bringing death and doom to the Trojans. You came there then, Helen — surely some god who wished to give glory to the Trojans must have urged you on — and godlike Deiphobus came with you.
Three times you walked around our hollow ambush, feeling it over, and called out by name the best of the Danaans, mimicking the voices of each man's wife. I and the son of Tydeus and noble Odysseus sat there in the middle and heard you calling. The two of us longed to leap up and rush out, or to answer at once from within, but Odysseus held us back and restrained us, eager as we were. Then all the rest of the sons of the Achaeans kept silent, but Anticlus alone wanted to answer you with words. Odysseus clamped his hands hard and relentlessly over his mouth, and so saved all the Achaeans, and held on until Pallas Athena led you away."
Then wise Telemachus answered him:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nourished by Zeus, leader of men — all the worse, for none of that warded off his grim destruction, not even if his heart within him had been made of iron. But come, send us to bed now, so that we too may lie down and take our fill of sweet sleep."
So he spoke, and Helen of Argos told her maids to set out bedding beneath the portico, to spread fine purple blankets over it, cover them with rugs, and lay thick cloaks on top for covering. The women went out from the hall carrying torches in their hands.
They spread the bedding, and the herald led the guests inside. There in the forecourt of the house Telemachus lay down to sleep, the hero, and Nestor's shining son beside him, while Menelaus slept in the inner chamber of the high house, and Helen in her long robe lay down beside him, that woman among women.
When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, Menelaus, loud in the war cry, rose from his bed. He dressed himself, slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, bound fine sandals beneath his gleaming feet, and strode from the chamber looking like a god. He sat down beside Telemachus and spoke to him, calling him by name.
"What need brought you here, Telemachus, to shining Sparta, across the broad back of the sea? Some matter of the people, or your own? Tell me the truth of it."
Wise Telemachus answered him: "Menelaus, son of Atreus, favored of Zeus, leader of men, I came hoping you might have some word of my father. My house is being eaten away, my rich lands ruined, my home filled with hostile men who slaughter my sheep in flocks and my shambling horned cattle without end — the suitors of my mother, swollen with an arrogance beyond bearing. This is why I have come now to your knees, in hope you might be willing to tell me of his grim death, whether you saw it yourself with your own eyes, or heard the story from another wanderer — for my mother bore him to a sorrow beyond all men. Do not soften your words out of pity or kindness toward me — tell me plainly all that you witnessed with your own eyes. I beg you: if ever my father, noble Odysseus, promised you anything by word or deed and carried it through, in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered hardship, remember it now, and tell me the truth."
Deeply troubled, fair-haired Menelaus answered him: "For shame — that such men, cowards themselves, wished to lie in the bed of a man so lion-hearted! Just as when a doe has laid her newborn, still-suckling fawns to sleep in a lion's thicket, and goes off grazing the mountain slopes and grassy hollows, and then the lion comes back to his own lair and deals both fawns a hideous death — so hideous a death will Odysseus deal these men. Ah, Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only he would come upon the suitors as he was that day in well-built Lesbos, when he rose in a wrestling match against Philomeleides and threw him down hard, to the delight of all the Achaeans — if Odysseus, being such a man, came among the suitors now, all of them would find a quick death and a bitter wedding. But as for what you ask and beg of me, I will not turn aside from the truth or mislead you — of all that the unerring old man of the sea told me, I will hide nothing from you, keep nothing back.
"The gods held me back in Egypt, though I longed to sail home, because I had not offered them the sacrifices that make a rite complete. The gods are ever mindful that their due be paid. Now there is an island in the surging sea, off the coast of Egypt — they call it Pharos — as far out as a hollow ship can cover in a full day's sailing when a shrill wind blows behind her from astern. It has a harbor with good anchorage, where men draw their trim ships down into the water after filling their casks with dark water. There the gods kept me twenty days, and never once did a favoring wind appear to fill the sails — those winds that drive ships on across the sea's broad back. And now all our stores would have been used up, and the men's strength with them, had not one of the gods taken pity on me and saved me — Eidothea, daughter of mighty Proteus, the old man of the sea. I had stirred her heart more than any other.
"She met me as I wandered alone, apart from my companions, for they were forever roaming the island fishing with bent hooks, their bellies pinched with hunger. She came close and stood by me, and spoke these words:
"'Are you truly so foolish, stranger, so weak of will? Or do you let yourself go slack on purpose, taking some pleasure in suffering? So long now you are held fast on this island, and you can find no way out of it, while the spirit of your companions dwindles away.'
"So she spoke, and I answered her: 'I will tell you plainly, whichever goddess you are — it is not by my own will that I am held here. It must be that I have wronged the deathless gods who hold the wide heaven. But tell me — for the gods know all things — which of the immortals binds me here and blocks my way, and how I might cross the teeming sea to reach my home.'
"So I spoke, and the shining goddess answered at once: 'Then I will tell you truly, stranger. There is an old man of the sea who comes here often, the unerring, deathless Proteus of Egypt, who knows the depths of the whole sea and serves Poseidon. They say he is my father, who begot me. If you could somehow lie in wait and seize him, he would tell you your course, the distances of your journey, and how you might cross the teeming sea to reach your home. And if you wish, favored one, he would also tell you what evil and what good has happened in your halls while you have been gone on this long and painful road.'
"So she spoke, and I answered her: 'Show me yourself how I might lie in ambush for this godlike old man, lest he sees me coming beforehand, or learns of it, and slips away — a god is hard for a mortal man to master.'
"So I spoke, and the shining goddess answered at once: 'Then I will tell you truly, stranger. When the sun stands astride the middle of the sky, the unerring old man of the sea comes up out of the water, under the breath of the West Wind, hidden in a dark ripple, and once ashore he lies down to sleep in the hollow caves. Around him the seals, children of the lovely daughter of the sea, sleep in a huddled crowd, risen from the gray water, breathing the sharp, bitter smell of the deep salt sea. There I will lead you at the break of dawn and lay you down in a row among them. Choose well three companions, the best you have among your well-benched ships. I will tell you all the old man's tricks. First he will count the seals and go among them; and when he has numbered them all off by fives, in a herd, he will lie down among them like a shepherd among his flocks of sheep. As soon as you see him settled to sleep, that is the moment — summon all your strength and force, and hold him there, however hard he strains and struggles to escape. He will try every shape, becoming all the creatures that move upon the earth, and water, and blazing fire; but you must hold him fast without flinching, and grip him all the harder. But when he himself speaks to you in words, then — being once more the very shape you saw him take when he lay down to sleep — then let him go, and loosen your grip on the old man, hero, and ask him which of the gods torments you, and how you might cross the teeming sea to reach your home.'
"So saying, she sank beneath the surging sea. And I went back to the ships, where they stood drawn up in the sand, my heart churning with dark thoughts as I walked. When I had come down to my ship and to the sea, we made ready our meal, and the immortal night came on, and then we lay down to sleep along the breaking surf.
"When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, I went along the shore of the wide-pathed sea, praying hard to the gods, and I brought with me the three companions I trusted most for any task. Meanwhile Eidothea had slipped beneath the broad bosom of the sea and brought back four sealskins from the deep, all freshly flayed — for she was plotting a trick against her father. She had scooped out beds in the sand by the shore and sat waiting; we came up very close to her, and she laid us down in a row and threw a skin over each of us.
"That ambush would have been most dreadful, for the deadly stench of those sea-bred seals wore on us terribly — who would want to lie down beside a beast that lives in the sea? But she herself saved us and thought of a great relief: she brought ambrosia and set it under each man's nose, sweet-smelling, and it killed the seal's stink. All morning long we waited there with steady hearts, and the seals came up from the sea in a crowd and lay down in rows along the breaking surf.
"At midday the old man came up out of the sea and found his well-fed seals; he went along all of them and counted their number, and among the creatures he counted us first, and his heart did not suspect any trick — then he too lay down. We sprang up with a shout and threw our arms around him, but the old man did not forget his cunning arts. First he turned into a bearded lion, then a serpent, a leopard, a great boar; he became flowing water, and a tall leafy tree — but we held on without flinching, our hearts steady.
"But when at last the old man, master of his sly tricks, grew weary of it, he spoke to me and asked: 'Son of Atreus, which of the gods plotted with you to trap me here in ambush against my will? What do you want of me?'
"So he spoke, and I answered him: 'You know well, old man — why do you try to turn me aside with these questions? You know how long I have been held on this island, unable to find any way out, and my heart within me wastes away. But tell me — for the gods know all things — which of the immortals binds me here and blocks my way, and how I might cross the teeming sea to reach my home.'
"So I spoke, and he answered me at once: 'You should have offered fine sacrifices to Zeus and the other gods before setting out, so that you might reach your own country swiftly, sailing over the wine-dark sea. For it is not fated that you see your loved ones or reach your well-built home and your own native land, until you go back once more to the waters of the Nile, the river fed by heaven, and offer sacred hecatombs to the deathless gods who hold the wide heaven. Then the gods will grant you the passage that you long for.'
"So he spoke, and my heart was broken within me, because he was ordering me back again across the misty sea to Egypt, a long and painful road. But even so I answered him: 'I will do just as you command, old man. But come, tell me this, and tell it truly — did all the Achaeans return safely with their ships, all those Nestor and I left behind when we set out from Troy? Or did any die a bitter death aboard his own ship, or in the arms of his friends, once he had wound up the thread of war?'
"So I spoke, and he answered me at once: 'Son of Atreus, why do you ask me this? You have no need to know it, nor to learn my mind — and I tell you, you will not long be free of tears once you have heard the whole of it. Many of those men were killed, and many were left alive; only two leaders of the bronze-armored Achaeans died on the voyage home — as for the fighting, you were there yourself — and one more is still alive somewhere, held back on the wide sea.
"'Ajax was lost among his long-oared ships. Poseidon first drove him onto the great rocks of Gyrae, yet saved him from the sea; and he would have escaped death, hated by Athena as he was, had he not let a wild boast fly from his lips, in his utter blindness — he claimed he had escaped the sea's great gulf against the will of the gods. Poseidon heard him say this arrogant thing, and at once seized his trident in his powerful hands and struck the rock of Gyrae, splitting it in two; one part stayed where it was, but the other piece broke off and fell into the sea — the very piece Ajax had first sat on when he uttered his mad boast — and it carried him down into the boundless heaving sea. So he died there, once he had swallowed the salt water.
"'Your brother, though, escaped the deadly fates and got away in his hollow ships — queenly Hera saved him. But when he was just about to reach the steep headland of Malea, a storm swept him up and carried him, groaning heavily, out over the teeming sea, to the edge of the farmland where Thyestes used to live, and where now his son Aegisthus dwelt. But when from there too a safe voyage home appeared, and the gods turned the wind fair again, and they reached home at last, then indeed Agamemnon set foot on his native soil with joy, and kissed it, holding it fast, and many hot tears fell from him as he saw his own land again, so glad was he.
"'But a watchman saw him from his lookout post — a man Aegisthus, full of cunning schemes, had set there and promised as payment two talents of gold. He had kept watch a full year, so that Agamemnon might not slip past him unnoticed and remember his furious courage. He went to bring word to the shepherd of the people in his halls, and at once Aegisthus devised a treacherous plan: choosing twenty of the best men in the land, he set them in ambush, while on the other side of the hall he ordered a feast made ready. Then he himself went, with chariot and horses, to invite Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, his mind full of shameful designs. He led him up, unsuspecting of his own death, and killed him at the feast, as a man cuts down an ox at its manger. Not one of the men of Atreus's household who had followed him was left alive, nor one of Aegisthus's men — all were cut down in the halls.'
"So he spoke, and my heart broke within me. I sat down on the sand and wept, and my spirit no longer wished to go on living and see the light of the sun. But when I had had my fill of weeping and rolling in my grief, then the unerring old man of the sea spoke to me:
"'Son of Atreus, weep no longer so relentlessly and so long — we will accomplish nothing by it. Instead, try as quickly as you can to reach your own native land. Either you will find Aegisthus still alive, or Orestes will have gotten there before you and killed him, and you may yet arrive in time for the funeral feast.'
"So he spoke, and my heart and proud spirit warmed again within my chest, grieved though I was, and I spoke to him and asked, my words taking wing:
"'These two I know of now. But name me the third man — whoever is still held alive somewhere on the wide sea, or else is dead. I want to hear it, grieved though I am.'
"So I spoke, and he answered me at once: 'It is the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca. I saw him on an island, shedding heavy tears, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who holds him there against his will, and he cannot reach his own native land, for he has no ships fitted with oars, nor companions to send him across the sea's broad back. But as for you, Menelaus, favored of Zeus, it is not fated that you die and meet your doom in horse-pasturing Argos. Instead the immortals will send you to the Elysian plain, at the world's edge, where fair-haired Rhadamanthys dwells, where life is easiest for men. No snow falls there, no long winter storm, no rain ever, but always the Ocean sends up the breath of the shrill-blowing West Wind to refresh mankind — because you have Helen for your wife, and are son-in-law of Zeus.'
"So saying, he sank beneath the surging sea. And I went back to the ships with my godlike companions, my heart churning with dark thoughts as I walked. When we had come down to the ship and to the sea, we made ready our meal, and the immortal night came on, and then we lay down to sleep along the breaking surf.
"When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, first of all we hauled our ships down into the bright sea, and set the masts and sails in our trim vessels, and the men themselves went aboard and took their seats at the oarlocks; then, sitting in rows, they struck the gray sea with their oars. Once more I brought the ships to anchor at the waters of the Nile, the river fed by heaven, and offered sacred hecatombs there. And when I had appeased the anger of the everlasting gods, I heaped up a grave mound for Agamemnon, so that his fame might never die. When I had finished all this I set sail for home, and the immortals gave me a fair wind and sped me swiftly to my own dear country.
"But come now, stay here in my halls until the eleventh or twelfth day has come. Then I will send you off in style, and give you splendid gifts — three horses and a finely made chariot — and beyond that I will give you a beautiful cup, so that you may pour libations to the immortal gods and remember me all your days."
Wise Telemachus answered him: "Son of Atreus, do not keep me here long. I would gladly sit at your side for a full year, and no longing for home or parents would touch me — I take such wondrous pleasure in listening to your words and your stories. But already my companions are growing restless in sacred Pylos, and you would keep me here still longer. As for any gift you might give me, let it be something I can treasure.
"I will not take horses to Ithaca — I will leave them here as a treasure for you, since you rule a broad plain rich in clover and galingale, in wheat and spelt and wide-eared white barley. In Ithaca there are no wide courses for chariots and no meadowland at all; it is a goat's pasture, and dearer to me for that than a land of horses. None of the islands lying out on the sea has room for driving horses or good grass, and Ithaca least of all."
So he spoke, and Menelaus, loud in the war cry, smiled, stroked him with his hand, and spoke to him, calling him by name:
"You have good blood in you, dear child, to speak as you do. So I will change the gift, since I am able. Of all the treasures stored in my house I will give you the finest and most precious there is — a mixing bowl, beautifully worked, all of silver with a rim finished in gold, the work of Hephaestus himself. The hero Phaedimus, king of the Sidonians, gave it to me when his house sheltered me on my way home. This I wish to give to you."
So these two spoke to one another of such things, while the guests came in to the halls of the godlike king. Men drove in sheep and carried in strong wine, and their wives with lovely headbands sent in bread, and so they busied themselves with the feast in the hall.
Meanwhile, in front of Odysseus's hall, the suitors were amusing themselves throwing discus and javelins on the leveled ground where they always did, keeping up their arrogance. Antinous sat there, and godlike Eurymachus, leaders of the suitors, far the best of them in standing. Noëmon, son of Phronius, came up close and spoke to Antinous, asking him:
"Antinous, do we know at all in our minds, or not, when Telemachus will come back from sandy Pylos? He went off with a ship of mine, and I have need of it now, to cross to spacious Elis, where I keep twelve broodmares with sturdy mule foals at their sides, still unbroken. I mean to drive one off and break it in."
So he spoke, and their hearts were amazed, for they had not imagined he had gone to Pylos, son of Neleus, but thought him still somewhere about, among the flocks or with the swineherd.
Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: "Tell me the plain truth — when did he go, and what young men went with him? Chosen men of Ithaca, or his own hired hands and slaves? He could manage that too. And tell me this honestly, so I may know for certain — did he take your black ship from you by force, against your will, or did you give it to him willingly, because he asked you for it?"
Then Noëmon, son of Phronius, answered him: "I gave it to him myself, willingly. What else could anyone do, when a man like that, carrying such cares in his heart, asks a favor? It would be a hard thing to refuse. As for the young men who went with him, they are the best in our district, after us. And I noticed their leader as he boarded — Mentor, or a god who looked exactly like him in every way. But this is what puzzles me: I saw godlike Mentor here just yesterday morning, and yet then he was boarding a ship for Pylos."
With this he turned and went off toward his father's house, and the proud hearts of both men were left astonished. They made the suitors sit down together and stopped their games. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke among them, raging — his dark heart within him swelling with fury, and his eyes like blazing fire:
"Damn it, this is a great thing Telemachus has carried off with such nerve — this journey! We said it would never happen. In spite of all of us, the boy just goes, drags a ship down to the sea, picks the best men in the district. He will go on to be trouble for us in time to come — but may Zeus destroy his strength before he ever reaches manhood! Come, give me a swift ship and twenty companions, so I may lie in wait and watch for him as he comes back, in the strait between Ithaca and rugged Samos, so that this sailing after his father costs him bitterly."
So he spoke, and they all agreed and urged him on. Then at once they rose and went into the house of Odysseus.
Now Penelope was not long left ignorant of the plans the suitors were brewing darkly in their hearts, for the herald Medon told her, who had overheard their scheming while standing outside the courtyard — for they were weaving their plot within. He went through the halls to bring the news to Penelope, and as he came to the threshold Penelope spoke to him:
"Herald, why have the proud suitors sent you? Is it to tell the servants of godlike Odysseus to stop their work, so they can prepare a feast for the suitors themselves? I wish they would woo no more, gather here no more, and that this might be the last, the very last meal they eat in this house — you who keep crowding in here, devouring so much of the estate, the property of wise Telemachus. Did you never hear, when you were children, from your fathers what kind of man Odysseus was among your parents — how he never wronged anyone by deed or word in the district, though that is the way of god-favored kings, that they may hate one man and love another? But he never once did a reckless thing to anyone. No — it is your own hearts and your shameful deeds that show themselves plainly now, and there is no gratitude afterward for good done."
Then Medon, who understood such things, answered her: "If only, my queen, that were the worst of it. But the suitors are planning something far greater and far more terrible — may the son of Cronus never let it come to pass! They mean to kill Telemachus with the sharp bronze on his way home. He has gone to seek news of his father, to sacred Pylos and to noble Sparta."
So he spoke, and her knees gave way beneath her, and her heart within her, and for a long while speechlessness held her; her eyes filled with tears, and her rich voice was choked. At last she found words to answer him:
"Herald, why has my son gone at all? He had no need to set foot on the swift-faring ships that serve men as horses of the sea and cross the great waters. Did he go so that not even his name would be left among men?"
Then Medon, who understood such things, answered her: "I do not know whether some god roused him, or whether his own heart drove him to go to Pylos, to learn either of his father's return or of what fate he has met."
With this he turned and went back through the house of Odysseus, and grief that eats the heart poured over her. She could no longer bear to sit on a chair, though there were many in the house, but sank down on the threshold of her well-built chamber, weeping pitifully, and around her all her maids moaned in sorrow, young and old alike, all who were in the house.
Weeping heavily among them, Penelope cried out: "Listen, dear friends — the Olympian has given me more grief than any woman who grew up and lived beside me. First I lost my noble husband, lion-hearted, adorned with every kind of excellence among the Greeks, a great man, whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos. Now again the storm winds have snatched away my beloved son, without a trace, from this house, and I never even heard that he had set out. Cruel creatures, not one of you thought, though you all knew it well in your hearts, to wake me from my bed when he went aboard the hollow black ship. If I had learned he was planning this journey, then either he would have stayed here, however eager he was to go, or he would have left me dead in these halls. But now, let someone quickly call old Dolius, my servant, whom my father gave me when I first came here, and who tends my orchard thick with trees — so he may go at once and sit beside Laertes and tell him all this, in case Laertes can weave some plan in his own mind and go out to the people and lament to them, to those who are bent on destroying his line and that of godlike Odysseus."
Then her beloved nurse Eurycleia answered her: "Dear child, kill me now with the pitiless bronze, or leave me in the hall — I will not hide the truth from you. I knew all of this, and I gave him everything he asked for, bread and sweet wine, but he took a great oath from me that I would not tell you before the twelfth day came, unless you yourself missed him and heard that he was gone — this so that you would not mar your fair skin with weeping. Come now, bathe, put on clean clothes, and go up with your maids to the upper chamber, and pray to Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis — for she can save him even from death. And do not trouble the old man, who is already troubled enough; for I do not think the blessed gods hate the line of Arcesius so completely — surely someone will remain to hold this high-roofed house and the rich fields far off."
So she spoke, and lulled her grief, and stopped the tears in her eyes. Penelope bathed, put on clean clothes, and went up to the upper chamber with her maids, and set barley grains in a basket, and prayed to Athena:
"Hear me, child of Zeus who bears the aegis, tireless one — if ever resourceful Odysseus burned for you in these halls the fat thighs of an ox or a sheep, remember that now, and save my beloved son, and ward off the suitors in their wicked arrogance."
So she spoke, and cried out the ritual cry, and the goddess heard her prayer. But the suitors broke into an uproar through the shadowy hall, and one of the young, overbearing men would say:
"So — the much-wooed queen is arranging her wedding at last, and has no idea that death has been prepared for her son."
So one of them would say, but they did not know how things really stood. Then Antinous spoke among them and said:
"Fools — avoid all such reckless talk, all of you, in case someone carries word inside. Come, let us rise and carry out in silence the plan that has already pleased all our hearts."
So he spoke, and picked out twenty of the best men, and they went down to the swift ship at the shore of the sea. First of all they hauled the ship down into deep water, set the mast and sails in the black ship, fitted the oars into their leather loops, all in due order, and spread the white sails. Proud attendants brought them their weapons. They moored the ship out in the roadstead, went ashore, took their meal there, and waited for evening to come.
But up in the chamber, wise Penelope lay without food or drink, tormented, wondering whether her blameless son would escape death or be brought down at the hands of the arrogant suitors — as many fears as a lion turns over in his mind, caught in a ring of hunters closing on him with cunning, so many fears passed through her as sweet sleep came upon her. She fell asleep leaning back, and all her limbs relaxed.
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena thought of something else. She made a phantom, shaped like a woman — like Iphthime, daughter of great-hearted Icarius, whom Eumelus had married and who lived in his house in Pherae — and sent it to the house of godlike Odysseus, to make Penelope, weeping and grieving, cease from her tears and lamentation.
The phantom entered the bedchamber by the strap of the door-bolt, stood over her head, and spoke to her:
"Are you asleep, Penelope, your dear heart worn with grief? The gods who live at ease will not let you weep and suffer, for your son is still to come home; he has done nothing to offend the gods."
Then wise Penelope answered her, slumbering sweetly at the gates of dream: "Why have you come here, sister? Before now you never came, for you live very far away. And now you tell me to stop this grief and these many pains that trouble my mind and heart — I who first lost my noble husband, lion-hearted, adorned with every kind of excellence among the Greeks, a great man whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos, and now again my beloved son has gone off in a hollow ship, a mere boy, with no skill yet in hardship or in speech before men. It is for him I grieve even more than for my husband. I tremble for him, and fear that something may happen to him, either among the people where he has gone, or on the sea — for many enemies are scheming against him, eager to kill him before he ever reaches his own land again."
The shadowy phantom answered her: "Take courage, and do not be so afraid in your heart. Such a guide goes with him as other men would pray to have stand beside them, for she has the power — Pallas Athena. She pities you in your grief, and it is she who has sent me now to tell you this."
Then wise Penelope said to her: "If indeed you are a god, and have heard the voice of a god, then come, tell me also of that other unhappy man — is he still alive, and does he see the light of the sun, or is he already dead, in the house of Hades?"
The shadowy phantom answered her: "I will not tell you the whole truth about him, whether he lives or is dead — it is a bad thing to speak empty words."
With this it slipped away by the door-bolt, into the breath of the winds. And Icarius's daughter started up out of sleep, and her heart was warmed, so vivid was the dream that had come to her in the depth of night.
Meanwhile the suitors had gone aboard and were sailing over the watery paths, turning over in their minds sheer death for Telemachus. There is a rocky island in the middle of the sea, midway between Ithaca and rugged Samos, called Asteris — not large, but it has harbors on both sides where ships can lie. There the Achaeans waited in ambush for him.

======== Book 5 ========

Dawn rose from her bed beside noble Tithonus, to carry light to gods and mortals alike, and the gods were taking their seats in council, with Zeus who thunders on high among them, whose power is greatest of all. Athena spoke to them, recalling Odysseus's many troubles, for she thought of him, sitting there in the nymph's house.
"Father Zeus, and you other blessed gods who live forever," she said, "let no sceptered king ever again be truly kind and gentle, or care in his heart about justice — let him instead always be harsh and act ruthlessly, since no one among the people he once ruled remembers godlike Odysseus, though he was gentle as a father. No, he lies on an island suffering brutal pain, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who holds him there against his will, and he cannot reach his own homeland. He has no ships fitted with oars, no companions to send him over the sea's broad back. And now they mean to kill his beloved son on his way home — he has gone off to Pylos and to sacred Sparta to learn news of his father."
Zeus who gathers the clouds answered her: "My child, what a word has escaped the fence of your teeth! Did you not devise this plan yourself, that Odysseus should come home and take revenge on those men? As for Telemachus, guide him with your skill — you have the power — so that he may reach his own land unharmed and the suitors sail home again empty-handed."
With that he spoke to Hermes, his own dear son: "Hermes, since you are our messenger in everything else, go tell the nymph with the lovely braided hair my unerring decision:
the return of steadfast Odysseus — that he shall go home with no escort from gods or mortal men. Instead, on a raft lashed together with many timbers, suffering hardship all the way, he shall reach fertile Scheria on the twentieth day, the land of the Phaeacians, who are close kin to the gods. They will honor him from their hearts like a god and send him by ship to his own dear country, giving him bronze and gold and clothing in abundance — more than he would ever have carried off from Troy, even if he had come home safe with his fair share of the plunder.
For it is his fate to see his loved ones again and reach his high-roofed house and his own native land."
So he spoke, and the guide, the slayer of Argus, did not disobey. At once he bound beneath his feet the beautiful sandals, immortal, golden, that carry him over water and over the boundless earth alike, as fast as a gust of wind. He took up the wand with which he charms the eyes of men, closing them in sleep or waking whom he wishes; holding it in his hands, the mighty slayer of Argus flew off. He touched down at Pieria, then dropped from the upper air into the sea,
and skimmed the waves like a gull, the kind that hunts fish along the terrible folds of the barren sea and wets its thick wings in the brine — like that bird Hermes rode over the endless swells. But when at last he reached the island far away, he stepped from the violet sea onto dry land and went on until he came to the great cave where the nymph with the lovely braided hair made her home; he found her within. A great fire was blazing on the hearth, and the smell of split cedar and sweet-burning juniper drifted far across the island,
filling the air, while inside she sang in a beautiful voice as she moved back and forth at her loom, weaving with a golden shuttle. Around the cave a grove of trees grew thick and green — alder, poplar, and fragrant cypress — and long-winged birds nested there, owls and hawks and the sea's chattering crows, which spend their lives on the water. Trailing over the very mouth of the deep cave grew a vine heavy with clusters, ripe with grapes, and four springs flowed in a row, their water clear,
turned each in a different direction near one another. All around, soft meadows bloomed with violets and parsley, and a place like this would draw wonder even from an immortal passing by, and delight in his heart at the sight. There the guide, the slayer of Argus, stood and gazed his fill. And when he had taken in the whole scene in his mind, he went straight into the wide cave — and Calypso, the shining goddess, knew him the instant she saw him face to face, for gods are never strangers to one another, however far apart their homes may lie.
But he did not find great-hearted Odysseus inside; he was sitting on the shore, as always, weeping, wearing his heart out with tears and groans and grief, gazing out over the barren sea with tears streaming down. Calypso, the shining goddess, questioned Hermes, seating him on a bright polished chair: "Why have you come to me, Hermes of the golden wand — an honored and welcome guest, though you visit rarely? Tell me what is on your mind; my heart urges me to do it, if I can do it, and if it can be done at all."
The goddess spoke, and set a table before him laden with ambrosia, and mixed the ruddy nectar. So the guide, the slayer of Argus, ate and drank. And when he had finished his meal and satisfied his heart with food, he answered her at last: "You ask me, a god, why I have come, goddess to god — and I will tell you the truth plainly, since you ask. Zeus ordered me here — I came against my will, for who would willingly cross so vast a stretch of salt water,
unmeasured as it is? No city of mortals lies nearby, none who offer sacrifice to the gods and choice hundred-fold offerings. But there is simply no way for another god to slip past or defeat the purpose of Zeus who bears the aegis. He says a man is with you, the most unfortunate of all the men who fought nine years around Priam's city and in the tenth year sacked it and set out for home. But on the voyage back they wronged Athena,
and she raised against them a cruel wind and towering waves. There all his brave companions perished,
but the wind and the current carried him here. Zeus now orders you to send him off as quickly as possible, for it is not his fate to die far from his own people — no, it is still his destiny to see his loved ones again and reach his high-roofed house and his own native land."
So he spoke, and Calypso, the shining goddess, shuddered, and answered him with winged words: "You gods are cruel, jealous beyond all others — you resent it whenever a goddess sleeps openly with a man she has taken as her own dear husband.
So it was when rosy-fingered Dawn took Orion for her own — you gods who live at ease resented it then too, until chaste Artemis of the golden throne came to Ortygia and struck him down with her gentle arrows. So it was too when Demeter with the lovely braided hair, yielding to her own heart, lay in love with Iasion in a thrice-plowed field — Zeus learned of it before long and struck him down with a blazing thunderbolt. And now you resent me in the same way, gods, for keeping a mortal man beside me — a man I myself saved
when he was clinging alone to the keel of his ship, after Zeus split it apart with a blazing thunderbolt in the middle of the wine-dark sea. There all his brave companions perished, but the wind and the current carried him here. I loved him and cared for him, and I promised to make him immortal and ageless for all his days. But since there is no way for another god to slip past or defeat the purpose of Zeus who bears the aegis, let him go, if Zeus himself urges and commands it, out across the barren sea — but I will not be the one to send him.
I have no ships fitted with oars, no companions to send him over the sea's broad back. Still, I will gladly give him counsel and hold nothing back, so that he may reach his own land unharmed."
The guide, the slayer of Argus, answered her: "Then send him off in just that way, and beware the anger of Zeus, in case he grows angry with you later and turns harsh." With that the mighty slayer of Argus went on his way, and the lady nymph went to find great-hearted Odysseus, now that she had heard the message of Zeus.
She found him sitting on the shore; his eyes were never dry of tears, and the sweetness of his life was draining away as he grieved for his lost homecoming, since the nymph no longer pleased him. Still, night after night he slept with her, forced to it, in the hollow cave — unwilling beside a willing woman. But by day he sat on the rocks and along the shore, wearing his heart out with tears and groans and grief, gazing out over the barren sea with tears streaming down. The shining goddess came and stood close beside him and spoke: "Unhappy man, grieve here no longer, and do not let your life
waste away, for now I will gladly send you off. Come, cut long timbers with a bronze axe and build yourself a broad raft; fix a deck of planks high across it, so that it may carry you over the misty sea. I myself will put aboard bread and water and red wine, enough to keep hunger away, and I will give you clothing, and send a following wind behind you, so that you may reach your own native land unharmed — if the gods who hold the wide heavens are willing, for they are stronger than I am both in knowledge and in power to bring things to pass."
So she spoke, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus shuddered, and answered her with winged words: "Goddess, this is something else you are planning, not my safe passage home, if you tell me to cross so vast a gulf of sea on a raft — a rough and dangerous crossing that not even swift, well-built ships cross easily, glad as they are of a favoring wind from Zeus. I will not set foot on a raft against your will, unless you consent, goddess, to swear a great oath that you are not plotting some new disaster against me."
So he spoke, and Calypso, the shining goddess, smiled,
and stroked him with her hand and spoke, calling him by name: "You are indeed a rogue, and no fool, to have thought up such a speech to say to me. Now let earth be my witness, and the wide heaven above, and the dripping water of the Styx — the greatest and most terrible oath there is among the blessed gods — that I am not plotting some new disaster against you. No, I will think and plan for you just as I would for myself, if I were in such great need. For my own mind is just,
and the heart in my breast is not made of iron — it knows pity."
So saying, the shining goddess led the way quickly, and he followed in the god's footsteps. They came to the hollow cave, god and man together, and Odysseus sat down on the chair from which Hermes had just risen, and the nymph set before him every kind of food to eat and drink, whatever mortal men live on, while she herself sat facing godlike Odysseus, and her serving-women set ambrosia and nectar before her. So the two of them reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them.
When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, Calypso, the shining goddess, spoke first among them: "Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus — is it true, then, that you wish to leave at once for your own dear country and your home? Well then, farewell all the same. Yet if you knew in your heart how much suffering is fated for you to fill up before you reach your native land,
you would stay here with me and keep this house, and be immortal, no matter how much you long to see that wife of yours, whom you desire every single day.
I do not think I am inferior to her, in figure or in build, since it is not fitting for mortal women to rival goddesses in body and in beauty."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her: "Lady goddess, do not be angry with me over this. I know very well myself that wise Penelope falls far short of you to look at, in stature and in beauty — she is a mortal woman, while you are immortal and never grow old. Even so, I want and long, every single day,
to reach my home and see the day of my return. And if some god should wreck me again on the wine-dark sea, I will bear it, with the enduring heart in my chest — I have already suffered a great deal and worked hard through waves and war alike; let this be added to the rest."
So he spoke, and the sun set and the darkness came. They went into the recess of the hollow cave and took their pleasure in love, staying close beside one another. When early Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, Odysseus put on a cloak and a tunic, and the nymph herself put on a long silvery robe,
delicate and graceful, and fastened a fine golden belt around her waist and set a veil over her head. Then she began to plan Odysseus's passage: she gave him a great axe, well fitted to his hands, of bronze, sharpened on both edges, with a beautiful handle of olive-wood set firmly in it, and then she gave him a smooth adze, and led the way to the far end of the island, where tall trees grew —
alder and poplar and fir reaching to the sky, long dead and thoroughly seasoned, which would float lightly for him.
When she had shown him where the tall trees grew, Calypso, the shining goddess, went back to her house, and he set about cutting timber, and the work went quickly. He felled twenty trees in all, trimmed them with the bronze axe, planed them skillfully, and trued them to the line. Meanwhile Calypso, the shining goddess, brought him augers, and he bored through the timbers and fitted them to one another, and hammered the raft together with pegs and joints.
As broad as a man skilled in shipbuilding lays out the hull of a wide cargo ship,
so broad did Odysseus make his raft. He set up the deck-planks, fitting them to close-set ribs, and finished the work off with long gunwales. He fashioned a mast with a yard fitted to it, and made a steering-oar besides, to guide the craft. He fenced it all around with willow branches woven close together as a barrier against the waves, and piled a good deal of brushwood over it as well. Meanwhile Calypso, the shining goddess, brought him cloth for sails, and he fashioned those skillfully too, and rigged braces and sheets and halyards all onto it.
and with levers he hauled it down at last into the bright sea. It was now the fourth day, and everything was finished; on the fifth Calypso sent him from the island, after bathing him and dressing him in sweet-smelling clothes. She put aboard for him a skin of dark wine, and another, a great one, of water, and provisions in a leather sack, and set out abundant meat to please his heart besides. And she sent a gentle, favoring wind behind him. Joyfully godlike Odysseus spread his sails to the breeze,
and sat steering skillfully with the rudder,
never letting sleep fall on his eyelids, watching the Pleiades and late-setting Bootes, and the Bear, which men also call the Wagon, which turns in place and keeps watch on Orion, and alone has no share in the baths of Ocean — for Calypso, the shining goddess, had told him to keep it on his left hand as he sailed the sea. Seventeen days he sailed on across the water, and on the eighteenth the shadowy mountains of the Phaeacians' land came into view,
appearing where it lay nearest to him, like a shield laid on the misty sea. Then the lord of earthquakes, on his way back from the Ethiopians, caught sight of him from far off, from the mountains of the Solymi, for he saw him as he sailed across the sea. His anger rose still higher in his heart, and shaking his head he spoke to his own great spirit: "So then! The gods must have changed their plans about Odysseus while I was away among the Ethiopians —
and now he is close to the land of the Phaeacians, where it is fated that he escape the great trial of misery that has held him. But I mean to give him his fill of trouble yet."
So saying, he gathered the clouds and stirred up the sea, gripping his trident in both hands; he roused every kind of storm-wind and wrapped land and sea alike in cloud, and night rushed down from the sky. East wind and South wind clashed together, and the ill-blowing West wind, and the North wind, born of clear air, rolling up a great wave. Then Odysseus's knees gave way, and his heart failed him, and groaning he spoke to his own great spirit: "Miserable man that I am — what will become of me now?
I am afraid the goddess spoke the whole truth after all,
the goddess had once told me, before I reached my own country, that I would fill up my measure of pain upon the sea — and now every word of it is coming true. Look how Zeus wraps the wide sky in cloud alone, how he has churned the sea, how the gales of every wind bear down on me. Now sheer destruction is certain. Three times blessed, four times blessed, those Greeks who died long ago on the plain of Troy, doing a favor for the sons of Atreus. I wish I had died too, met my fate on that day when the Trojans hurled their bronze-tipped spears at me over the dead body of Achilles.
Then I would have had my burial rites, and the Greeks would have carried my fame home. But now it seems I am fated to be caught by a miserable death.
Even as he said this a great wave, rearing terribly, came down and struck him from above and sent the raft spinning. He himself was flung far from it, the steering oar torn from his hands; a fierce blast of mingled winds swooped down and snapped the mast in half, and sail and yard fell far off into the sea. For a long time the sea held him under, and he could not fight his way up quickly through the pull of that great wave, weighed down as he was by the clothes divine Calypso had given him. At last he came up, and spat the bitter brine from his mouth; it streamed heavily from his head. Yet even in his exhaustion he did not forget the raft, but struggled through the waves, caught hold of it again, and settled himself in its middle, escaping the final stroke of death. The great wave carried it this way and that along the current. Just as the north wind in autumn sweeps thistledown across a field, and the tufts cling close together, so the winds drove the raft back and forth across the open sea — now the south wind would toss it to the north to carry, now the east wind would yield it to the west to chase along.
Cadmus's daughter saw him then, Ino of the lovely ankles, called Leucothea — once a mortal woman with a human voice, but now, in the depths of the sea, she has her due share of honor among the gods. She pitied Odysseus, drifting and suffering there, and rising from the water like a diving bird she perched on the crowded timbers of the raft and spoke to him.
"Poor man, why has Poseidon, the earth-shaker, taken such a violent hatred to you, that he sows so much trouble in your path? Yet for all his fury he will not destroy you. Do just as I say — you don't strike me as a fool. Strip off these clothes, leave the raft to drift wherever the winds take it, and swim with your own two hands toward the land of the Phaeacians, where it is fated that you find safety. Here, take this veil and wind it beneath your chest — it is immortal; with it you need not fear suffering or death. But once your hands take hold of the mainland, untie it again and throw it back into the wine-dark sea, far from the shore, and turn yourself away as you do."
With these words the goddess gave him the veil, then sank back down into the heaving sea, like a diving bird, and the dark water closed over her. Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus was left turning it over in his mind, and troubled, he said to his own proud heart: "No — I fear some god is weaving another trap for me now, urging me to abandon the raft. No, I won't obey yet, not while the land that she said held my escape is still so far from my eyes. I'll do this instead — it seems the wisest course. As long as the timbers hold together at their joints, I'll stay right here and endure whatever suffering comes; but once the wave has broken the raft apart, then I'll swim, since there is nothing better I can plan."
While he weighed this in his heart and mind, Poseidon the earth-shaker raised up a great wave against him, terrible and crushing, arched high, and drove it down on him. As a gale-driven wind scatters a heap of dry chaff, flinging it every which way, so the wind scattered the long timbers of the raft. Odysseus mounted one beam and rode it like a horse, stripped off the clothes Calypso had given him, quickly tied Ino's veil beneath his chest, and threw himself face-down into the sea, arms spread, eager to swim. The lord who shakes the earth watched him, and tossing his head he said to his own heart: "Now drift over the sea like this, suffering all this misery, until you fall in with people cherished by Zeus. Even so, I doubt you'll find your troubles too light." With that he lashed his fine-maned horses and came to Aegae, where his glorious palace stands.
But Athena, daughter of Zeus, had her own plan. She bound up the paths of the other winds and ordered them all to stop and lie down to rest, but stirred a brisk north wind and broke the waves ahead of him, so that Odysseus, sprung from Zeus, might reach the oar-loving Phaeacians and escape death and the spirits of doom. For two nights and two days he was tossed on the heavy swell, and again and again his heart foresaw destruction. But when the third day came, brought on by the fair-haired dawn, the wind died down, and a windless calm settled over the water; and rising on a great swell, looking sharply ahead, he caught sight of land close by.
As welcome as life itself seems to children when their father, wasting away, long pinned down by a cruel illness sent by some hostile spirit, is finally, gladly, released by the gods from his suffering — so welcome did the land and the woods now appear to Odysseus, and he swam on, straining to set his feet on solid ground. But when he had come as close as a shout could carry, he heard the boom of surf against the reefs — for the great sea roared terribly against the dry land, breaking there, and everything was wrapped in the spray of the sea; there were no harbors to hold ships, no shelters, only jutting headlands, reefs, and cliffs. Then his knees gave way and his heart failed him, and troubled, he said to his own proud heart:
"No — Zeus has let me see land I never hoped for, and I have cut my way across this stretch of open water, but nowhere does a way out of the gray sea show itself. Outside lie sharp rocks, and around them the surf roars and thunders, and the cliff rises sheer, and the water is deep close in, so there is no way I can plant both feet and escape this danger — if I try to climb out, a great wave may seize me and dash me against the hard rock, and my effort will be wasted. But if I swim on further along the shore, hoping to find some slanting beach or harbor of the sea, I'm afraid a gale may snatch me up again and carry me, groaning heavily, back out over the fish-filled sea — or some monster may be sent against me by a great god, one of the many that glorious Amphitrite breeds. I know how much the famous earth-shaker hates me."
While he turned this over in mind and heart, a great wave carried him toward the rugged shore. There his skin would have been torn away and his bones crushed, had not the goddess gray-eyed Athena put a thought in his mind: rushing forward he grabbed the rock with both hands and clung to it, groaning, until the great wave rolled past. So he escaped that one, but the backwash struck him again as it rushed out, and flung him far out to sea. As when an octopus is dragged from its den, and the pebbles cling thick to its suckers, so the skin was stripped from his strong hands against the rocks, and the great wave closed over him. There wretched Odysseus would have perished, beyond what fate allowed, had not gray-eyed Athena given him presence of mind. Coming up out of the wave that broke on the shore, he swam along outside the breakers, keeping his eyes on the land, hoping to find some slanting beach or harbor of the sea.
At last, swimming, he came to the mouth of a fair-flowing river, and here the place seemed best to him — smooth of rocks, and sheltered from the wind. He recognized the current flowing out and prayed in his heart: "Hear me, lord, whoever you are — I come to you much prayed-for, fleeing the sea and Poseidon's anger. Even the deathless gods honor a man who comes as a wanderer, as I now come to your stream and your knees after much hardship. Have pity, lord — I claim to be your suppliant."
So he spoke, and at once the god stopped his own current, held back the waves, made the water calm before him, and brought him safely into the mouth of the river. His knees buckled, his strong arms gave way, for the sea had beaten down his heart; his whole body was swollen, and seawater gushed in streams from his mouth and nostrils. Breathless and speechless he lay there, barely able to move, seized by terrible exhaustion. But when he caught his breath and his spirit gathered back into him, he untied the goddess's veil from his body and let it go into the river as it flowed to the sea; the great current carried it back downstream, and Ino caught it quickly in her own hands. Then Odysseus turned away from the river, sank down among the reeds, and kissed the grain-giving earth. Troubled, he said to his own proud heart:
"What is happening to me? What will become of me now? If I keep watch here by the river through this miserable night, I'm afraid the bitter frost and the heavy dew together will finish off my worn-out, gasping spirit — the breeze that blows off a river toward dawn is cold. But if I climb the slope into the shadowy woods and lie down to sleep among the thick bushes, even if the cold and my exhaustion let me go and sweet sleep comes over me, I'm afraid I'll become prey and plunder for wild beasts."
As he considered it, this course seemed better to him: he made his way toward the woods, which he found close to the water, in a clearing, and came upon two bushes growing from the same root, one of wild olive, the other of cultivated olive. Through them no wet-blowing wind could force its way, nor could the bright sun ever strike them with its rays, nor could rain pass all the way through, so thickly did they grow intertwined, each branch into the next; and under them Odysseus crept. At once he heaped together a wide bed with his own hands, for there was a huge drift of fallen leaves, enough to shelter two or three men in a winter storm, however harsh. Seeing it, long-suffering, godlike Odysseus was glad, and lay down in the middle of it and heaped the fallen leaves over himself. As a man buries a glowing log in black ashes at the edge of a field, where he has no neighbors, saving the seed of fire so he need not kindle it from some other source, so Odysseus buried himself in the leaves. And Athena poured sleep down over his eyes, to free him as quickly as possible from his wearying toil, closing his eyelids all around.

======== Book 6 ========

So the long-suffering, godlike Odysseus lay there sleeping, worn out by exhaustion and sleep. But Athena went to the land and city of the Phaeacians, a people who once lived in spacious Hypereia, close to the overbearing Cyclopes, men who kept raiding them and were stronger by far. From there godlike Nausithous led them away and settled them in Scheria, far from other men who live by their own labor. He drove a wall around the city, built houses, made temples for the gods, and divided up the farmland.
But he had already met his fate and gone down to the house of Hades, and now Alcinous ruled, a man whose wisdom came from the gods. It was to his house that the bright-eyed goddess Athena went, planning Odysseus's homecoming for the great-hearted man. She made her way into the richly worked bedroom where a girl was sleeping, a girl who looked like the immortals in build and beauty — Nausicaa, daughter of great-hearted Alcinous. Two maids lay beside the doorposts, one on each side, women graced with beauty from the Graces themselves, and the bright doors were shut. Athena swept in like a breath of wind toward the girl's bed,
stood over her head, and spoke to her, taking the shape of the daughter of Dymas, famous for his ships — a girl the same age as Nausicaa and dear to her heart. In that likeness bright-eyed Athena said to her, "Nausicaa, how did your mother ever bear such a careless daughter? Your fine clothes lie there neglected, and yet your wedding is near, when you will need to be beautifully dressed yourself and provide clothing for those who will escort you. It's from things like this that a good reputation spreads among people, and your father and mother rejoice.
So let's go and wash the clothes at the break of day. I'll come along and help you, so that you can get ready quickly, since you won't be unmarried much longer. Already the best young men of all the Phaeacians are courting you, men of your own people. Come now, urge your noble father before dawn to have the mules and wagon made ready, to carry the sashes, robes, and bright coverlets. And it's far better for you to go this way yourself than on foot, since the washing pools are a long way from the city."
Having spoken, bright-eyed Athena went away to Olympus, where they say the gods' seat stands forever unshaken — untouched by winds, never drenched by rain, no snow comes near it, but clear air spreads without a cloud, and a bright radiance plays over it. There the blessed gods take their pleasure all their days. There Athena went once she had shown the girl what to do. At once the fair-throned Dawn arrived and woke Nausicaa of the lovely robe, who marveled at once over her dream. She went through the halls to tell her parents,
her dear father and mother. She found them inside — her mother sitting by the hearth with her serving women, spinning yarn dyed sea-purple, while her father, going out the door, met with the noble lords on his way to the council, where the proud Phaeacians had summoned him. Standing very close to her father, she said, "Papa dear, won't you have a wagon made ready for me, a tall one with good wheels, so I can carry my fine clothes to the river and wash them — the ones lying there soiled?
It's fitting for you too, when you sit among the leading men deciding matters of state, to wear clean clothes on your body. And you have five sons in the halls, two married, and three still young bachelors flourishing in their youth, who always want freshly washed clothes when they go out to the dances. All this weighs on my mind." So she spoke, for she was too shy to mention her own ripening marriage to her father. But he understood everything and answered her, "I don't begrudge you the mules, my child, or anything else.
Go on — the servants will get a wagon ready for you, a tall one with good wheels, fitted with a rail all around." With these words he called to the servants, and they obeyed. Outside they made ready the smooth-running mule cart, led out the mules and yoked them to it, and the girl brought fine clothing out of her room and laid it on the polished wagon. Her mother packed a basket with hearty food of every kind, added other good things to eat, and poured wine into a goatskin flask. The girl climbed up onto the wagon.
Her mother also gave her a golden flask of smooth olive oil for her and her maids to anoint themselves after bathing. Nausicaa took up the whip and the shining reins and cracked the whip to start the mules moving — off they clattered, straining hard, carrying both the clothes and the girl, though not alone, for her attendant maids went along with her. When they reached the lovely-flowing river, where the washing pools stood full year-round and plenty of clear water ran through, more than enough to clean even heavily soiled clothes, there they unhitched the mules from the wagon
and drove them along the swirling river to graze on sweet clover, while the girls lifted the clothes from the wagon by hand, carried them into the dark water, and trod them in the washing pits, working quickly and racing each other. When they had washed and cleaned away all the dirt, they spread the clothes out in rows along the shore, right where the sea washed the pebbles cleanest against the land. Then, having bathed and rubbed themselves with olive oil, they took their meal on the riverbank while the clothes dried in the sun's warmth. When she and her maids had had their fill of food, they threw off their headscarves and started a game of ball, and white-armed Nausicaa led them in song.
Just as Artemis the archer goes striding down the mountains, along towering Taygetus or Erymanthus, delighting in wild boar and swift deer, and with her the nymphs, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus, roam the wild country and play together, and Leto's heart rejoices, while Artemis holds her head and brow above them all, easy to pick out though all are lovely — so this unmarried girl stood out among her attendants.
But when she was about to head back home, having yoked the mules and folded the fine clothes, then bright-eyed Athena had another idea, that Odysseus should wake up and see the beautiful girl, who would lead him to the city of the Phaeacians. So the princess threw the ball toward one of her maids, missed her, and sent it into a deep pool. The girls all shrieked loudly, and godlike Odysseus woke up.
Sitting up, he wondered in his heart and mind, "Oh no — into whose land have I come this time? Are these people violent, wild, and lawless, or do they welcome strangers and fear the gods? It sounded to me just now like the cries of girls — of nymphs, who haunt the steep peaks of mountains, the springs of rivers, and the grassy meadows. Or maybe I'm actually near people who speak my language. Come, let me see for myself and find out."
With these words godlike Odysseus crept out from under the bushes, and with his stout hand broke off a leafy branch from the thick wood to hold in front of his body and cover his nakedness. He went forward like a mountain-bred lion trusting in its strength, walking on through wind and rain with blazing eyes, stalking cattle or sheep or wild deer, its stomach driving it to try the flocks even inside a sturdy pen — so Odysseus was about to approach the lovely-haired girls,
naked as he was, for need drove him to it. He appeared before them a fearsome sight, crusted with sea salt, and they scattered in fright, each one a different way along the jutting shore. Only Alcinous's daughter stood her ground, for Athena put courage into her heart and took the trembling out of her limbs. She stood facing him, holding steady, while Odysseus debated with himself whether to clasp the beautiful girl's knees and beg her, or instead to stand apart and plead with gentle words,
asking her to show him the city and give him something to wear. As he weighed it, it seemed better to hold back and plead with gentle words from a distance, in case clasping her knees would anger the girl. So at once he spoke a gentle and cunning speech: "I beg you, my lady — are you a goddess, or a mortal woman? If you're one of the gods who hold the wide heavens, then I'd guess you're Artemis, daughter of great Zeus, closest to her in looks, in stature, in build.
But if you're one of the mortals who live on earth, then blessed three times over are your father and mother, and blessed three times over are your brothers. Their hearts must surely warm with joy every time they see you join the dancing, a young shoot so lovely to look at. But blessed above all others, beyond anyone, is the man who will win you with his gifts and lead you home as his bride. I have never laid eyes on a mortal like you, man or woman — I am struck with awe just looking at you.
Once, on Delos, I saw something like this beside Apollo's altar — a young palm shoot springing up. I went there too, and a great crowd of people followed me on that journey, which was destined to bring me such grief. In just the same way, seeing that shoot, I was struck with wonder for a long time in my heart, since no such thing had ever grown up out of the earth. So now, lady, I marvel at you and I am struck with awe, and I am terribly afraid to touch your knees. A hard grief has come upon me.
Yesterday, on the twentieth day, I escaped the wine-dark sea. Until then the waves and violent storms carried me endlessly, away from the island of Ogygia. Now some power has cast me up here, so that I might suffer more misfortune even in this place — for I don't think it will end; the gods still have much more in store for me before that. But have mercy, my lady, for you are the first person I've come to after so much suffering, and I know no one else, none of the people who hold this city and land.
Show me the way to the town, and give me some rag to throw over myself, if you have any wrapping cloth you brought with you here. And in return, may the gods grant you everything your heart desires — a husband, a home, and a harmony between the two of you that is truly good, for there is nothing better or finer than when a man and woman keep a household in one mind and heart. It brings great grief to their enemies and joy to their friends, and they themselves know it best of all."
White-armed Nausicaa answered him, "Stranger, since you seem to be neither a wicked man nor a foolish one — and it is Zeus himself, the Olympian, who deals out fortune to men, to good and bad alike, to each as he wishes, and no doubt he gave you this, and you must simply bear it — now, since you have come to our city and land, you will not lack for clothing or anything else that a suffering wanderer deserves upon meeting us.
I will show you the town, and tell you the name of our people. The Phaeacians hold this city and land, and I am the daughter of great-hearted Alcinous, on whom the strength and power of the Phaeacians depend." With that she called to her lovely-haired attendants: "Stop, girls! Where are you running just from seeing a man? Surely you don't think he's some enemy?
There's no man alive, and none will ever be born, who could come bringing war to the land of the Phaeacians, for we are very dear to the immortals. We live apart, far off in the surging sea, the farthest of all people, and no other mortals mix with us. This man here is just some poor wanderer who has come to us, and we must take care of him now, since all strangers and beggars come from Zeus, and even a small gift is welcome.
So come, girls, give the stranger food and drink, and bathe him in the river, wherever there's shelter from the wind." So she spoke, and the girls stopped and called to one another, and they led Odysseus to a sheltered spot as Nausicaa, daughter of great-hearted Alcinous, had instructed. They set out a cloak and a tunic, clothes for him to wear, and gave him a golden flask of smooth olive oil, and told him to wash in the river's flowing water.
Then godlike Odysseus said to the maids, "Stand back a little, over there, while I wash the brine from my shoulders myself and rub myself with oil — it has been a long time since oil touched my skin. But I won't bathe in front of you, for I'm ashamed to strip naked in front of lovely-haired girls." So he spoke, and they went off a distance and told the girl. Meanwhile godlike Odysseus washed the salt from his body in the river,
the salt crusted on his back and broad shoulders, and scrubbed the crust of the barren sea from his head. And when he had bathed all over and rubbed himself with oil, and put on the clothes that the unmarried girl had given him, Athena, daughter of Zeus, made him look taller and stronger to see, and made the curling hair fall down from his head like hyacinth petals.
As when a skilled craftsman overlays silver with gold — one whom Hephaestus and Pallas Athena have taught every kind of art, and he finishes graceful work — so Athena poured grace over his head and shoulders. Then he went off and sat apart on the shore of the sea, shining with beauty and grace, and the girl gazed at him in wonder. And she said to her lovely-haired attendants,
"Listen to me, my white-armed maids, let me say something. It's not against the will of all the gods who hold Olympus that this man has come among the godlike Phaeacians. A little while ago he seemed unsightly to me, but now he looks like the gods who hold the wide heavens. I only wish a man like this could be called my husband, living here, and content to stay. But come, girls, give the stranger food and drink."
So she spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed, and set food and drink before Odysseus. Then the long-suffering, godlike Odysseus ate and drank eagerly, for he had gone a long time without tasting food. But white-armed Nausicaa turned her attention elsewhere: she folded the clothes and laid them on the fine wagon, yoked the strong-hoofed mules, climbed up herself, and then urged Odysseus on, speaking to him by name:
"Rise now, stranger, and head to the city, so I can send you on to the house of my wise father, where I promise you'll meet all the best of the Phaeacians. But do as I say — you seem to me no fool. As long as we're passing through the fields and farmland, walk quickly along with the maids behind the mules and wagon, and I will lead the way.
But once we come near the city — which has a high wall around it, and a fine harbor on either side, with a narrow entrance, where the curved ships are hauled up along the road, for each man has his own mooring place — there stands the assembly ground around the fine temple of Poseidon, fitted with quarried stones set deep in the earth. There they tend the gear of the black ships, the cables and sails, and sharpen the oars,
for the Phaeacians care nothing for the bow and quiver, but for masts and oars and well-balanced ships, in which they delight as they cross the gray sea. I want to avoid their harsh gossip, in case someone speaks ill of me behind my back — there are some insolent people among the population — and someone crude might say, meeting us, 'Who is this tall, handsome stranger following Nausicaa?
Where did she find him? He'll be her husband, I suppose! Either she picked up some castaway from his ship, some man from far away, since we have no neighbors nearby, or some god she long prayed to has come down from heaven and will have her for all her days. Better if she went out herself and found a husband from elsewhere, since she clearly looks down on her own Phaeacian suitors, though many fine men court her.'
That's what they'll say, and it would bring shame on me. I myself would blame another girl who did such a thing — who, against the will of her dear father and mother, kept company with men before her marriage was openly celebrated. So, stranger, listen closely to what I say, so that you may quickly win escort and a safe voyage home from my father.
You will find a lovely grove of Athena near the road, a grove of poplars, with a spring flowing inside it and a meadow all around. There lies my father's estate and flourishing orchard, as far from the city as a man's shout can carry. Sit down there and wait a while, until we have made our way into the city and reached my father's house.
But when you judge that we have had time to reach home, then go into the city of the Phaeacians and ask for the house of my father, great-hearted Alcinous. It is easy to recognize — even a child could lead you there,
foolish, though he be, could lead you there; for the houses of the Phaeacians are nothing like the house of the hero Alcinous. But once the halls and courtyard have closed around you, go quickly through the great hall until you reach my mother. She sits at the hearth in the light of the fire, spinning sea-purple wool on her distaff, a wonder to see, leaning against a pillar, with her serving women seated behind her. There, close beside her, leans my father's chair, where he sits and drinks his wine like an immortal. Pass him by and throw your arms around my mother's knees,
"so that you may see the day of your homecoming and rejoice, and rejoice quickly, however far from home you are. If she looks on you kindly in her heart, then you may hope to see your own people again and reach your well-built house and your native land."
So she spoke, and with the shining whip she lashed the mules, and they quickly left the streams of the river behind. They trotted along smoothly, stepping out well with their feet, and she drove with care, so that her attendants and Odysseus on foot could keep pace beside the chariot, and she used the whip with judgment.
The sun went down as they reached the famous grove sacred to Athena, and there godlike Odysseus sat himself down. At once he prayed to the daughter of great Zeus:
"Hear me, child of Zeus who bears the storm-shield, Atrytone. Hear me now at last, since you never heard me before when I was being battered, when the famous Earthshaker battered me. Grant that I come among the Phaeacians as one welcomed and pitied."
So he spoke in prayer, and Pallas Athena heard him. Yet she did not appear before him openly, for she held herself back out of respect for her father's brother, who still raged with fierce anger

======== Book 7 ========

So the man of many sufferings, royal Odysseus, prayed there, while the mule-cart carried the strength of the girl toward the city. When she reached her father's splendid halls she stopped the mules at the gateway, and her brothers gathered round her, men who might have been gods, and unyoked the mules and carried the linens inside. She herself went to her room, where a fire was kindled for her by her old attendant, Eurymedousa of Apeira, whom curved ships had once brought from Apeira as a prize set apart for Alcinous, since the Phaeacians honored him like a god among his people. She had nursed white-armed Nausicaa in that house, and now she lit the fire and prepared her supper inside.
Meanwhile Odysseus rose to go toward the city, and Athena poured a thick mist around him, wishing him well, so that no proud Phaeacian meeting him on the road would mock him with words or ask who he was. But just as he was about to enter the lovely city, the bright-eyed goddess Athena met him, looking like a young girl carrying a water jar. She stood before him, and godlike Odysseus questioned her.
"My child, could you guide me to the house of a man named Alcinous, who rules this people here? I am a stranger who has suffered much, come from a distant land, and I know no one among those who hold this city and this country."
The goddess, bright-eyed Athena, answered him: "Then I will show you, stranger and father, the house you ask for, since it lies close to my own noble father's home. But come, walk quietly — I will lead the way — and do not look at anyone or ask any questions. The people here do not welcome strangers kindly, nor do they greet warmly whoever comes from elsewhere. They trust in their swift ships to cross the great gulf of the sea, since the Earthshaker granted them that gift — their ships are as fast as a bird's wing, or a thought."
So she spoke, and Pallas Athena led on swiftly, and he followed in the goddess's footsteps. The seafaring Phaeacians did not notice him passing through their city among them, for fair-haired Athena, that formidable goddess, would not allow it — she poured a wondrous mist around him, wishing him well in her heart. Odysseus marveled at the harbors and the trim ships, at the meeting-places of the heroes themselves, and at the long, high walls fitted with palisades, a wonder to behold. And when at last they reached the king's splendid house, the goddess, bright-eyed Athena, spoke first.
"Here, stranger and father, is the house you asked me to show you. You will find kings nurtured by Zeus feasting inside — go in, and let nothing trouble your heart, for a bold man does better in every undertaking, even if he comes from some far-off land. You will find the lady of the house first inside the hall. Arete is her name, and she comes from the very same parents who bore King Alcinous."
"Poseidon the Earthshaker first fathered Nausithous with Periboea, loveliest of women, the youngest daughter of great-hearted Eurymedon, who once ruled over the proud tribe of Giants. But he destroyed his reckless people and was himself destroyed. Poseidon lay with his daughter and fathered a son, great-hearted Nausithous, who ruled among the Phaeacians. Nausithous fathered Rhexenor and Alcinous. Rhexenor, still without a son, was struck down by Apollo of the silver bow while newly married, leaving one daughter only, Arete. Alcinous made her his wife, and honors her as no other woman on earth is honored, among all the wives who now keep house under their husbands' rule."
"So deeply is she cherished and esteemed, by her own dear children, by Alcinous himself, and by his people, who look on her as a god when she walks through the city and greet her with their words. For she herself lacks nothing in good sense, and settles quarrels among men, even for those she favors. If she looks kindly on you in her heart, then you may hope to see your loved ones again and reach your high-roofed home and your own native land."
So speaking, bright-eyed Athena departed over the barren sea, leaving lovely Scheria behind, and came to Marathon and to Athens with its broad streets, and entered the sturdy house of Erechtheus. Meanwhile Odysseus went on toward the famous house of Alcinous, and his heart turned over many thoughts as he stood there, before he crossed the bronze threshold.
For a gleam like that of the sun or the moon hung over the high-roofed house of great-hearted Alcinous. Bronze walls ran along either side from the threshold to the innermost chamber, topped with a cornice of blue enamel. Golden doors enclosed the sturdy house within; silver doorposts stood on the bronze threshold, with a silver lintel above and a golden door-handle. On either side stood gold and silver dogs, which Hephaestus had made with cunning skill to guard the house of great-hearted Alcinous, immortal and ageless forever.
Inside, chairs were ranged along the wall on either side, from the threshold to the innermost room, and on them fine woven robes were laid, the work of women. There the Phaeacian leaders sat, drinking and eating, for they had plenty always. Golden youths stood on well-built pedestals, holding blazing torches in their hands to light the halls at night for the feasters. Fifty serving-women worked through the house — some grinding the yellow grain at the mill, others weaving cloth or twirling their spindles as they sat, like the leaves of a tall poplar tree, while the tightly woven linens dripped with oil. Just as the Phaeacian men excel all others at driving a swift ship over the sea, so their women excel at the loom, for Athena gave them beyond others skill in beautiful handiwork and good sense.
Outside the courtyard, near the gates, lay a great orchard of four acres, enclosed all around by a fence. There tall trees grew in full bloom — pears, pomegranates, apples with their gleaming fruit, sweet figs, and thriving olives. Their fruit never fails or runs short, winter or summer, all year round, for the West Wind's breath continually brings some fruit to bud and ripens others. Pear ripens on pear, apple on apple, grape cluster on grape cluster, fig on fig.
There too a fruitful vineyard was planted, part of it a level plot where grapes lay drying in the sun, while elsewhere others were being gathered, and still others trodden underfoot; and in front unripe grapes were shedding their blossom, while others were just beginning to darken. And by the last row of vines, well-tended garden beds of every kind grew, gleaming with abundance all year long. Two springs watered it — one spreading through the whole garden, the other flowing under the courtyard gate toward the high house, where the townspeople drew their water. Such were the glorious gifts of the gods in the house of Alcinous.
There the man of many sufferings, royal Odysseus, stood and gazed. And when he had taken in everything with wonder, he stepped quickly over the threshold into the house. He found the Phaeacian leaders and counselors pouring libations from their cups to the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus, to whom they always poured last before going to rest. Then royal Odysseus, the man of many sufferings, walked through the hall still wrapped in the thick mist Athena had poured around him, until he reached Arete and King Alcinous. He threw his arms around Arete's knees, and just then the divine mist dissolved away from him. The people fell silent, seeing the man in their hall, and stared in wonder. And Odysseus made his plea.
"Arete, daughter of godlike Rhexenor, I have come to your husband's knees and to yours, after great hardship, and to these feasting guests — may the gods grant them prosperity in their lives, and may each pass on to his children the wealth in his halls and whatever honor the people gave him. But for me, urge them to send me swiftly on my way home, since I have long suffered troubles far from those I love."
So saying he sat down by the hearth among the ashes, near the fire, and everyone fell into a hushed silence. At last the old hero Echeneus spoke, the oldest of the Phaeacian men, skilled in speech and knowing many things from long ago. He, meaning well, addressed the assembly.
"Alcinous, this is neither fitting nor proper — that a guest should sit on the ground by the hearth among the ashes, while your people wait, restraining themselves, for your word. Come, raise the stranger up and seat him on a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix wine, so we may pour it out also to Zeus who delights in thunder, who attends reverent suppliants. And let the housekeeper give the stranger supper from what is in store."
When the sacred strength of Alcinous heard this, he took the hand of clever, resourceful Odysseus, raised him from the hearth, and seated him on a gleaming chair, making his own son, gallant Laodamas, who sat nearest him and loved him most, get up to make room. A servant brought water in a fine golden pitcher and poured it over a silver basin for him to wash, then drew up a polished table beside him. A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it before him, laying out many good things, generous with what she had. And royal Odysseus, the man of many sufferings, ate and drank.
Then he spoke to the herald, the strong voice of Alcinous. "Pontonous, mix wine in the bowl and serve it to everyone in the hall, so we may pour it out also to Zeus who delights in thunder, who attends reverent suppliants."
So he spoke, and Pontonous mixed the honey-sweet wine and served it around, pouring a portion to each in turn. And when they had poured their libations and drunk as much as they wished, Alcinous rose and addressed them.
"Hear me, leaders and counselors of the Phaeacians, while I say what my heart within me bids. Now that you have feasted, go home to your beds. In the morning we will call together more of the elders, entertain our guest in the hall, and offer fine sacrifices to the gods; then we will turn our thoughts to sending him home, so that under our escort this stranger may reach his own native land without further toil or grief, quickly and gladly, however far off it lies, and suffer no harm or hardship on the way until he sets foot on his own soil. There, after that, he will face whatever fate the heavy spinners wove for him at his birth, when his mother bore him."
"But if he is one of the immortals come down from heaven, then the gods are planning something different this time. For always before, the gods have appeared to us openly, when we offer them glorious hecatombs, and they feast among us, sitting where we sit. And even if a lone traveler meets one of them, they do not hide themselves, since we are close kin to them, as are the Cyclopes and the wild tribes of the Giants."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Alcinous, put that thought out of your mind — I am nothing like the immortals who hold the wide heaven, neither in build nor in form, but like mortal men. Whoever among you know men who bear the greatest weight of misery, to them I could compare my own sorrows. And indeed I could tell of still more troubles, all that I have suffered by the gods' will. But let me eat my supper, grieved as I am — for nothing is more shameless than a hateful belly, which forces itself on a man's memory, however weary he is and however much sorrow he carries in his heart. So it is with me — I carry grief in my heart, yet my belly keeps urging me to eat and drink, and makes me forget all I have suffered, and demands to be filled."
"But you — be quick to move at dawn's first light, so that you may set this unlucky man on his own native soil again, after all he has suffered. Let life leave me only once I have seen again my possessions, my servants, and my great high-roofed house."
So he spoke, and they all applauded and urged that the stranger be sent home, since he had spoken as was fitting. And when they had poured their libations and drunk as much as they wished, they went off each to his own house to sleep, while royal Odysseus remained behind in the hall, with Arete and godlike Alcinous seated beside him, and the serving-women cleared away the dishes of the feast. Then white-armed Arete began to speak, for she recognized the cloak and tunic, the fine clothes she herself had made with her serving-women, and she spoke to him with winged words.
"Stranger, I will ask you this myself, first of all: who are you, and where from among men? Who gave you these clothes? Did you not say you came here wandering over the sea?"
Resourceful Odysseus answered her: "It is hard, queen, to tell my troubles from beginning to end without a break, since the gods of heaven have given me so many. But I will tell you this, since you ask and want to know. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far off in the sea. There lives the daughter of Atlas, cunning Calypso, the formidable goddess with the lovely hair, and no one, god or mortal, keeps company with her. But some divine power brought me, unlucky as I was, alone to her hearth, after Zeus struck my swift ship with a blazing thunderbolt and shattered it in the middle of the wine-dark sea."
"There all my good companions perished, but I clung to the keel of my curved ship and was carried along for nine days; on the tenth, in the dark night, the gods brought me to the island of Ogygia, where Calypso lives, the formidable goddess with lovely hair. She took me in, cared for me lovingly, fed me, and told me she would make me immortal and ageless forever — but she never persuaded the heart in my chest. There I stayed seven long years without fail, always wetting with my tears the immortal clothing Calypso gave me. But when the eighth circling year came round, she urged me at last to go, on word from Zeus, or perhaps her own mind had changed."
"She sent me off on a raft lashed with many ropes, and gave me plenty — bread, sweet wine, and clothed me in immortal garments — and she sent a gentle, favorable wind. For seventeen days I sailed the sea, and on the eighteenth the shadowy mountains of your land appeared, and my heart rejoiced, unlucky as I was — for I was still to face great hardship, which Poseidon the Earthshaker stirred up against me, driving winds against me and blocking my path, and rousing the sea to unspeakable fury, so that the waves would not let me ride my raft on, groaning as I was."
"A storm scattered the raft at last, and I had to swim, cutting through that gulf of sea, until wind and current carried me to your shore. There, as I tried to land, a wave would have crushed me against the great rocks, dashing me on that joyless coast, but I swam back out and away, until I came to a river, which seemed to me the best place — smooth of rocks, and sheltered from the wind. I dragged myself out, gathering my strength, and the immortal night came on. I went inland, away from the river fed by Zeus, and lay down among the bushes, heaping leaves over myself; and a god poured boundless sleep upon me."
"There among the leaves, my heart heavy with sorrow, I slept the whole night through, and into the dawn, and past midday. The sun was sinking when sweet sleep let me go, and I noticed your daughter's maids playing on the shore, and she among them, looking like a goddess. I begged her for help, and she showed no lack of good sense — you could hardly expect so much good judgment from someone so young, for the young are usually thoughtless. She gave me plenty of bread and gleaming wine, bathed me in the river, and gave me these clothes I wear. This is the truth I have told you, grieved as I am."
Then Alcinous answered him and said: "Stranger, in one thing my daughter did not judge rightly — that she did not bring you home herself with her serving-women..."
"— brought you to our house herself, since you were the first to come to her as a suppliant."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "My lord, do not blame the girl for that, she is blameless. She did tell me to follow along with her maids, but I would not, out of fear and shame, afraid that the sight might stir anger in your own heart. We men are a jealous breed, all of us who live on this earth."
Alcinous answered him again: "Stranger, the heart in my chest is not one to flare up over nothing. In all things the fair and moderate course is best.
If only — Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — a man like you, thinking as I think, could have my daughter and be called my son-in-law, staying here with us. I would give you a house and possessions, if you were willing to stay. But no one among the Phaeacians shall hold you here against your will — may Father Zeus never let that happen. As for your passage home, so that you may be sure of it, I set it for tomorrow. Then you will lie down, overcome by sleep, while my men row you across the calm sea, until you reach your own country and your house, or wherever else you wish,
even if it lies much farther off than Euboea, which our people say is the most distant land of all, those of them who saw it when they carried fair-haired Rhadamanthys there to visit Tityus, son of Gaia. They went there and, without any toil, finished the journey and came home again on that very same day. You will see for yourself how far the best of all ships are mine, and my young men, at churning up the sea with their oars."
So he spoke, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus was glad, and praying he spoke these words and called him by name:
"Father Zeus, grant that Alcinous may bring to pass everything he has said. Then his fame would be undying over the grain-giving earth, and I would reach my own homeland."
So the two of them spoke to one another. And white-armed Arete gave orders to her maids to set up a bed under the portico, to lay fine purple coverlets upon it, to spread rugs over them, and to put thick woolen cloaks on top for covering. The women went out from the hall carrying torches in their hands, and when they had briskly made up the sturdy bed,
they came and stood by Odysseus and roused him with these words: "Rise now and go to sleep, stranger — your bed is made."
So they spoke, and it seemed to him a welcome thing to lie down and rest. So there long-suffering, godlike Odysseus slept, on a corded bed under the echoing portico, while Alcinous lay down in the inner chamber of the lofty house, and beside him his wife and queen made ready the bed and bedding.

======== Book 8 ========

When Dawn came, rosy-fingered and early-born, the sacred strength of Alcinous rose from his bed, and Odysseus, raider of cities, sprung from the gods, rose too. The sacred strength of Alcinous led the way to the Phaeacian meeting ground, which had been built for them beside the ships. They came and sat on polished stones set close together. Meanwhile Pallas Athena went through the city, taking the shape of the herald of wise Alcinous, working out a homecoming for great-hearted Odysseus, and coming up to each man in turn she spoke:
"Come now, you lords and counselors of the Phaeacians, go to the assembly, so you may learn about the stranger who has just come to wise Alcinous's house, driven over the sea, a man who looks like the immortals."
So she spoke, and stirred the strength and spirit of each man. Quickly the assembly grounds and the seats filled with men gathering, and many marveled at the sight of the wise son of Laertes, for Athena had poured a godlike grace over his head and shoulders and made him taller and more powerful to look at, so that he would be dear to all the Phaeacians, and impressive, and worthy of respect, and would carry off the many contests with which the Phaeacians meant to test him.
When they had all gathered and were assembled together, Alcinous rose among them and spoke: "Hear me, you lords and counselors of the Phaeacians, so I may say what my heart within me bids. This stranger — I do not know who he is — has come wandering to my house, whether from the people of the east or of the west. He is pressing for passage home and begs that it be granted without fail.
As we have always done before, let us hasten to send him on his way. For no one else who ever comes to my house sits here grieving long for lack of an escort. Come, let us drag a black ship down to the bright sea, one making her first voyage, and let fifty-two young men be chosen from the district, the best there are. Let them all bind the oars well to the oarlocks, then step out, and afterward come to my house and make ready a quick feast — I will provide for all of them well. This I charge upon the young men. As for the rest of you,
you scepter-bearing kings, come to my fine house so we may welcome our guest in the halls, and let no one refuse. And call the godlike singer Demodocus, for the god has given him beyond others the gift of song, to give delight in whatever way his heart moves him to sing."
So he spoke and led the way, and the scepter-bearing lords followed with him, while the herald went to fetch the godlike singer. The fifty-two chosen young men went, as he had ordered, down to the shore of the barren sea. When they came down to the ship and to the sea,
they dragged the black ship down into the deep water, set the mast and sail aboard her, fitted the oars into leather slings, all in proper order, and spread the white sails. They moored her out in deep water, and then went on to the great house of wise Alcinous. The porticoes and courtyards and rooms filled with men gathering, many of them, both young and old. For them Alcinous slaughtered twelve sheep, eight white-tusked boars, and two shambling oxen.
These they skinned and dressed and prepared a fine feast. The herald soon came near, leading the beloved singer, whom the Muse loved above others, and gave him both good and evil — she took away his eyes, but gave him sweet song. Pontonous set a silver-studded chair for him in the middle of the feasters, leaning it against a tall pillar, and hung the clear-toned lyre on a peg just above his head, and showed him with his hands how to reach it. He set beside him a basket and a fine table, and a cup of wine to drink whenever his heart moved him.
They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them. When they had put away their desire for food and drink, the Muse moved the singer to sing of the famous deeds of men, from that story whose fame had then reached the wide heaven — the quarrel of Odysseus and Achilles, son of Peleus, how they once clashed at a rich feast of the gods with terrible words, and Agamemnon, lord of men, felt joy in his heart that the best of the Achaeans were quarreling. For so Phoebus Apollo had foretold to him when he crossed the stone threshold
to seek the oracle at sacred Pytho — for then the beginning of trouble was rolling down on both Trojans and Greeks by the will of great Zeus. This the famous singer sang; but Odysseus took his great purple cloak in his strong hands and drew it down over his head, hiding his handsome face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see the tears falling from beneath his brows. Whenever the godlike singer paused in his song, Odysseus wiped away his tears, drew the cloak from his head, took up his double-handled cup, and poured a libation to the gods; but whenever he began again, urged on by
the best of the Phaeacians, who delighted in his words, Odysseus would once more cover his head and groan. There he wept, unnoticed by all the others, but Alcinous alone marked it and understood, sitting close beside him, and heard the heavy sound of his groaning. At once he spoke to the oar-loving Phaeacians: "Hear me, you lords and counselors of the Phaeacians. Now we have had our fill of the shared feast and of the lyre, which goes so well with a rich banquet. Now let us go out and try our hand at contests,
all of them, so that our guest may tell his friends, when he comes home again, how far we surpass all others in boxing, wrestling, jumping, and running." So he spoke and led the way, and the others followed. The herald hung the clear lyre back on its peg, took Demodocus by the hand and led him out of the hall, guiding him along the same road the other leading Phaeacians were taking, to watch the games. They went on to the assembly ground, and with them followed a vast crowd, countless numbers; and many fine young men stood up to compete.
Up rose Acroneus and Ocyalus and Elatreus, Nauteus and Prymneus, Anchialus and Eretmeus, Ponteus and Proreus, Thoon and Anabesineus, and Amphialus, son of Polyneus son of Tecton; and Euryalus rose too, a match for man-killing Ares, son of Naubolus, the finest in form and build of all the Phaeacians after peerless Laodamas. And three sons of blameless Alcinous rose as well, Laodamas, Halius, and godlike Clytoneus. First they tried their speed on foot.
The course was marked out from the starting line, and they all sped off together, swift, raising dust across the plain. Far the best of them at running was blameless Clytoneus: as far as the furrow a pair of mules can plow in a field, so far ahead of the others he came in first, leaving the rest behind. Then they tried the grueling sport of wrestling, and there Euryalus outdid all the best men. In the long jump Amphialus was best of all; with the discus, by far the strongest was Elatreus; in boxing, Laodamas, the fine son of Alcinous.
When they had all delighted their hearts with the games, Laodamas, son of Alcinous, spoke among them: "Come, friends, let us ask the stranger whether he knows and has learned any contest. He is not badly built — look at his thighs, his calves, both his arms above, his strong neck, his great strength. He is not lacking in youth, only he has been broken by many hardships, for I say there is nothing worse than the sea to wear a man down, however strong he may be." Then Euryalus answered him and said:
"Laodamas, you have spoken well and fittingly. Go yourself now and challenge him, and put the matter to him." When the fine son of Alcinous heard this, he went and stood in the middle and said to Odysseus: "Come, you too, stranger and father, try your hand at the games, if you have learned any. It is fitting that you should know contests, for there is no greater fame for a man while he lives than what he achieves with his feet and his hands. Come, try your strength, and scatter the cares from your heart.
Your journey home will not be delayed much longer — already your ship is launched and your crew stands ready."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Laodamas, why do you press me to this, taunting me? My mind is more full of cares than of games — I who have suffered so much and struggled so hard before this, and now sit here in your assembly longing for my homecoming, begging your king and all your people." Then Euryalus answered him and mocked him to his face: "No indeed, stranger, I would not take you for a man skilled
in the contests that men commonly practice. You look more like the master of a ship with many oars, who sails often, a leader of sailors who are traders — one who keeps his mind on his cargo, watches over the goods he carries, and the greedy profits he makes. You do not look like an athlete." Resourceful Odysseus looked at him darkly and said: "Stranger, that was not well spoken — you sound like a reckless man. So it is that the gods do not give all men every gift alike, not looks, nor wit, nor eloquence.
One man may be poorer in appearance, but a god crowns his words with beauty, and people look at him with delight as he speaks steadily, with modest confidence, standing out among the gathered crowd, and when he walks through the city, they look at him as if he were a god. Another may be as handsome as the immortals in form, yet no grace crowns his words. So it is with you — your looks are striking, no god could make you finer, but your mind is worthless. You have stirred my heart, my own heart within my breast, by speaking so out of order. I am no stranger to contests, as you claim, but I think I was among the best
while I still had my youth and could trust my hands. Now I am held down by hardship and pain, for I have endured much, crossing through the wars of men and the grim waves of the sea. Even so, despite all I have suffered, I will try my hand at the games, for your words have bitten deep, and you have provoked me by speaking them." So he spoke, and sprang up still wearing his cloak, and seized a discus bigger and thicker and heavier by no small measure than the ones the Phaeacians used to throw among themselves. Spinning around, he let it fly from his powerful hand,
and the stone hummed through the air, and the Phaeacians, men famous for their long oars and their ships, ducked low to the ground beneath its rushing flight. The discus flew past the marks of all the others, swift from his hand. Athena, taking the shape of a man, marked the landing spot and spoke to him: "Even a blind man, stranger, could find your mark by feeling for it, since it lies apart from all the rest, far out in front. Take heart in this contest — no Phaeacian will reach it, let alone pass it." So she spoke, and much-enduring, godlike Odysseus rejoiced, glad that he had found a friendly ally there among the assembled crowd.
Then he spoke more lightly to the Phaeacians: "Now match that, young men. And soon after, I think I will send another throw as far, or farther still. As for the rest of you, whoever's heart and spirit urge him, let him come try me now, since you have angered me quite enough, in boxing, wrestling, or even running — I do not refuse anyone, any Phaeacian at all, except Laodamas himself. He is my host — who would fight the man who befriends him? Only a witless, worthless man would challenge his host to a contest
in a foreign land — he only cuts off his own chances. But I do not refuse or scorn any of the rest — I am willing to know them and test myself against them face to face. I am not bad at any contest men engage in. I know well how to handle a polished bow; I would be first to strike a man with an arrow shot into a crowd of enemy fighters, however many companions stood close beside him aiming their own bows. Only Philoctetes outdid me with the bow among the army of the Trojans, whenever we Achaeans took up our bows.
But of all others now alive on the earth who eat bread, I claim to be far the best. I would not compare myself, though, with the men of an earlier age, neither Heracles nor Eurytus of Oechalia, who used to rival even the immortals with the bow. That is why great Eurytus died young and never reached old age in his halls, for Apollo grew angry and killed him, because he had dared to challenge him to a shooting match. With the spear I can throw farther than anyone else can shoot an arrow. In a footrace alone I fear that some of the Phaeacians might outrun me,
for I was shamefully worn down by the many waves of the sea, since there was no steady care for my body aboard the ship — that is why my limbs are weakened." So he spoke, and they all fell silent. Alcinous alone answered him: "Stranger, since what you say among us is not ungracious, but you wish to show the worth that is truly yours, angry because this man stood up in the assembly and mocked you in a way no man of sound judgment, one who knows how to speak fittingly, would ever mock your worth —
come now, listen to my words, so that you may tell some other hero, when you feast in your own halls beside your wife and children, remembering our skill, what deeds Zeus has granted us as well, without a break, ever since our fathers' time. We are not outstanding boxers or wrestlers, but we run swiftly on our feet and are the best with ships, and always dear to us are feasting, the lyre, dancing, changes of clothing, warm baths, and soft beds. Come now, you Phaeacian dancers, the best among you,
dance, so that our guest may tell his friends, when he returns home, how far we surpass others in seamanship, running, dancing, and song. Let someone go quickly and bring Demodocus his clear-toned lyre, wherever it lies in our house." So spoke godlike Alcinous, and the herald rose to fetch the hollow lyre from the king's house. Nine chosen stewards stood up, men of the public who managed everything well at the contests; they smoothed the dancing ground and made the wide space ready.
The herald came near, carrying the clear-toned lyre for Demodocus, who then went to the center of the floor; around him stood boys in the first bloom of youth, skilled in dancing, and they struck the wondrous dancing floor with their feet. Odysseus watched the flashing of their feet and marveled in his heart. Then the singer struck up his lyre and began a beautiful song about the love of Ares and garland-crowned Aphrodite, how they first lay together in secret in the house of Hephaestus — how Ares gave her many gifts, and defiled the bed and marriage-bed of lord Hephaestus. Quickly a messenger came to him,
Helios, who had seen them joined together in love. When Hephaestus heard the news that stung his heart, he went to his forge, brooding evil in his mind, set his great anvil on its block, and hammered out chains that could not be broken or loosed, so that they would hold the pair fast in place. When he had finished the trap, made in anger against Ares, he went to the chamber where his own bed lay, and poured the chains all around the bedposts in a circle; and many more hung down from the roof-beams above, fine as spider webs, so fine that no one could see them,
not even one of the blessed gods, so cunningly were they made. When he had spread the whole snare around the bed, he made as if to go to Lemnos, that well-built city, which of all lands is dearest to him by far. Nor did gold-reined Ares keep a careless watch: as soon as he saw famous Hephaestus going off, he made his way to the house of glorious Hephaestus, eager for the love of garland-crowned Cytherea. She had just come from her father, mighty Cronus's son, and was sitting down when Ares came in through the door,
and clasped her hand and spoke to her: "Come, my love, let us go to bed and take our pleasure together, for Hephaestus is no longer in the land — he has already gone off to Lemnos, to the wild-voiced Sintians." So he spoke, and it seemed welcome to her to lie down with him. So the two of them went to the bed and lay down to sleep, and around them fell the cunning chains of skillful Hephaestus, so that they could not move a limb or rise up at all. Then at last they knew there was no escaping. And close beside them came the famous god of the double forge,
Ares had turned back before he ever reached the shore of Lemnos, for the Sun had kept watch for him and brought him word. He strode toward his own dear house, his heart heavy, and stopped in the doorway while a wild rage seized him. He let out a terrible shout, calling to all the gods so they would hear:
"Father Zeus, and all you other blessed gods who live forever, come and see a shameful thing, not to be borne — how Aphrodite, Zeus's daughter, forever scorns me because I am lame, and instead loves destructive Ares, because he is handsome and sound of limb, while I was born a weakling. No one is to blame for that but my two parents — would that they had never gotten me! But come and see where the two of them lie sleeping together in love, in my own bed, and the sight tortures me. Yet I do not think they will want to lie like that much longer, however much they desire each other — soon enough they will have no wish to sleep, but my snare and my chains will hold them fast until her father pays back every gift I gave him for his shameless daughter's hand — for she is lovely, but she has no self-control."
So he spoke, and the gods gathered at his bronze-floored house. Poseidon the earth-shaker came, and Hermes the runner came, and lord Apollo who strikes from afar came too, but the goddesses stayed home out of modesty, each in her own house. So the gods, the givers of good things, stood in the doorway, and uncontrollable laughter rose among the blessed ones as they looked upon the cunning work of clever Hephaestus. And one would glance at his neighbor and say:
"Wrongdoing does not pay — see how the slow catches the swift. Just now slow Hephaestus has caught Ares, fastest of all the gods who hold Olympus, by his craft, lame as he is. Now Ares owes the adulterer's fine."
So they talked with one another, and Apollo, son of Zeus, spoke to Hermes:
"Hermes, son of Zeus, guide of souls, giver of good things — would you be willing to lie in bed beside golden Aphrodite, even pressed down by strong chains?"
And the messenger, the slayer of Argus, answered him:
"If only that might happen, lord Apollo, archer from afar! Let three times as many unbreakable chains bind me round, and let all you gods look on, and every goddess too — only let me sleep beside golden Aphrodite!"
He spoke, and laughter rose among the deathless gods. But Poseidon was not amused — he kept begging renowned Hephaestus to set Ares free, and he spoke to him, saying:
"Release him. I promise you that he will pay everything owed, as is right, before the gods who never die."
And the famous smith of the strong arms answered him:
"Do not ask this of me, earth-shaking Poseidon. Pledges given for the worthless are worthless in return. How could I bind you before the deathless gods if Ares should slip free of both debt and chains and run off?"
And Poseidon, shaker of the earth, answered him again:
"Hephaestus, even if Ares should run off, slipping free of the debt, I myself will pay you what is owed."
Then the famous smith of the strong arms answered him:
"It is not right, and I cannot refuse what you ask."
With that Hephaestus loosed the chains, and once the pair were freed from the bonds — strong as those bonds had been — they sprang up at once. Ares went off to Thrace, while laughter-loving Aphrodite went to Cyprus, to Paphos, where she has her sacred grove and smoking altar. There the Graces bathed her and anointed her with the immortal oil that clings to the gods who live forever, and dressed her in lovely robes, a wonder to behold.
So the famous singer sang these things, and Odysseus took joy in his heart to hear them, and so did the other Phaeacians, men famed for their long oars. Then Alcinous told Halius and Laodamas to dance alone, since no one could match them.
They took up a fine ball, dyed purple, that skilled Polybus had made for them. One would bend back and hurl it up toward the shadowy clouds, and the other would leap from the ground and catch it easily before his feet touched earth again. When they had tried their skill throwing the ball straight up, they began to dance upon the earth that feeds so many, trading places rapidly, while the other young men stood around the ring keeping time, and a great clatter of applause rose up.
Then godlike Odysseus spoke to Alcinous:
"Lord Alcinous, most honored of all your people, you promised your dancers were the best, and now I see it proven true — I am struck with wonder as I watch."
So he spoke, and the sacred strength of Alcinous was glad, and he said at once to the oar-loving Phaeacians:
"Hear me, leaders and counselors of the Phaeacians. This stranger seems to me a man of good sense. Come, let us give him a guest-gift, as is fitting. Twelve glorious kings hold sway among our people as rulers, and I myself am the thirteenth. Let each of us bring a freshly washed cloak and tunic and a talent of precious gold. Let us gather all these gifts quickly, so the stranger may hold them in his hands and go to supper with a glad heart. And let Euryalus make amends to him with words and with a gift, since what he said was not fitting."
So he spoke, and all the others approved and agreed, and each man sent his herald to fetch the gifts. Then Euryalus answered him and said:
"Lord Alcinous, most honored of all your people, I will indeed make amends to the stranger, as you ask. I will give him this sword, all bronze, with a silver hilt, and a scabbard of freshly cut ivory fitted around it. It will be worth a great deal to him."
So saying he placed the silver-studded sword in his hands, and spoke to him, saying:
"Good health to you, father and stranger. If any harsh word was spoken, let the storm winds carry it off at once. May the gods grant you to see your wife again and reach your homeland, since you have long suffered far from your loved ones."
Then resourceful Odysseus answered him:
"And good health to you too, friend — may the gods grant you prosperity. And may you never miss this sword you have given me, making amends with your words."
So he spoke, and slung the silver-studded sword about his shoulders. The sun set, and the splendid gifts were brought to him. Noble heralds carried them to the house of Alcinous, where the blameless sons of Alcinous received them and set the beautiful gifts down before their honored mother.
The sacred strength of Alcinous led the way for the rest, and they came in and sat upon the high seats. Then the strength of Alcinous spoke to Arete, saying:
"Come, wife, bring the finest chest we have, and lay in it a freshly washed cloak and tunic. Heat a cauldron of bronze over the fire for him, and warm water, so that after he has bathed and seen all the fine gifts the blameless Phaeacians have brought him laid in order, he may enjoy the feast and the singer's song. And I myself will give him this beautiful cup of mine, made of gold, so that all his days he may remember me when he pours libations in his hall to Zeus and the other gods."
So he spoke, and Arete told her serving women to set a great tripod over the fire as quickly as they could. They set the bath-water tripod over the blazing fire and poured in water and lit the wood beneath it. The fire licked around the tripod's belly and the water grew warm, while Arete brought out from the storeroom a beautiful chest for her guest and laid the lovely gifts inside it, the clothing and gold the Phaeacians had given him. She herself laid in it a cloak and a fine tunic, and spoke to him, saying:
"Now see to the lid yourself, and tie the cord quickly around it, so that no one robs you on the road, whenever you fall into sweet sleep as you travel in your black ship."
When patient, godlike Odysseus heard this, he fitted the lid at once and tied a clever knot around it, one that queenly Circe had once taught him. Then the housekeeper told him to go and bathe in the tub, and he was glad in his heart to see the warm water, since he had had little care for himself since he left the house of lovely-haired Calypso, where he had been tended constantly as if he were a god. When the serving women had bathed him and rubbed him with oil, and thrown a fine cloak and tunic around him, he came up from the bath and went to join the men at their wine. Nausicaa, whose beauty came from the gods, stood by a pillar of the sturdy-built roof, marveling as she looked upon Odysseus with her eyes, and she spoke to him, saying:
"Farewell, stranger — and when you are home again in your own land, remember me sometimes, since to me above all you owe the price of your life."
And resourceful Odysseus answered her:
"Nausicaa, daughter of great-hearted Alcinous, may Zeus, Hera's loud-thundering husband, grant that I reach my home and see the day of my return. Then, even there, I will pray to you as to a god, all my days, for it was you, girl, who gave me back my life."
So he spoke, and went to sit on a chair beside king Alcinous. Already they were serving out portions and mixing the wine, when a herald came near, leading the beloved singer Demodocus, honored by the people, and set him in the middle of the feasters, leaning him against a tall pillar. Then resourceful Odysseus spoke to the herald, cutting a portion from the loin of a white-tusked boar, with rich fat still around it, of which much still remained:
"Herald, take this meat and give it to Demodocus, that he may eat, and I will greet him warmly despite my grief. For among all men on earth singers deserve honor and respect, because the Muse has taught them the paths of song and loves the whole tribe of singers."
So he spoke, and the herald carried it and set it in the hero Demodocus's hands, and he received it gladly, glad at heart. The others reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them. And when they had put away their desire for food and drink, resourceful Odysseus spoke to Demodocus, saying:
"Demodocus, I praise you above all mortals. Surely the Muse, daughter of Zeus, taught you, or else Apollo, for you sing the fate of the Achaeans in such perfect order — all they did and suffered, all the hardship they endured — as if you yourself had been there, or heard it from one who was. Come now, change your theme and sing of the building of the wooden horse, which Epeius made with Athena's help, the cunning trick that godlike Odysseus once led up into the citadel, filled with the men who sacked Troy. If you can tell me this tale in its proper order, I will proclaim at once to all mankind how freely a god has granted you the gift of divine song."
So he spoke, and the singer, moved by the god, began, and let his song be seen, taking it up from where the Argives, after setting fire to their huts, had boarded their well-benched ships and were sailing away, while the men already famous around Odysseus sat hidden inside the horse in the meeting-place of the Trojans — for the Trojans themselves had dragged it up into their citadel. So it stood there, while the Trojans sat around it talking endlessly, and their counsel split three ways: whether to hack open the hollow timber with pitiless bronze, or drag it to the height and hurl it down over the rocks, or let it stand as a great offering to appease the gods — and that, in the end, was how it was fated to turn out,
since it was their doom to perish once their city closed around the great wooden horse, where all the best of the Argives sat waiting, bringing death and destruction to the Trojans. And he sang how the sons of the Achaeans sacked the city, pouring out from the horse, leaving their hollow ambush behind. He sang how one man ravaged the steep city here, another there, and how Odysseus went, like Ares himself, together with godlike Menelaus, to the house of Deiphobus. There, he sang, Odysseus dared the most terrible fight of all, and won it at last with great-hearted Athena's help.
So the famous singer sang these things, and Odysseus melted, and tears wet his cheeks beneath his eyelids. As a woman weeps, falling upon the body of her beloved husband, who has fallen before his city and his people, fighting to keep the pitiless day of doom from his town and his children — she sees him dying, gasping his last, and throws herself upon him, wailing with a piercing cry, while the enemy behind her beat her back and shoulders with their spear-shafts and lead her off into slavery, to bear labor and grief, and her cheeks waste away with the most pitiful sorrow —
so Odysseus let fall a pitiful tear from beneath his brows. No one else noticed the tears he was shedding, but Alcinous alone marked and understood it, sitting close beside him, and heard him groan heavily. At once he spoke to the oar-loving Phaeacians:
"Hear me, leaders and counselors of the Phaeacians. Let Demodocus now silence his clear-voiced lyre, for this song he sings does not please everyone alike. Ever since we began our supper and the godlike singer rose to sing, this stranger has not once ceased his sorrowful weeping — grief, it seems, has overwhelmed his heart. Let the singer stop, so that we may all enjoy ourselves together, both hosts and guest — that will be far better. All this has been prepared for the sake of our honored guest, his escort home and the friendly gifts we give him out of love. A guest and a suppliant are as dear as a brother to any man whose mind has even a little understanding. So now do not hide behind clever evasions whatever I ask you — it is better that you speak plainly. Tell me the name by which your mother and father called you there at home, and the others in your city and those who dwell around it — for no man is altogether without a name, be he base or noble, once he is born, but parents give a name to every child they bring into the world. Tell me too your land, your people, and your city, so that our ships, which know their way by their own thought, may carry you there. For the Phaeacians have no steersmen, nor any rudders such as other ships carry — our ships themselves know the thoughts and minds of men, and know the cities and rich fields of every people,
and cross the gulf of the sea most swiftly, hidden in mist and cloud, and never do they fear harm or wreck. Yet I once heard my father Nausithous say a thing — he used to tell how Poseidon holds a grudge against us because we give safe escort to all who ask it. He said that one day, as a Phaeacian ship returned home from such an escort over the misty sea, the god would wreck it, and pile a great mountain around our city to hide it from view. So the old man used to say — and whether the god will bring this to pass or leave it undone, as pleases his own heart, only he knows. But come, tell me this and recount it truthfully — where you wandered, and what lands of men you came to, both the people themselves and their well-settled cities, both those who are harsh and wild and lawless, and those who welcome strangers and have a god-fearing mind. Tell me too why you weep and grieve within your heart when you hear the fate of the Argive Danaans and of Troy. That was the gods' own doing — they wove destruction for men, so that there might be a song for those yet to come.
Did some kinsman of yours die before Troy, some good man, a son-in-law or father-in-law — those who are dearest to us after our own blood and kin? Or perhaps some companion, a man after your own heart, a good man — for a loyal companion who knows how to think well is worth no less than a brother."

======== Book 9 ========

Resourceful Odysseus answered him and said:
“Lord Alcinous, most admired of all your people, it is truly a fine thing to listen to a singer such as this one, whose voice matches the gods themselves. For I say there is no more delightful thing than when good cheer holds a whole people, and the feasters sit in rows through the halls listening to the singer, and the tables beside them are heaped with bread and meat, and the wine-steward draws wine from the mixing bowl and pours it into the cups and carries it round. This, to my mind, is the finest thing there is.
But your heart has turned to asking about my sorrows, so that I grieve and groan the more in the telling. What then shall I tell first, what shall I save for last? For the gods of heaven have given me griefs enough. Let me first give you my name, so that you too may know it, and so that afterward, if I escape this pitiless day, I may be your guest-friend, though my home lies far away. I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, known among all men for my cunning, and my fame reaches the sky.
I make my home on clear-seen Ithaca, where Mount Neriton stands, its leaves trembling in the wind, a peak that towers above all else. Around it lie many islands close to one another — Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus. Ithaca itself lies low, furthest out to sea toward the west, while the others lie apart toward the dawn and the sun. It is a rugged land, but it raises strong sons, and for my part I know nothing sweeter to look on than a man's own country.
Calypso, shining among goddesses, held me back there in her hollow caves, longing to have me as her husband, and in the same way Circe of Aeaea, the enchantress, kept me in her halls, longing to have me as her husband — but neither one ever won over the heart in my chest. So true is it that nothing is sweeter than a man's own country and his parents, even when he lives far off in some rich house in a foreign land, away from those who bore him.
But come, let me tell you of my voyage home, full of hardship as it was, the voyage Zeus laid upon me as I sailed from Troy.
“The wind carried me from Ilion and brought me to the Cicones at Ismarus. There I sacked the city and killed the men.
We took their wives and much treasure out of the city and divided it, so that no man of mine might go short of his fair share. Then I urged that we flee from there with running feet, but they were fools and would not listen to me. There was much wine drunk, and many sheep were slaughtered on the shore, and shambling, curving-horned cattle too.
Meanwhile the Cicones who had escaped called out to other Cicones, their neighbors further inland, who were more numerous and better fighters, skilled at battling men from chariots and, where it was needed, on foot as well.
They came at dawn, as many as the leaves and flowers that spring brings forth, and then it was that the cruel doom of Zeus came down upon us, doomed men that we were, to suffer many pains. They took their stand and fought beside the swift ships, hurling bronze-tipped spears at one another. As long as it was morning and the sacred daylight grew, we held our ground and beat them back, though they outnumbered us. But when the sun turned toward the hour of unyoking the oxen, then the Cicones broke the Achaeans and overcame them. Six of my well-greaved comrades were lost from each ship;
the rest of us escaped death and fate. From there we sailed on, our hearts heavy with grief, glad to have escaped death, though we had lost our dear companions. But I would not let the curved ships sail on until we had called out three times to each of our poor comrades who had died there on the plain, cut down by the Cicones. Then Zeus, gatherer of clouds, roused the North Wind against our ships in a monstrous storm, and covered land and sea alike with clouds; night rushed down from the sky. The ships were driven sideways, and their sails
were torn into three and four pieces by the force of the wind. We lowered them into the ships, fearing for our lives, and rowed hard for the mainland. There for two nights and two days we lay without stopping, eating our hearts out with weariness and grief. But when fair-haired Dawn brought on the third day, we set up the masts, hoisted the white sails, and sat while the wind and the helmsmen steered us straight. And now I would have come home unharmed to my own country, but the current, rounding Cape Malea, and the North Wind together drove me off course and swept me past Cythera.
“From there I was carried nine days by the ruinous winds over the fish-filled sea, but on the tenth day we set foot on the land of the Lotus-eaters, who eat a flowering food. There we went ashore and drew water, and my men soon took their meal beside the swift ships. Then, when we had had our fill of food and drink, I sent men ahead to find out what sort of people lived there who ate bread, choosing two men and sending a third along as herald.
They went at once and mingled with the Lotus-eaters, who had no thought of killing my comrades, but instead gave them the lotus to taste. Whoever among them ate the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus no longer wished to bring back word or return home, but wanted to stay there among the Lotus-eaters, feeding on the lotus, forgetting all thought of home. I dragged these men back to the ships by force, weeping as they were, and bound them fast under the rowing benches in the hollow ships. Then I ordered the rest of my loyal crew
to hurry aboard the swift ships, for fear that anyone else might eat the lotus and forget his homecoming. They went aboard at once, took their places at the oarlocks, and sitting in rows they struck the grey sea with their oars.
“From there we sailed on, our hearts heavy with grief, and came to the land of the Cyclopes, an arrogant and lawless people, who trust so completely in the immortal gods that they neither plant anything with their hands nor plow, but everything grows for them unsown and unplowed — wheat, barley, and vines that bear
rich clusters of grapes, which the rain of Zeus makes swell. They have no assemblies for counsel and no established laws, but each of them lays down the law for his own wife and children, and they care nothing for one another.
“Now there is a wooded island stretching along outside the harbor, neither close to the land of the Cyclopes nor far from it, thick with trees. Countless wild goats live there, for no path of men keeps them away, and no hunters visit it, men who suffer hardship
pursuing the mountain peaks. It is not held by flocks or plowed fields, but lies unsown and unplowed all its days, empty of men, and feeds only the bleating goats. For the Cyclopes have no ships painted red at the bow, nor any shipbuilders among them who could make well-benched vessels able to carry out all such errands as men undertake, sailing to one another's cities across the sea in ships — men who could have made that island a fine settlement for them as well.
For it is not a poor place at all; it would bear every crop in season. There are meadows near the shore of the grey sea, well-watered and soft, where the vines would never fail. There is level land for plowing, and they could reap a deep harvest each season, since the soil beneath is very rich. There is a safe harbor too, where there is no need of a mooring line, no need to cast anchor stones or make fast the stern cables — sailors need only run ashore and wait until their hearts urge them onward and the winds begin to blow. And at the head of the harbor runs bright water,
a spring beneath a cave, and poplars grow around it. There we sailed in, and some god must have been guiding us through the murky night, for nothing could be seen; a thick mist lay about the ships, and there was no moon shining down from the sky, for it was hidden behind clouds. So no one caught sight of the island with his eyes, nor did we see the long waves rolling toward the shore, until our well-benched ships had run aground. When the ships had grounded we took down all the sails,
and went ashore ourselves onto the beach, and there we fell asleep and waited for the bright light of dawn.
“When the early-born, rose-fingered Dawn appeared, we marveled at the island and wandered over it, and the nymphs, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus, roused the wild mountain goats so that my crew might have something to eat. At once we took our curved bows and our long-socketed hunting spears from the ships and, dividing into three bands, we let fly, and the god soon granted us a satisfying hunt. Twelve ships followed me, and to each ship nine goats fell by lot, while for myself alone they set aside ten.
“So then, all that day until the sun went down, we sat feasting on meat beyond measure and sweet wine, for the wine had not yet run out aboard the ships — plenty remained, since each crew had drawn off great jars of it when we took the sacred citadel of the Cicones. And we could see the land of the Cyclopes close by, the smoke rising from it, and hear the voices of the men and their sheep and goats. When the sun set and darkness came on,
we lay down to sleep there on the shore. And when the early-born, rose-fingered Dawn appeared again,
then I called my men together and spoke among them all: “‘The rest of you stay here, my loyal comrades, while I, with my own ship and my own crew, go and find out what sort of men these are — whether they are violent and wild with no sense of justice, or hospitable to strangers, with a god-fearing mind.’
“So saying, I boarded my ship and told my men to come aboard too and cast off the stern cables. They went aboard at once, took their places at the oarlocks, and sitting in rows they struck the grey sea with their oars.
“When we reached that place nearby, we saw a cave at the edge of the shore, close to the sea, high-roofed and overgrown with laurel. There many flocks, sheep and goats, used to sleep, and around it a high courtyard was built of stones sunk deep in the earth, with tall pines and oaks reaching to the sky. There a monstrous man made his home, who tended his flocks
alone, far off, and did not mix with others but lived apart, his mind set on lawlessness. And indeed he had been made a monstrous wonder, not at all like
a man who lives on bread, but like some wooded peak of the high mountains, which stands out alone above the rest.
“Then I told the rest of my loyal crew to stay there by the ship and guard it, while I chose the twelve best men among my comrades and went ahead. I carried with me a goatskin of dark, sweet wine, which Maron, son of Euanthes, had given me, the priest of Apollo who watched over Ismarus, because we had protected him and his child and his wife out of reverence — for he lived in the wooded grove
of Phoebus Apollo. He gave me splendid gifts: seven talents of well-wrought gold, and a mixing bowl of pure silver, and besides these, wine — twelve full jars of it, sweet and unmixed, a drink fit for gods. None of his household servants or serving women knew of it, only he himself, his dear wife, and one housekeeper. Whenever they drank that honey-sweet red wine, he would fill one cup and pour it into twenty measures of water,
and even then a wonderful sweetness rose from the mixing bowl — no one could easily hold back from drinking it once he smelled it. I filled a great skin with this wine and carried it, and I also took food in a leather pouch, for my proud heart guessed at once that I would meet a man of monstrous strength, wild, knowing neither justice nor law.
“We soon came to the cave, but we did not find him inside; he was off pasturing his flocks on the rich grass. So we went into the cave and looked closely at everything within. Racks were heavy with cheeses, and the pens were crowded
with lambs and kids, each penned apart — the firstborn kept in one place, the middle lambs in another, and the newborn in a third. All his containers, the pails and bowls he used for milking, were brimming with whey. At this my men begged me, pleading with me first of all, to take some of the cheeses and go back to the ship, and then afterward to drive the kids and lambs quickly out of the pens down to the swift ship and put out on the salt water. But I would not listen — though it would have been far better if I had —
for I wanted to see the man himself, and to see whether he would give me the gifts due a guest. But as it turned out, his appearance was to bring my men no joy at all.
“There we lit a fire and made an offering, and helped ourselves to the cheeses and ate, and sat waiting inside until he came in from pasture. He carried a huge load of dry wood to burn for his supper, and he threw it down inside the cave with a crash so loud that we fled in terror to the back of the cave. Then he drove his fat flocks into the wide cave, all those he milked, but left the males, the rams and he-goats, outside in the deep courtyard. Then he lifted up a huge doorstone and set it in place,
a massive stone — twenty-two strong four-wheeled wagons could not have lifted it from the ground — so huge was the towering rock he set against the doorway. Then he sat down and milked his ewes and bleating goats, all in order, and put a young one under each mother. At once he curdled half of the white milk, gathered it, and set it away in wicker baskets,
and the other half he left standing in pails, so that he could take it to drink and have it for his supper. When he had finished this work in haste,
then he lit the fire, and caught sight of us, and asked: “‘Strangers, who are you? Where have you sailed from, over the watery ways? Are you on some business, or do you wander at random over the sea, like pirates, who roam risking their lives and bringing harm to people of other lands?’
“So he spoke, and our hearts broke within us in terror at his booming voice and his monstrous size. But even so I answered him and said: “‘We are Achaeans, driven off course from Troy
by every kind of wind across the great gulf of the sea,
heading for home, but we came another way, by other paths — so, it seems, Zeus willed it. We are proud to be the men of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, whose fame is now the greatest under heaven, for he sacked so great a city and destroyed so many people. As for us, we have come to your knees, hoping you might grant us some gift of hospitality, or give us some present, as is the custom due to strangers. Respect the gods, mighty one — we are your suppliants, and Zeus is the avenger of suppliants and strangers,
the god of guests, who walks beside strangers deserving respect.’
“So I spoke, and at once he answered me with a pitiless heart: “‘You are a fool, stranger, or else you have come from very far away, to tell me to fear or avoid the gods. The Cyclopes care nothing for aegis-bearing Zeus, nor for the blessed gods, since we are far stronger than they are. I would not spare you or your comrades to escape the hatred of Zeus, unless my own heart told me to. But tell me — where did you leave your well-built ship when you came here? Was it far off, or nearby? I want to know.’
“So he spoke, testing me, but he did not deceive me, for I know a great many things, and I answered him in turn with cunning words: “‘Poseidon, shaker of the earth, wrecked my ship, driving it against the rocks at the edge of your land, hurling it against a headland; the wind carried it in from the open sea. But I and these men here escaped sheer destruction.’
“So I spoke, but he answered me nothing, his heart pitiless. Instead he sprang up and laid his hands on my comrades, seized two of them, and dashed them against the ground like puppies, and their brains ran out onto the earth and soaked the ground.
He cut them limb from limb and prepared his meal. He ate them as a mountain-bred lion eats, leaving nothing behind, neither entrails nor flesh nor marrow-filled bones. We wept and raised our hands to Zeus, watching this monstrous act, and helplessness gripped our hearts. But when the Cyclops had filled his huge belly, eating human flesh and drinking unmixed milk, he lay down inside the cave, stretched out among his flocks. Then, turning it over in my proud heart, I made my plan: to go up close to him, draw the sharp sword from beside my thigh,
I struck at his chest, where the midriff holds the liver, groping for the spot with my hand — but another thought held me back. Right there we too would have died a sheer death, for we had no strength in our hands to push back from the tall doorway the huge stone he had set against it. So groaning we waited there for the shining Dawn.
When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, the Cyclops lit his fire and milked his fine flocks, all in their order, and set a suckling under each ewe. Then, when he had hurried through his chores, he seized two more of my men and made his meal. When he had eaten he drove his fat flocks out of the cave, easily lifting away the huge boulder from the door, then set it back in place, as a man might fit a lid onto a quiver. With much whistling the Cyclops turned his fat flocks toward the mountain, and I was left behind, brooding on evil, hoping I might somehow take revenge and that Athena would grant me glory.
This was the plan that seemed best to my mind. There in the Cyclops's fold lay a great club of olive wood, still green, which he had cut to carry once it dried. Looking at it we judged it to be the size of the mast of a black ship of twenty oars, a broad cargo vessel that crosses the great gulf of the sea — so long it was, so thick to look at. I went up and cut off a length from it about a fathom long, and handed it to my men and told them to shave it smooth. They made it even, and I stood by and sharpened the point, then took it and hardened it in the blazing fire. Then I hid it carefully, burying it under the dung that lay piled deep through the cave. And I told the rest to cast lots, to see which of them would dare to help me raise the stake and grind it into his eye when sweet sleep came over him. The lot fell on the four I myself would have chosen, and I made myself the fifth among them.
In the evening he came back, driving in his flocks with their fine fleece. At once he drove all the fat sheep into the wide cave, leaving none outside in the deep yard — either because he suspected something, or because a god so commanded him. Then he lifted the great doorstone into place, sat down, and milked his ewes and bleating goats, all in order, setting a young one under each. When he had hurried through his chores, he seized two more of my men and made his supper.
Then I came close and spoke to the Cyclops, holding in my hands an ivy-wood bowl of dark wine.
"Cyclops, here — drink this wine, now that you have eaten human flesh, so you may know what kind of drink our ship carried. I brought it as an offering for you, hoping you would pity me and send me home. But your rage is past all bearing now. Cruel one, how do you expect any man on earth ever to visit you again, after treating your guests so lawlessly?"
So I spoke, and he took the cup and drank it down, and was terribly pleased with the sweet drink, and asked for more.
"Give me another, freely, and tell me your name now, at once, so I may give you a guest-gift that will please you. Among the Cyclopes too the grain-giving earth bears strong wine, and the rain of Zeus makes it grow — but this is a stream of ambrosia and nectar."
So he said, and again I brought him the sparkling wine. Three times I brought it and gave it to him, and three times he drank it down in his folly. Then, when the wine had gone thoroughly to the Cyclops's wits, I spoke to him again with gentle words.
"Cyclops, you ask my famous name — I will tell it to you, and you shall give me the guest-gift you promised. Nobody is my name. Nobody is what my mother and father and all my companions call me."
So I spoke, and at once he answered me with a pitiless heart.
"Then Nobody I will eat last, after his companions, and the others before him — that shall be your guest-gift."
With that he toppled backward and fell, lying there with his thick neck twisted to one side, and sleep that conquers all took him. Wine and scraps of human flesh spilled from his throat as he belched, heavy with drink. Then I thrust the stake down into the deep ashes to heat it, and spoke encouraging words to all my men, so that none would hang back through fear. But when the olive stake, green as it was, was just about to catch fire in the blaze and glowed terribly hot, then I drew it out of the fire and my men gathered close around me, and some god breathed great courage into us. They took the sharpened olive stake and drove it into his eye, while I leaned my weight on it from above and spun it round, as a man bores ship-timber with a drill, and those below keep it spinning with a strap they pull from either side, and it runs on steadily. So we took the fire-sharpened stake and spun it in his eye, and the blood ran hot around it as it turned. The blast from the burning eyeball singed all his eyelids and brows, and the roots of the eye crackled with fire.
As when a smith dips a great axe or an adze into cold water, making it hiss loudly, tempering the metal — for that is what gives iron its strength — so his eye sizzled around the olive stake. He gave a horrible, great cry, and the rock rang with it, and we shrank back in terror as he wrenched the stake from his eye, soaked with a great deal of blood. Then he flung it away from him with frantic hands, and shouted loudly for the other Cyclopes who lived around him in caves along the windy heights.
They heard his cry and came from every side, and stood around the cave asking what troubled him.
"Why, Polyphemus, do you cry out so terribly through the immortal night and keep us from sleep? Surely no man is driving off your flocks against your will? Surely no one is killing you by trick or by force?"
Mighty Polyphemus answered them from within the cave.
"Friends, Nobody is killing me by trick, not by force."
And they answered him with winged words.
"If nobody is using force on you, alone as you are, then there is no way to escape a sickness that comes from great Zeus. You had better pray to your father, lord Poseidon."
So they said as they went away, and my heart laughed within me, that my name and my clever scheme had deceived him so well. But the Cyclops, groaning and racked with pain, groped with his hands and took the stone from the door, and sat down in the doorway himself, stretching out his arms, hoping to catch anyone who tried to slip out among the sheep — so foolish did he think me in his mind.
But I was working out how everything might turn out best, if I could find some way of escape from death, both for my men and for myself. I wove every kind of trick and scheme, as a man does when his life is at stake, for a great evil was close at hand. This was the plan that seemed best to my mind.
There were rams, well fed, thick-fleeced, handsome and large, with wool the color of violet. These I bound quietly together in threes with twisted willow branches, from the bed on which the monstrous Cyclops slept in his lawlessness. The middle one of each three would carry a man, with the two on either side walking along to shield him. So three sheep carried each man. But as for me — there was a ram, by far the best of all the flock — I took hold of his back, curled up beneath his shaggy belly, and lay there; and gripping the wondrous fleece with my hands I held on firmly, my heart enduring all. So groaning we waited there for the shining Dawn.
When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, the male sheep rushed out to pasture, while the females bleated unmilked around the pens, for their udders were bursting full. Their master, worn out with terrible pain, felt along the backs of all the sheep as they stood up straight, but in his foolishness he never noticed that my men were bound beneath the breasts of the woolly sheep. Last of all the flock came the ram, out toward the doorway, burdened by his own fleece and by me, a man full of cunning thoughts. Mighty Polyphemus felt him over and spoke to him.
"Dear ram, why do you go out of the cave last of the flock like this? Never before have you lagged behind the sheep, but always you are first by far to graze on the tender bloom of the grass, striding out boldly, first to reach the streams of the rivers, and first to be eager to return to the fold in the evening. But now you are last of all. Surely you grieve for your master's eye, which an evil man blinded, along with his wretched companions, after he had overpowered my wits with wine — Nobody, who I say has not yet escaped his doom. If only you could feel as I do, and had voice to tell me where he is hiding from my fury! Then his brains would be dashed against the floor and scattered here and there through the cave, struck again and again, and my heart would find relief from the miseries that worthless Nobody has brought upon me."
So saying he sent the ram away from him, out through the doorway. When we had gone a little way from the cave and the yard, I loosed myself first from under the ram, and then set my men free. Quickly we drove off the long-legged sheep, rich with fat, turning often to look behind us, until we reached the ship. Our dear companions were glad to see us, we who had escaped death, though they wept and groaned for the others. But I would not let them weep, nodding my brows at each man to stop them, and I ordered them instead to throw the many fine-fleeced sheep quickly aboard and put out onto the salt water. They climbed in at once and sat down at the oarlocks, and sitting in order they struck the gray sea with their oars.
But when I had gone as far as a man's shout can carry, I called out to the Cyclops in mockery.
"Cyclops, it seems the man whose companions you devoured with brute force in your hollow cave was no coward after all. And your evil deeds were bound to catch up with you, cruel one, since you did not shrink from eating your guests in your own house — so Zeus and the other gods have punished you."
So I spoke, and his anger grew even greater. He broke off the peak of a great mountain and hurled it, and it fell just in front of our dark-prowed ship, missing the tip of the steering oar by a little. The sea heaved up where the rock came down, and the backwash carried the ship swiftly toward the shore, a great swell rushing in from the deep that forced us toward the land. But I seized a long pole in my hands and pushed us off, and urged my men on, nodding with my head, telling them to bend to the oars and escape our danger — and they leaned forward and rowed hard.
But when we had gotten twice as far out over the sea, I made to call out to the Cyclops again, though my men on every side tried to hold me back with gentle words.
"Reckless man, why do you want to provoke this savage further? He has just now thrown a rock into the sea that drove our ship back to shore, and we thought we would die there. If he had heard any of us make a sound, he would have crushed our heads and our ship's timbers with another jagged boulder — he throws that far."
So they said, but they could not persuade my proud heart, and I answered him again, still in my fury.
"Cyclops, if any mortal man ever asks you about the shameful blinding of your eye, tell him that Odysseus, sacker of cities, put it out — the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca."
So I spoke, and he groaned and answered me.
"Ah, now the old prophecies have truly come upon me. There was a prophet here once, a fine, great man, Telemus son of Eurymus, who excelled in prophecy and grew old among the Cyclopes practicing his art. He told me all this would come to pass in time to come — that I would lose my sight at the hands of Odysseus. But I always expected some tall and handsome man to come here, clothed in great strength. Instead, one who is small and weak and worthless has blinded my eye, after conquering me with wine. But come here, Odysseus, so I may give you guest-gifts and urge the famous Earthshaker to grant you safe passage — for I am his son, and he claims to be my father. He himself will heal me, if he is willing, and no one else can, neither of the blessed gods nor of mortal men."
So he spoke, and I answered him.
"If only I could rob you of life and breath as surely as I could, and send you down to the house of Hades — not even the Earthshaker himself could heal your eye!"
So I spoke, and then he prayed to lord Poseidon, stretching out his hands toward the starry heaven.
"Hear me, Poseidon, dark-haired holder of the earth — if I truly am your son and you claim to be my father, grant that Odysseus, sacker of cities, the son of Laertes whose home is in Ithaca, never reaches home. But if it is his fate to see his own people and reach his well-built house and his native land, let him come there late, in misery, having lost all his companions, in a ship that is not his own, and let him find trouble in his household."
So he prayed, and the dark-haired god heard him. Then Polyphemus lifted a rock far bigger than before, whirled it, and hurled it with immense force. It fell just behind our dark-prowed ship, missing the end of the steering oar by a little. The sea heaved up where the rock came down, and the wave carried the ship forward, driving us toward the land.
So we reached the island where the rest of our well-benched ships lay waiting together, and our companions sat around them grieving, always watching for our return. There we ran our ship ashore on the sand, and we ourselves stepped out onto the breaking surf. We took the Cyclops's sheep from the hollow ship and divided them, so that no one would go without a fair share. But my companions, the well-greaved men, gave me the ram alone as a special prize when the sheep were divided, and on the shore I sacrificed him to Zeus, son of Cronus, lord of the dark clouds, who rules over all, and burned the thigh pieces. But he paid no heed to my offering — instead he was already planning how all my well-benched ships and my loyal companions should be destroyed.
So all that day, until the sun went down, we sat feasting on abundant meat and sweet wine. And when the sun set and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep on the seashore. When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, I roused my men and told them to board the ships and loose the stern cables. They climbed aboard at once and sat down at the oarlocks, and sitting in order they struck the gray sea with their oars.
From there we sailed onward, our hearts heavy with grief, glad to have escaped death, though we had lost our dear companions.

======== Book 10 ========

“We came to the island of Aeolia, where Aeolus son of Hippotas lived, dear to the immortal gods, on a floating island. All around it runs a wall of bronze, unbreakable, and a sheer cliff of rock rises up. Twelve children were born to him in his halls, six daughters and six sons in the bloom of youth, and he gave his daughters to his sons to be their wives. They feast forever beside their dear father and honored mother, with countless good things laid out before them, and the fragrant house echoes all through the day, while at night they sleep beside their honored wives, on blankets and on corded bedsteads.
“We came to their city and their fine halls, and for a whole month he entertained me and asked about everything — Troy, the ships of the Argives, and the Achaeans' journey home — and I told him all of it in order, just as it happened. But when I in turn asked to leave and begged him to send me on my way, he did not refuse, but made ready my passage. He gave me a sack made from the hide of an ox nine years old, flayed whole, and in it he bound the paths of the roaring winds, for the son of Cronus had made him keeper of the winds, to still them or rouse them, whichever he wished. He tied the sack in my hollow ship with a bright silver cord, so that not even a breath could slip out, and he sent forth a breeze of the West Wind to blow for me, to carry my ships and the men in them home. But it was not to be — our own folly destroyed us.
“For nine days alike we sailed, night and day, and on the tenth our native land at last came into view, and we could see men tending fires, we were so close. But then sweet sleep came over me, worn out as I was — for I had held the steering oar the whole time myself, giving it to none of my crew, so that we might reach our homeland sooner. And my men began talking among themselves, saying that I was bringing home gold and silver, gifts from great-hearted Aeolus son of Hippotas. And this is what one of them would say, glancing at the man beside him:
“‘Look how this man is loved and honored by everyone, in whatever city or land he comes to! Much fine plunder he carries off from Troy as his share, while we, who made the very same journey, are going home with empty hands. And now Aeolus has given him these gifts, out of friendship and favor. Come, let us quickly see what is in here, how much gold and silver is in this sack.’
“So they said, and the men's foolish counsel won out. They loosed the sack, and all the winds burst out at once. The storm snatched my men up in an instant and swept them out to sea, weeping, away from their own native land. But I, waking, turned it over in my noble heart, whether to fling myself from the ship and die in the sea, or to endure it in silence and remain among the living. I endured it, and stayed, and hid myself, lying down in the ship, while the ships were driven by the wicked blast of wind back to the island of Aeolia, and my men groaned aloud.
“There we went ashore and drew water, and my men quickly took their meal beside the swift ships. When we had eaten our fill of food and drink, I took a herald and one companion with me and went to the famous halls of Aeolus. I found him feasting there beside his wife and children. We came to the house and sat down at the threshold, by the doorposts, and they were amazed in their hearts and asked us:
“‘How is it you have come back, Odysseus? What evil spirit assailed you? We sent you off with all care, so that you might reach your homeland, your house, wherever your heart desired.’
“So they spoke, and I answered them with a grieving heart: ‘My wretched crew undid me — they, and cruel sleep besides. But make it right, friends, for you have the power.’
“So I said, trying to win them with gentle words, but they fell silent. And their father answered me: ‘Get off this island at once, most vile of living men! It is not right for me to help or send on his way any man hated by the blessed gods. Get out — since you come here hated by the gods.’
“So he said, and drove me from his house, groaning heavily. From there we sailed on, our hearts heavy with grief. The men's spirits wore thin under the grinding of the oars, through our own folly, for no longer did any friendly wind appear to speed us on. For six days alike we sailed, night and day, and on the seventh we reached the steep citadel of Lamus, Telepylus of the Laestrygonians, where herdsman calls to herdsman as one drives his flock in and the other drives his out, and the one just going to sleep could answer the one just waking — so close together lie the paths of night and day.
“When we entered that famous harbor, ringed all about by an unbroken wall of sheer rock, with headlands jutting out facing each other at the harbor's mouth, leaving only a narrow entrance, my men all steered their curved ships inside and moored them close together within the hollow harbor, for no wave ever rose there, great or small, but a pale calm lay over it all. I alone held my black ship outside, at the very edge, tying her cables to the rock, and I climbed up to a rocky lookout point. From there no work of oxen or of men could be seen, only smoke rising up from the earth in the distance.
“So I sent some of my men ahead to find out what sort of men lived there and ate bread on that land, choosing two, with a herald as a third companion. They set off and found a smooth road, the one by which wagons hauled timber down from the high mountains into the town, and they met a girl drawing water in front of the city, the strong daughter of Antiphates the Laestrygonian. She had come down to the clear-flowing spring Artacia, from which the people carried water up to the town. My men came up to her and asked who was king of this people and ruled over them,
and she at once pointed out her father's high-roofed house. They went in through the famous halls and found his wife there, huge as a mountain peak, and the sight of her filled them with horror. At once she called her husband, glorious Antiphates, in from the assembly, and he set about their grim destruction — seizing one of my men on the spot, he made him his meal. The other two sprang up and fled back to the ships. But Antiphates raised the alarm through the town, and hearing it, the mighty Laestrygonians came swarming from every side, thousands of them, not like men but like giants.
“They hurled boulders down from the cliffs, each one a load for a man to carry, and at once a terrible din arose along the ships, of men dying and ships being smashed to pieces, while my crew were speared like fish and carried off for a grim meal. While they were slaughtering my men within that deep harbor, I drew the sharp sword from beside my thigh and cut the cables of my dark-prowed ship, and quickly urged my men to fall to the oars, so that we might escape destruction. All of them together drove the sea with their oars, in terror of death.
“Gladly did my ship escape out to open water, away from the overhanging cliffs — but all the others were destroyed there together. From there we sailed on, our hearts heavy with grief, glad to have escaped death, but mourning our dear companions lost. We came to the island of Aeaea, where lived Circe of the lovely braids, a dread goddess with a human voice, sister of Aeetes whose thoughts bring ruin. Both were children of Helios, who gives light to mortals, and of their mother Perse, whom Ocean bore as his daughter. There we brought our ship in silence to the shore, into a sheltered harbor, and some god guided us in.
“There we went ashore and lay for two days and two nights, eating our hearts out with weariness and grief. But when fair-haired Dawn brought on the third day, I took my spear and my sharp sword and went up quickly from the ship to a place with a wide view, hoping to see the works of men and hear some human voice. I climbed up to a rocky lookout point, and there I made out smoke rising from the broad earth, from within Circe's halls, through the thick brush and woodland.
“Then I debated in my mind and heart whether to go and find out, now that I had seen the fiery smoke, and as I turned it over, this seemed the better plan — to go first to the swift ship and the shore of the sea, give my men their meal, and then send them to find out. But when I had come close to my curved ship, some god took pity on me, alone as I was, and sent a great antlered stag right across my path. He was coming down from his pasture in the woods to the river to drink, for the sun's heat had worn on him.
“As he came out I struck him in the middle of the back, along the spine, and my bronze spear went clean through him. He fell in the dust with a cry, and his spirit flew away. I set my foot on him and drew the bronze spear out of the wound, then laid it down on the ground and left it there, while I pulled up twigs and withies and, twisting together a rope about a fathom long, well-plaited at both ends, I bound together the feet of the huge beast, and slung him across my shoulders and made my way to the black ship, leaning on my spear, since it was not possible to carry him on one shoulder with a single hand — the beast was far too great.
“I threw him down before the ship, and roused my men with gentle words, standing beside each man in turn: ‘Friends, grieved as we are, we shall not go down yet to the house of Hades before our fated day arrives. Come — as long as there is food and drink aboard the swift ship, let us remember to eat, and not waste away from hunger.’
“So I spoke, and they quickly obeyed my words. Uncovering their faces there on the shore of the barren sea, they marveled at the stag, for he was indeed a huge beast. When they had feasted their eyes looking on him, they washed their hands and prepared a splendid feast. So then, the whole day long until the sun went down, we sat feasting on abundant meat and sweet wine. And when the sun set and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep on the seashore.
“When early Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, I called an assembly and spoke among them all: ‘Listen to my words, friends, though you have suffered much. We do not know where the darkness lies, or where the dawn, or where the sun that gives light to mortals goes beneath the earth, or where it rises again. Let us think quickly whether there is still any plan left — I myself do not think there is one.
“‘For I climbed to a rocky lookout point and saw that this is an island, ringed all about by the boundless sea, and it lies low, and I made out smoke rising in its midst, through the thick brush and woodland.’
“So I spoke, and their hearts were broken within them, remembering the deeds of Antiphates the Laestrygonian and the violence of the great-hearted, man-eating Cyclops, and they wept loud and long, shedding heavy tears — but no good came of their weeping.
“Then I divided all my well-greaved companions into two groups and set a leader over each; I led the one, and godlike Eurylochus the other. We quickly shook the lots in a bronze helmet, and the lot of great-hearted Eurylochus leapt out. He set off, and with him twenty-two companions, weeping, while we who were left behind wept and groaned as well.
“In a glade they found Circe's house, built of polished stone, in an open, commanding spot. All around it were mountain wolves and lions, whom Circe herself had bewitched, giving them evil drugs. They did not rush at my men, but rose up and fawned around them, wagging their long tails — just as dogs fawn around their master when he comes home from a feast, for he always brings them scraps to soothe their hearts — so the strong-clawed wolves and lions fawned around my men, who were terrified when they saw those fearsome creatures.
“They stood there in the porch of the goddess with the lovely braids, and heard Circe within, singing in a beautiful voice as she moved back and forth before a great imperishable loom, weaving work of the kind goddesses make — fine, and full of grace, and radiant. Then Polites, a leader of men, the dearest and most trusted of my companions, spoke first among them: ‘Friends, someone inside is singing beautifully as she moves before a great loom, and the whole floor echoes with it — a goddess, or a woman. Let us call out to her at once.’
“So he spoke, and they called out, shouting to her. She came out at once and opened the shining doors and invited them in, and all of them, in their innocence, followed her — all but Eurylochus, who stayed behind, suspecting a trap. She led them in and seated them on chairs and benches, and mixed for them cheese, barley meal, and pale honey with Pramnian wine, but into the food she stirred wicked drugs, so that they would forget their native land completely. When she had given it to them and they had drunk it down, she struck them at once with her wand and shut them up in the pigsties.
“They took on the heads and voices and bristles and bodies of pigs, but their minds remained as they had been before. So they were penned there weeping, and Circe threw them acorns and mast and cornel-cherries to eat, the fodder that pigs who bed on the ground always feed on.
“Eurylochus came running back at once to the swift black ship to bring word of his companions and their bitter fate. He was not able to speak a single word, hard as he tried, so stricken was his heart with great grief; his eyes filled with tears, and his spirit yearned to weep. But when we all pressed him with questions in our amazement, then he told us of the destruction of the rest of our companions:
“‘We went, as you ordered, glorious Odysseus, through the thicket, and in a glade we found a fine house, built of polished stone, in an open, commanding spot. There someone was moving before a great loom, singing clearly — a goddess, or a woman — and my men called out to her. She came out at once and opened the shining doors and invited them in, and all of them, in their innocence, followed her — but I stayed behind, suspecting a trap. And they vanished, all together, and not one of them appeared again, though I sat there watching for a long time.’
“So he spoke, and I slung my great bronze sword with its silver studs over my shoulders, and my bow as well, and told him to lead me back the same way. But he clasped both my knees with his hands and begged me, and weeping, spoke winged words to me: ‘Do not lead me there against my will, my lord, but leave me here. I know that you will not return yourself, nor bring back any of your men. Let us flee at once with those we still have — we may yet escape the evil day.’
“So he spoke, and I answered him: ‘Eurylochus, stay right here then, in this place, eating and drinking beside the hollow black ship. But I will go — hard necessity drives me on.’
“So saying, I went up from the ship and the sea. But as I made my way up through the sacred glades, just as I was about to reach the great house of Circe of the many drugs, Hermes of the golden wand met me on the path to the house, in the likeness of a young man just growing his first beard, in the fairest bloom of youth. He took my hand and spoke to me, saying:
“‘Where are you going now, unlucky man, alone through these hills, not knowing the land? Your companions are shut up in Circe's house, penned like pigs in close pens. Do you come to set them free? I tell you, you yourself will not return, but will stay there with the rest. But come, I will free you from harm and save you. Here, take this good herb and go to Circe's house with it — it will keep the evil day from your head. I will tell you all of Circe's deadly schemes. She will make you a potion and put drugs in the food.
“‘But even so she will not be able to enchant you, for the good herb I give you will not allow it — I will tell you everything. When Circe strikes you with her long wand, then draw the sharp sword from beside your thigh and rush at Circe as though you meant to kill her. She will shrink back in fear and invite you to her bed. At that point do not refuse the goddess's bed, so that she may free your companions and take care of you as well — but bid her swear the great oath of the blessed gods, that she is planning no other harm against you,'
'don't hurt yourself so, poor man, wandering these rough hills alone, ignorant of the country. Your friends are penned up in Circe's house like pigs, shut in their tight sties. Have you come to set them free? I tell you, you yourself will never come home, but will stay there with the rest. Still, listen — I will free you from this trouble and keep you safe. Here, take this good herb and go into Circe's hall; it will keep the fatal day away from you. And I will tell you all her deadly schemes. She will mix you a potion and drop drugs into the food. Even so she will not be able to enchant you, for the good herb I give you will not allow it. I will tell you everything. When Circe strikes you with her long wand, then draw the sharp sword from beside your thigh and rush at her as if you meant to kill her. She will shrink back in fear and invite you to her bed. Do not then refuse the goddess's bed, so that she will free your companions and take care of you as well. But make her swear the great oath of the blessed gods, that she will plot no other harm against you, or else, once you are stripped of your weapons, she may make you weak and unmanned.'
So spoke the Slayer of Argus, and gave me the herb, pulling it from the ground and showing me its nature. Its root was black, its flower like milk; the gods call it moly. It is hard for mortal men to dig, but the gods can do all things. Then Hermes went off toward high Olympus, across the wooded island, and I went on to Circe's house, my heart churning with many thoughts as I walked. I stopped at the gates of the fair-haired goddess; there I stood and called out, and the goddess heard my voice. She came out at once, opened the shining doors, and called me in; and I followed her, my heart heavy. She led me in and sat me on a silver-studded chair, a fine carved one, with a footstool beneath my feet. She mixed a potion in a golden cup for me to drink, and slipped a drug into it, with evil in her mind. When she had given it to me and I had drunk it down, and it did not enchant me, she struck me with her wand and spoke:

'Now go to the pigsty and lie down with the rest of your friends.'
So she spoke, but I drew the sharp sword from beside my thigh and rushed at Circe as if I meant to kill her. She screamed aloud, ran under my sword, threw her arms around my knees, and spoke to me in tears, winged words:

'Who are you, and where from among men? Where is your city, where your parents? I am amazed that you drank this drug and were not enchanted — no other man has ever withstood this drug once he drank it and it passed the barrier of his teeth. There is a mind in your chest that cannot be charmed. You must be Odysseus, the man of many turns, whom the Slayer of Argus with the golden wand always told me would come here, sailing home from Troy in his swift black ship. Come, sheathe your sword, and let us two go up into my bed, so that lying together in love we may come to trust one another.'
So she spoke, and I answered her:

'Circe, how can you ask me to be gentle with you, when you turned my companions into pigs in your hall, and now, keeping me here, you speak with treachery in your heart and tell me to go up to your chamber and your bed, only so that when I am stripped and unarmed you may make me weak and unmanned? I have no wish to climb into your bed unless you are willing, goddess, to swear a great oath that you will plot no other harm against me.'

So I spoke, and she at once swore the oath as I asked. When she had sworn it and finished the oath, then I went up into Circe's beautiful bed.

Meanwhile her four handmaids were busy about the house, the servants who attend her hall. They are born of the springs, the groves, and the sacred rivers that flow out to the sea. One of them threw fine purple coverlets over the chairs, and beneath them spread linen. Another drew up silver tables before the chairs and set golden baskets on them. A third mixed sweet, honeyed wine in a silver bowl and set out golden cups. A fourth brought water and lit a great fire beneath a large tripod, and the water grew warm. When the water boiled in the shining bronze, she led me to a bath and washed me from the great tripod, mixing the water to a pleasant warmth, pouring it over my head and shoulders until she had washed the heart-consuming weariness from my limbs. When she had bathed me and rubbed me with rich oil, she threw a fine cloak and tunic around me, led me in, and sat me on a silver-studded chair, a fine carved one, with a footstool beneath my feet. A handmaid brought water in a beautiful golden pitcher and poured it over a silver basin for me to wash my hands, and drew up a polished table beside me.

A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it before me, adding many good things from her stores, and urged me to eat. But it did not please my heart; I sat there thinking of other things, my mind foreboding evil.

When Circe saw me sitting there, not reaching for the food, weighed down by heavy grief, she came close and spoke to me, winged words:

'Why do you sit like this, Odysseus, like a man struck dumb, eating your heart out, not touching food or drink? Do you suspect some other trick? You need not
be afraid, for I have already sworn you a strong oath.'

So she spoke, and I answered her:

'Circe, what man of any decency could bear to taste food and drink before he had freed his companions and seen them with his own eyes? If you truly want me, in good will, to eat and drink, then set them free, so that I may see my loyal companions with my own eyes.'

So I spoke, and Circe went out through the hall with her wand in hand, opened the door of the sty, and drove them out, looking like nine-year-old boars.
They stood there before her, and she went among them, smearing each one with another drug. From their limbs the bristles fell away — the bristles that the deadly drug she had given them before had grown — and they became men again, younger than they had been, and far more handsome and taller to look at. They knew me, and each one seized my hands. A longing for tears rose in all of them, and the house rang terribly around us; even the goddess herself pitied them. Then the bright goddess came close and said to me:

'Son of Laertes, born of the gods, resourceful Odysseus, go now to your swift ship and the shore of the sea. First of all, haul the ship up onto dry land, and store your goods and all your gear in the caves. Then come back yourself, and bring your loyal companions.'

So she spoke, and my proud heart agreed. I went down to the swift ship and the shore of the sea, and there I found my loyal companions on the swift ship, weeping bitterly, shedding heavy tears. As when calves penned in a farmyard, seeing the cows coming home from pasture once they are full of grass, all leap up together to meet them, and the pens can no longer hold them, but they run bellowing round their mothers without pause — so my men, when they saw me with their own eyes, poured out in tears around me; their hearts felt exactly as if they had reached their own country, the very city of rugged Ithaca where they were born and raised. And weeping they spoke to me, winged words:

'Godsent one, we rejoice at your return as much as if we had come home to Ithaca itself, our own country.
But come, tell us of the deaths of our other companions.'

So they spoke, and I answered with gentle words:

'First let us haul the ship up onto dry land, and store our goods and all our gear in the caves. Then hurry, all of you, and come with me, so that you may see your companions eating and drinking in Circe's sacred halls, for they have food enough and to spare.'

So I spoke, and they quickly obeyed my words. Only Eurylochus tried to hold back all the rest, and he spoke to them, winged words:
'Poor fools, where are we going? Why do you long for these troubles — to go down into Circe's hall, where she will turn us all into pigs, or wolves, or lions, forced to guard her great house against our will, just as the Cyclops did when our companions went into his fold and bold Odysseus went with them — for it was through this man's recklessness that they too died.'

So he spoke, and I turned it over in my mind, wondering whether to draw the long sharp sword from beside my thick thigh and strike off his head, letting it fall to the ground, close kinsman of mine though he was — but my companions held me back on every side with soothing words:
'Godsent one, let us leave this man here, if you wish, to stay by the ship and guard it; but lead the rest of us to Circe's sacred halls.'

So saying, they went up from the ship and the sea. Nor did Eurylochus stay behind by the hollow ship; he followed too, for he feared my fierce rebuke.

Meanwhile Circe, in her halls, had kindly bathed the rest of my companions and rubbed them with rich oil, and thrown fine cloaks and tunics around them; and we found them all feasting well in the halls. When the men saw one another face to face and recognized each other, they wept and lamented, and the house rang with their groaning. Then the bright goddess came close and said to me:

'Son of Laertes, born of the gods, resourceful Odysseus, weep no more now; I myself know all you suffered on the fish-filled sea, and all the harm cruel men did you on land. But come, eat food and drink wine, until you find again in your hearts the spirit
you had when you first left your own country, rugged Ithaca. Now you are worn out and spiritless, always brooding on your hard wandering, and your hearts are never glad, since you have suffered so much.'

So she spoke, and our proud hearts agreed. There we stayed day after day for a full year, feasting on abundant meat and sweet wine. But when a year had passed and the seasons turned, as the months waned and the long days ran their course, my loyal companions called me aside and said:
'Man, it is time now to remember your own country, if it is fated for you to be saved and reach your high-roofed house and your native land.'

So they spoke, and my proud heart agreed. So all that day, until the sun went down, we sat feasting on abundant meat and sweet wine. When the sun set and darkness came on, the men lay down to sleep in the shadowy halls; but I went up into Circe's beautiful bed and begged her by her knees, and the goddess heard my voice, and I spoke to her, winged words:

'Circe, fulfill now the promise you made me, to send me home. My heart is eager to go now, and so are the hearts of my companions, who wear away my spirit with their grieving whenever you happen to be elsewhere.'

So I spoke, and the bright goddess answered at once:

'Son of Laertes, born of the gods, resourceful Odysseus, stay no longer in my house against your will. But first there is another journey you must complete and reach — you must go to the house of Hades and dread Persephone,
to consult the spirit of Theban Tiresias, the blind seer, whose mind remains steadfast. To him alone, even in death, Persephone has granted understanding; the rest are mere flitting shadows.'

So she spoke, and my heart broke within me. I wept, sitting on the bed, and my spirit no longer wished to live and look upon the light of the sun. But when I had had my fill of weeping and writhing, I answered her and said:

'Circe, who will guide me on this journey? No one has ever yet reached Hades in a black ship.'
So I spoke, and the bright goddess answered at once:

'Son of Laertes, born of the gods, resourceful Odysseus, do not trouble yourself about lacking a guide for your ship. Just set up the mast, spread the white sail, and sit; the breath of the North Wind will carry it for you. When you have sailed in your ship across the stream of Ocean, you will find a low shore and the groves of Persephone, tall poplars and willows that shed their fruit before it ripens. Beach your ship there by the deep-eddying Ocean,
and go yourself down into the dank house of Hades. There the Pyriphlegethon and the Cocytus, a branch of the water of the Styx, flow into the Acheron, and there is a rock where the two thundering rivers meet. There, hero, draw near as I tell you, and dig a pit about a forearm's length in each direction, and around it pour libations to all the dead — first with honeyed milk, then with sweet wine, and third with water, sprinkling white barley meal over it. Then pray earnestly to the powerless heads of the dead,
promising that when you reach Ithaca you will sacrifice in your halls a barren cow, the best you have, and fill a pyre with fine gifts, and that to Tiresias alone you will offer separately a ram, wholly black, the finest of your flocks. When with prayers you have entreated the glorious tribes of the dead, then sacrifice a ram and a black ewe, turning them toward Erebus, but yourself turn away, facing the flowing river. There many spirits of the dead who have perished will come. Then at once call your companions and command them
to flay and burn the sheep that lie there slaughtered by the pitiless bronze, and pray to the gods, to mighty Hades and dread Persephone. Draw your own sharp sword from beside your thigh and sit there, and do not let the powerless heads of the dead come near the blood until you have questioned Tiresias. Then the seer will soon come to you, leader of men, and tell you the way, the stages of your journey, and how you will cross the fish-filled sea to reach home.'

So she spoke, and at once golden-throned Dawn appeared.
She dressed me in a cloak and tunic, and the nymph herself put on a great silver-white robe, fine and graceful, bound a beautiful golden belt about her waist, and put a veil upon her head. Then I went through the house rousing my companions with gentle words, standing by each man in turn:

'No longer lie there sleeping in sweet slumber — let us go, for now the queenly Circe has shown me the way.'

So I spoke, and their proud hearts agreed. But not even from there did I lead my companions away unharmed.
There was a certain Elpenor, the youngest of us, not especially brave in war nor sound in his wits. He had lain down apart from his companions in Circe's sacred halls, seeking the cool air, heavy with wine. Hearing the noise and bustle of his comrades stirring, he leapt up suddenly, and forgot in his confusion to go back down by way of the long ladder, but fell straight off the roof; his neck was broken away from the spine, and his spirit went down to Hades.

As the others set out, I spoke to them and said:
'No doubt you think we are on our way home now to our own dear country — but Circe has marked out another road for us, to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, to consult the spirit of Theban Tiresias.'

So I spoke, and their hearts broke within them; they sat down right there, weeping and tearing their hair, but no good came of their mourning.

While we walked, grieving, toward the swift ship and the shore of the sea, shedding heavy tears, Circe meanwhile went ahead of us to the black ship
and tied up a ram and a black ewe there, slipping past us easily; for who could see a god passing by, this way or that, unless the god wished it?

======== Book 11 ========

"Then, once we had gone down to the ship and the sea, first of all we hauled the ship down into the bright water, and set the mast and the sail in the black hull, took the sheep aboard, and led them in, and we ourselves climbed after, grieving, shedding heavy tears. But behind our dark-prowed ship Circe of the lovely hair, that dread goddess with a human voice, sent us a following wind, a good companion, filling our sail. We saw to all the ship's gear and then sat down, and the wind and the helmsman kept her straight.
All day long her sails strained as she cut through the water, and the sun went down and all the ways grew dark. She came to the edge of deep-flowing Ocean. There is the land and city of the Cimmerian people, wrapped in mist and cloud. The bright sun never looks down on them with his rays, neither when he climbs toward the starry sky nor when he turns back again from the sky toward earth — a deadly night is stretched over those wretched mortals forever. There we brought the ship to shore and took out the sheep, and walked ourselves along the stream of Ocean until we reached the place Circe had told us of.
There Perimedes and Eurylochus held the victims fast, while I drew my sharp sword from beside my thigh and dug a pit as long and wide as a forearm's reach, and around it poured a libation to all the dead — first with honeyed milk, then with sweet wine, and third with water, and over it I sprinkled white barley. And I made many prayers to the powerless heads of the dead, promising that when I came home to Ithaca I would sacrifice in my halls the best barren cow I had and heap the pyre with fine things, and to Tiresias alone I would offer a ram, pure black, the finest of our flocks.
When I had called on the dead, that whole nation of them, with prayers and vows, I took the sheep and cut their throats over the pit, and the dark blood flowed, and the souls of the dead came gathering up out of Erebus — brides, and young unmarried men, and old men who had suffered much, and tender girls whose hearts still ached with fresh grief, and many men wounded by bronze spears, warriors killed in battle, still wearing their blood-stained armor. They came crowding around the pit from every side with an unearthly cry, and pale fear seized me.
Then I called out and urged my companions to skin and burn the sheep that lay there slaughtered by the pitiless bronze, and to pray to the gods, to mighty Hades and dread Persephone. I myself drew my sharp sword from beside my thigh and sat there, not letting the powerless heads of the dead come near the blood until I had questioned Tiresias.
The first to come was the spirit of my companion Elpenor, for he had not yet been buried beneath the wide earth. We had left his body behind in Circe's hall, unwept and unburied, since other work pressed upon us. I wept to see him and pitied him in my heart, and I spoke to him, calling out these winged words: "Elpenor, how have you come here, down into this misty darkness? You have arrived on foot faster than I in my black ship."
So I spoke, and he answered me, groaning: "Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus — an evil fate and too much wine undid me. I lay down to sleep in Circe's hall and did not think to go back down by the long ladder, but fell straight off the roof, and my neck was broken away from the spine, and my spirit went down to the house of Hades.
Now I beg you, by those you left behind, who are not here — by your wife, and by your father who raised you when you were small, and by Telemachus, whom you left alone in your halls — for I know that when you leave this place, you'll bring your well-built ship back to the island of Aeaea. There, my lord, I ask you to remember me.
Do not leave me behind unwept and unburied when you go, and turn your back on me, or I may become a cause of the gods' anger against you. Burn me instead with all the armor that is mine, and heap up a mound for me on the shore of the gray sea, a marker for men still to come, for a luckless man. Do this for me, and plant on my tomb the oar I rowed with while I lived, among my companions."
So he spoke, and I answered him: "All this, unlucky man, I will carry out and do."
So the two of us sat there exchanging these grim words — I on one side, holding my sword over the blood, while on the other side the ghost of my companion spoke on and on. Then came the spirit of my dead mother, Anticleia, daughter of great-hearted Autolycus, whom I had left alive when I sailed for sacred Troy. I wept to see her and pitied her in my heart, but even so I would not let her come near the blood first, grieved as I was, until I had questioned Tiresias.
Then came the spirit of Theban Tiresias, holding a golden staff, and he knew me and spoke to me: "Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus — why, unlucky man, have you left the light of the sun and come down to see the dead in this joyless place? Draw back from the pit and hold your sharp sword away, so that I may drink the blood and tell you the truth."
So he spoke, and I drew back and drove my silver-studded sword into its sheath. When he had drunk the dark blood, then at last the blameless seer spoke to me:
"You seek a sweet homecoming, shining Odysseus, but a god will make it a hard one for you — for I do not think you will escape the notice of the Earthshaker, who holds a grudge against you in his heart, angry that you blinded his own son. Yet even so, though you suffer hardship, you may still reach home, if you are willing to master your own desire, and your companions', when you first bring your well-built ship near the island of Thrinacia, escaping the violet sea, and find there grazing the cattle and fat sheep of Helios, who sees all things and hears all things.
If you leave these unharmed and keep your mind on home, you may yet reach Ithaca, though you will suffer hardship. But if you harm them, then I foretell ruin for your ship and your companions, and even if you yourself escape, you will come home late and badly, having lost all your companions, on another man's ship, and you will find trouble in your house: arrogant men eating up your livelihood, courting your godlike wife and offering her bridal gifts.
But you will avenge their violence when you come. Once you have killed the suitors in your halls, whether by cunning or openly with the sharp bronze, then you must take up a well-shaped oar and travel on, until you come to men who know nothing of the sea, who eat their food without salt, who know nothing of ships painted red at the bow, or of the shaped oars that serve ships as wings.
I will tell you a very clear sign, and it will not escape you: when another traveler you meet says you carry a winnowing-fan on your bright shoulder, then you must plant your well-shaped oar in the earth and offer fine sacrifices to lord Poseidon — a ram, a bull, and a boar that mounts sows — and go home again and offer sacred hecatombs to the deathless gods who hold the wide heaven, all of them, each in turn.
And death will come to you yourself far from the sea, a very gentle death, which will take you when you are worn down by sleek old age, and your people around you will be prosperous. All this I tell you is the truth."
So he spoke, and I answered him: "Tiresias, all this the gods themselves, I suppose, have spun into my fate. But come, tell me this, and speak it truly: I see here the spirit of my dead mother. She sits close to the blood in silence, and cannot bear to look her own son in the face or speak to him. Tell me, lord, how might she come to know that it is I?"
So I spoke, and he answered me at once: "I will tell you an easy rule and set it in your mind. Whichever of the dead who have perished you allow to come near the blood will speak the truth to you; whomever you deny it to will turn back again."
So the ghost of lord Tiresias spoke, and having told me all the god's decrees, went back into the house of Hades. But I stayed there unmoved until my mother came and drank the dark blood. She knew me at once, and grieving she spoke to me, calling out these winged words:
"My child, how have you come down into this misty darkness, still living? It is hard for the living to look upon these things. Between us lie great rivers and terrible streams, Ocean first of all, which no one may cross on foot, without a well-built ship. Have you only now come here from Troy, after wandering so long with your ship and your companions? Have you not yet reached Ithaca, and seen your wife in your halls?"
So she spoke, and I answered her: "My mother, need brought me down here to Hades, to consult the spirit of Theban Tiresias. I have not yet come near Achaea, nor set foot on my own land, but have wandered on and on in misery ever since I first followed noble Agamemnon to Troy of the fine horses, to fight against the Trojans.
But come, tell me this, and speak it truly: what fate of grim death overcame you? Was it a long illness, or did Artemis who showers arrows come upon you and kill you with her gentle shafts? Tell me of my father and my son, whom I left behind — does my honor still rest with them, or has some other man taken it now, and do they say I will never come home? Tell me the mind and intention of my wedded wife: does she stay by our son and keep everything safe, or has she already married whichever of the Achaeans is best?"
So I spoke, and my honored mother answered at once: "She waits for you still, indeed, with a heart that endures, in your own halls, but her nights and days waste away always in sorrow, shedding tears. No one yet holds your fine honor, but Telemachus keeps your lands undisturbed and shares fairly in the feasts that a man who judges others ought to attend, for everyone invites him. But your father stays out there in the country and does not come down to the city.
He has no bed with blankets and bright coverlets, but in winter he sleeps where the slaves sleep in the house, in the ashes near the fire, and wears poor clothes on his body. But when summer comes and the ripe harvest of autumn, low beds of fallen leaves are spread for him anywhere along the slopes of his vineyard. There he lies grieving, and a great sorrow grows in his heart, longing for your return, and hard old age comes upon him.
For I too died that way and met my fate. It was not the sharp-eyed archer goddess who came upon me in my halls and killed me with her gentle arrows, nor did any illness come over me, the kind that most often steals the life from the limbs with hateful wasting — no, it was longing for you, my shining Odysseus, for your kindness and your gentle heart, that took my sweet life from me."
So she spoke, and I longed, turning it over in my heart, to embrace the spirit of my dead mother. Three times I started forward, for my heart urged me to hold her, and three times she slipped from my hands like a shadow, or like a dream, and flew away. And the pain grew sharper in my heart, and I spoke to her, calling out these winged words:
"My mother, why do you not stay for me, eager as I am to hold you, so that even here in the house of Hades we might throw our arms around each other and take our fill of cold grief together? Or is this only a phantom that great Persephone has sent me, to make me grieve and groan still more?"
So I spoke, and my honored mother answered at once: "Oh my child, most ill-fated of all men, Persephone, daughter of Zeus, is not deceiving you — this is simply the way of mortals, when someone dies. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and bones together; once the life-force has left the white bones, the strong might of blazing fire consumes them all, and the spirit flies off like a dream and is gone. But hurry now, back toward the light, and remember all these things, so that later you may tell them to your wife."
So we two spoke back and forth in this way, and then the women came — for great Persephone had roused them — all who had been wives and daughters of great men. They gathered in a crowd around the dark blood, and I thought how I might question each of them in turn. And this plan seemed best to my mind:
I drew my long, sharp sword from beside my strong thigh and would not let them all drink the dark blood at once. So they came forward one by one, and each told me of her lineage, and I questioned them all in turn.
The first I saw was Tyro, of noble father, who said she was the daughter of blameless Salmoneus, and had been the wife of Cretheus, son of Aeolus. She had fallen in love with a river, divine Enipeus, by far the most beautiful of all the rivers that pour over the earth, and she used to walk beside the lovely waters of Enipeus.
Taking the river's shape, the Earthshaker who holds the earth lay with her at the mouths of the swirling river. A dark wave rose and stood around them like a mountain, arched high, and hid the god and the mortal woman together. He loosed her maiden girdle and poured sleep over her. And when the god had finished the act of love, he took her by the hand, spoke to her, and called her by name:
"Rejoice, woman, in this love, and when the year has come full circle you will bear splendid children — for the beds of the immortals are never without fruit. Care for them and raise them well.
Now go home, and hold your tongue, and do not speak my name. But know that I am Poseidon, shaker of the earth."
So he spoke, and sank beneath the swelling sea. And she conceived and bore Pelias and Neleus, who both became mighty servants of great Zeus. Pelias lived in wide-lawned Iolcus, rich in flocks, and Neleus in sandy Pylos. And the queen among women bore the rest of her sons to Cretheus — Aeson, and Pheres, and Amythaon, who fought from a chariot.
After her I saw Antiope, daughter of Asopus, who boasted that she had slept in the arms of Zeus himself, and bore two sons, Amphion and Zethus, who first founded the seat of seven-gated Thebes and walled it round, for they could not live in wide Thebes unwalled, mighty as the two of them were.
After her I saw Alcmene, wife of Amphitryon, who bore Heracles, bold-hearted and lion-spirited, after lying in the arms of great Zeus; and Megara, daughter of proud Creon, whom the son of Amphitryon, whose strength never failed, held as his wife.
And I saw the mother of Oedipus, fair Epicaste, who in the blindness of her mind did a monstrous thing: she married her own son. He married her after killing his own father, and soon the gods made these things known to men. Yet he, suffering agonies, went on ruling the Cadmeans in lovely Thebes through the gods' terrible design; but she went down to the house of Hades, the strong gatekeeper, tying a steep noose from a high rafter, overcome by her own grief, and left behind for him all the sorrows that a mother's Furies bring to pass.
And I saw beautiful Chloris, whom Neleus once married for her beauty, after giving countless gifts for her — the youngest daughter of Amphion, son of Iasus, who once ruled with might in Minyan Orchomenus. She was queen of Pylos, and bore him splendid children: Nestor, and Chromius, and lordly Periclymenus.
After them she bore mighty Pero, a wonder to mortals, whom all the men nearby sought in marriage; but Neleus would not give her to any man unless he drove off from Phylace the cattle with the curving horns and broad foreheads that belonged to mighty Iphicles — cattle hard to take. Only a blameless seer undertook to drive them off, but a harsh fate from a god bound him fast, with painful chains, and rough herdsmen.
But when the months and days were being completed, as the year turned round and the seasons came on, then at last mighty Iphicles set him free, once he had told all the god's decrees; and so the will of Zeus was fulfilled.
And I saw Leda, wife of Tyndareus, who bore Tyndareus two strong-hearted sons, Castor the horse-tamer and Polydeuces, skilled with his fists.
"Those two the life-giving earth still holds, both of them alive, and even beneath the ground they hold honor from Zeus: on alternate days they live, and on the days between they are dead, and they are granted honor equal to the gods.
"After her I saw Iphimedeia, wife of Aloeus, who claimed she had lain with Poseidon. She bore two sons, though they lived only a short while, godlike Otus and far-famed Ephialtes, the tallest men the grain-giving earth ever raised, and the handsomest by far after glorious Orion himself. At nine years old they were nine cubits across and nine fathoms tall. These were the two who threatened even the immortals on Olympus, that they would raise the din of furious war against them. They meant to pile Ossa on Olympus, and on Ossa leafy Pelion, so that the sky itself could be climbed. And they would have done it, had they reached the age of manhood, but the son of Zeus, whom fair-haired Leto bore, destroyed them both before the down had bloomed beneath their temples and thickened their cheeks with a young man's beard.
"I saw Phaedra and Procris, and lovely Ariadne, daughter of grim Minos, whom Theseus once tried to carry off from Crete to the hill of sacred Athens, but got no joy of her: Artemis killed her first, on the island of Dia, on the testimony of Dionysus.
"I saw Maera and Clymene, and hateful Eriphyle, who took precious gold as the price of her own husband's life. But I cannot tell of all the rest, or name them one by one, all the wives and daughters of heroes that I saw — the immortal night itself would fail before I finished. And now it is time to sleep, whether I go to the swift ship and my crew, or stay here. My passage home lies in the gods' hands and in yours."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, held in a spell of wonder through the shadowed hall. Then white-armed Arete began to speak among them.
"Phaeacians, what do you make of this man now, his looks, his stature, the good sense balanced within him? He is my guest, true, but each of you shares in that honor. So do not hurry him off, and do not stint the gifts to a man in such need — for you have great treasures stored in your halls, by the gods' favor."
Then the old hero Echeneus spoke among them too, the eldest of the Phaeacian men.
"Friends, our wise queen's words are not wide of the mark, nor off the point — so heed her. Yet it is Alcinous here whose word and deed must decide this."
Alcinous answered him and said,
"Then this shall be as she says, as surely as I live and rule the oar-loving Phaeacians. But let our guest, however eager for his homecoming, consent to wait until tomorrow, until I have made the gift complete. His safe passage will be every man's concern, mine most of all, since the power in this land rests with me."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him,
"Lord Alcinous, most honored of all your people — if you asked me to stay a whole year, and pressed on the sending and gave splendid gifts, I would agree to that too, and it would serve me far better to come home to my own dear country with a fuller hand. I would be held in more respect and more affection by everyone who saw me return to Ithaca."
Alcinous answered him again,
"Odysseus, looking at you, we take you for no liar or cheat, of the kind the dark earth breeds in such numbers scattered everywhere, men who dress up lies that no one could ever see through. But in you there is beauty of speech, and sound sense within. You have told your tale with the skill of a poet — all the grim sorrows of the Argives, and your own as well. But come, tell me this, and speak it truly: did you see any of your godlike comrades who went with you to Troy and met their fate there? This night is long, endlessly long, and it is not yet time to sleep in the hall. Go on telling me these wonders. I could hold out until the bright dawn, if you could bear to tell me of your sufferings that long."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him,
"Lord Alcinous, most honored of all your people, there is a time for long stories and a time for sleep. But if you still long to hear more, I will not begrudge you this — I will tell you other things more pitiful still, the sorrows of my comrades who died later, who escaped the screaming din of the Trojans but perished on the way home, through the will of a wicked woman.
"Now when holy Persephone had scattered the souls of the women, each her own way, there came the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, grieving, and around him gathered the others, all who died with him and met their fate in the house of Aegisthus. He knew me at once, as soon as he had drunk the dark blood, and he wept aloud, shedding great tears, reaching his hands toward me, longing to touch me — but there was no strength left in him now, no force at all, nothing like what had once lived in his supple limbs.
"I wept at the sight of him and pitied him in my heart, and I spoke to him, saying,
'Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, what death laid you low, what fate that lays men flat? Did Poseidon destroy you on your ships, raising a monstrous blast of cruel winds? Or did hostile men cut you down on land, as you were rounding up cattle or fine flocks of sheep, or fighting for a city and its women?'
"So I spoke, and at once he answered me,
'Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, no, Poseidon did not destroy me on my ships, raising a monstrous blast of cruel winds, nor did hostile men cut me down on land — it was Aegisthus who devised my death and doom, and killed me, with the help of my own accursed wife, after inviting me to his house, giving me a feast, and slaughtering me as a man slaughters an ox at its manger. So I died the most pitiful of deaths, and around me my companions were cut down without mercy, like white-tusked pigs slaughtered for the wedding, or the feast, or the rich banquet of some powerful, wealthy man. You have seen men killed before, one at a time and in the press of fierce battle, but your heart would have ached most to see what we saw then, lying around the mixing bowl and the loaded tables, all through the hall, the whole floor steaming with blood. But the most pitiful cry I heard was that of Priam's daughter, Cassandra, whom treacherous Clytemnestra killed at my side, while I lifted my hands from the ground and beat them down, dying, around the sword — and that shameless woman turned away from me, and did not even trouble, though I was going down to the house of Hades, to close my eyes with her hand or shut my mouth. There is nothing more terrible, nothing more like a dog, than a woman who sets such deeds in her heart as she did, plotting that vile act, murder for her own wedded husband. And I had truly hoped to come home welcomed by my children and my household slaves — but she, with her mind set on utter horror, poured shame on herself and on all women still to come, even on the ones who prove faithful.'
"So he spoke, and I answered him in turn,
'Ah, truly Zeus who thunders wide has hated the line of Atreus bitterly from the start, through the schemes of women — many of us died for Helen's sake, and while you were far away Clytemnestra was weaving her treachery against you.'
"So I spoke, and at once he answered me,
'So now, never be too gentle with your own wife either. Do not tell her everything you know in your mind — say some things, but let others stay hidden. Yet you, Odysseus, will not meet your death at a wife's hands, for Penelope, daughter of Icarius, is far too sensible, and her mind is stocked with good sense. She was a young bride when we left her, going off to war, and she had a baby at her breast — that child must be sitting now among grown men, and lucky he is, for his own father will come home and see him, and he will embrace his father as is right and proper. But my wife did not even let me feast my eyes on my son — she killed me first, before that. I will tell you one more thing, and you should store it in your heart: bring your ship in to your own dear homeland secretly, not openly, for there is no longer any trusting women. But come, tell me this, and speak it truly — have you heard that my son is still alive, perhaps in Orchomenus, or in sandy Pylos, or with Menelaus in broad Sparta? For godlike Orestes has not yet died on the earth.'
"So he spoke, and I answered him in turn,
'Son of Atreus, why do you ask me this? I do not know at all whether he lives or is dead — it does no good to speak idle words.'
"So the two of us stood there, trading these grim words, grieving, shedding great tears, when the soul of Achilles, son of Peleus, came up, and Patroclus, and blameless Antilochus, and Ajax, who in looks and build was the finest of all the Danaans after the flawless son of Peleus. The soul of the swift-footed grandson of Aeacus knew me, and spoke to me in sorrow, winged words:
'Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, reckless man, what greater deed will you still plot in your heart? How did you dare come down to Hades, where the mindless dead dwell, mere phantoms of worn-out men?'
"So he spoke, and I answered him in turn,
'Achilles, son of Peleus, far the mightiest of the Achaeans, I came for Tiresias's sake, to see if he could tell me some counsel for reaching rugged Ithaca. I have not yet come near Achaea, nor set foot on my own land — trouble dogs me always. But you, Achilles, no man before you was so fortunate, nor will any be after. While you lived we Argives honored you as we did the gods, and now that you are here, you rule mightily over the dead. So do not grieve at all that you have died, Achilles.'
"So I spoke, and at once he answered me,
'Do not try to console me for death, glorious Odysseus. I would rather be above the ground still, serving as another man's laborer, some poor man with little enough to live on himself, than be king over all the dead and gone. But come, tell me news of my noble son — did he go to war as a leader, or did he not? And tell me of blameless Peleus, if you have heard anything — does he still hold his honor among the many Myrmidons, or do they slight him through Hellas and Phthia because old age has bound his hands and feet? For I am no longer there to help him under the light of the sun, not as I once was on the wide plain of Troy, when I killed the best of their army, defending the Argives. If I could come, even briefly, as I was then, to my father's house, I would make my strength and my unstoppable hands hateful to any who use force against him and keep him from his honor.'
"So he spoke, and I answered him in turn,
'Of blameless Peleus I have heard nothing at all, but of your dear son Neoptolemus I will tell you the whole truth, exactly as you ask. I myself brought him in my own trim hollow ship from Scyros to join the well-greaved Achaeans. And whenever we sat in council before the city of Troy, he was always the first to speak, and he never spoke amiss — only godlike Nestor and I could outdo him. And when we fought the Trojans with bronze on the plain, he never stayed back among the crowd or the throng of men, but always ran far out ahead, yielding his fury to no one, and he killed many men in the terrible fighting. I could not tell of all of them or name them, how many men he killed defending the Argives, but I will tell you of one, the son of Telephus he brought down with bronze, the hero Eurypylus, and many of his Ceteian comrades were slaughtered around him, all for the sake of a woman's gifts. He was the handsomest man I ever saw after godlike Memnon. And when we who were the best of the Argives climbed down into the horse that Epeius built, and the whole task fell to me, both to open the tight ambush and to close it again, the other leaders and counselors of the Danaans were wiping away tears, and every man's limbs shook beneath him — but your son, I never once saw him, not with my own eyes, turn pale in his handsome face or wipe away a tear from his cheek. Instead he begged me again and again to let him out of the horse, and kept gripping the hilt of his sword and his bronze-heavy spear, eager to do the Trojans harm. And when we had sacked Priam's steep city, he boarded his ship with his share of the plunder and a fine prize of honor, unhurt, not struck by the sharp bronze nor wounded in close combat, as so often happens in war — for Ares rages indiscriminately.'
"So I spoke, and the soul of the swift-footed grandson of Aeacus went striding off in long steps across the field of asphodel, glad that I had told him his son was so outstanding.
"The other souls of the dead and gone stood there grieving, each asking after her own sorrows. Only the soul of Ajax, son of Telamon, stood apart, still angry over the victory I had won against him, when we contended by the ships over the arms of Achilles — his own mother had set them as the prize, and the sons of the Trojans and Pallas Athena judged between us. I wish I had never won such a contest, for the earth closed over so fine a man on account of it, Ajax, who in looks and deeds surpassed all the other Danaans after the flawless son of Peleus. I spoke to him with gentle words:
'Ajax, son of noble Telamon, could you not, even in death, let go of your anger against me over those cursed arms? The gods made them a plague to the Argives, for in losing you we lost a great tower of strength. We Achaeans grieve for your death as much as we grieve for the death of Achilles, son of Peleus, without end — and no one else is to blame, only Zeus, who hated the army of Danaan spearmen bitterly, and laid this doom upon you. Come closer, my lord, and hear my word and my speech — master your fury, your proud spirit.'
"So I spoke, but he answered me nothing, and went off after the other souls of the dead and gone into Erebus. Even so he might still have spoken to me, angry as he was, or I to him, but the heart in my chest wanted to see the souls of the other dead as well.
"There I saw Minos, glorious son of Zeus, holding a golden scepter, giving judgments to the dead as they sat and stood around him throughout the wide gates of the house of Hades, asking their king for his rulings.
"After him I noticed huge Orion, driving together across the field of asphodel the very beasts he himself had killed on the lonely mountains, holding in his hands a club of solid bronze that never wears away.
"And I saw Tityus, son of glorious Earth, lying on the ground, stretched over nine acres, while two vultures sat on either side and tore at his liver, plunging into his belly, and he could not beat them off with his hands — for he had once dragged off Leto, the honored consort of Zeus, as she made her way toward Pytho through lovely Panopeus with its dancing-grounds.
"And I saw Tantalus too, suffering terrible torments, standing in a pool of water that reached up to his chin. He stood there parched with thirst, but could not reach the water to drink it — every time the old man bent down, eager to drink, the water would drain away and vanish, and at his feet the black earth would show itself, dried up by some power. And tall leafy trees hung their fruit down over his head, pears and pomegranates and apple trees heavy with bright fruit, sweet figs and ripe olives — but whenever the old man reached up to grasp them in his hands, a wind would toss them up toward the shadowy clouds.
"And I saw Sisyphus too, suffering terrible torments, wrestling with both hands against a monstrous boulder. Bracing himself with hands and feet, he would heave the stone up toward the top of a hill, but just as he was about to send it over the crest, its sheer weight would turn it back, and the shameless stone would come crashing down again to the plain. Then he would strain and push it back up, sweat pouring from his limbs, dust rising from his head.
After him I made out mighty Heracles — his phantom, that is, for the man himself feasts among the deathless gods, at ease, married to lovely-ankled Hebe, daughter of great Zeus and gold-sandaled Hera. Around him the dead cried out like startled birds, scattering in every direction. He came on like black night, bow bare in his hand, an arrow laid on the string, glaring around him fiercely, like a man forever about to shoot. Terrible was the belt that crossed his chest, a golden strap worked with wonders beyond telling — bears, wild boars, and lions with blazing eyes, and battles, clashes, killings, and the slaughter of men. Whoever designed that belt with such skill will never make its like again, nor try.
He knew me the moment his eyes fell on me, and grieving he spoke to me in winged words: 'Son of Laertes, sprung from the gods, Odysseus of many resources, so you too, poor man, drag out some hard fate under the light of the sun, the same doom I once bore.
I was son of Zeus, son of Cronus, and yet my suffering knew no measure — I was bound in service to a man far beneath me, who laid brutal labors on me. Once he even sent me down here to fetch the hound of hell — he could think of no harder task to set me than that one. I hauled the beast up and led him out of Hades' realm, with Hermes and gray-eyed Athena as my guides.'
So he spoke, and went back into the house of Hades, while I stayed where I was, holding my ground, in case any more of the heroes who died long ago should come. And I would have seen still more of the men of old, the ones I longed to see — Theseus and Pirithous, glorious children of gods — but before that could happen the countless tribes of the dead came pressing around me with an unearthly clamor, and pale fear seized me, that dread Persephone might send up from Hades the Gorgon's head, that monstrous horror.
At once I went back to the ship and told my crew to board and cast off the stern lines, and they climbed aboard quickly and took their places at the oars. The current of the river Ocean carried the ship along, first under our rowing, and then a fair wind rose to fill the sail.

======== Book 12 ========

"Now once our ship had left the river-stream of Ocean and come out into the wave of the wide-wayed sea, to the island of Aeaea, where early Dawn has her house and her dancing-floors, and where the sun rises, we ran the ship up onto the sand and beached her, and we ourselves stepped out onto the breaking surf. There we lay down and slept until the bright dawn came.
"When the early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, I sent men ahead to Circe's halls to bring back the body of Elpenor, who had died. We cut logs quickly where the shore ran out farthest, and buried him there in sorrow, streaming warm tears. When the corpse had burned, and the armor of the dead man with it, we heaped up a mound, dragged a stone pillar onto it, and planted at the top of the mound his shapely oar.
"We saw to each of these duties in turn. But Circe had not failed to notice that we had come back from the house of Hades — she came to us quickly, dressed and ready, and her handmaids came with her bearing bread and meat in plenty and glowing red wine. The goddess stood among us and spoke.
"'Reckless men, who went down alive into the house of Hades, so that you will die twice over, when other men die only once — come now, eat this food and drink this wine, here, the whole day through, and when dawn shows again you will sail. I myself will point out the way and mark every landmark for you, so that no cruel scheme, on the sea or on the land, may cause you pain and grief.'
"So she spoke, and our proud hearts were persuaded. So for that whole day, until the sun went down, we sat and feasted on unstinting meat and sweet wine. And when the sun set and darkness came on, the men lay down to sleep by the ship's stern cables. But Circe took my hand, led me apart from my dear companions, made me sit down beside her, and asked me everything. And I told it all to her in its proper order.
Then the lady Circe spoke to me and said:
"'All this, then, has been carried through as it should be. Now listen to what I tell you — the god himself will bring it back to your mind. You will come first to the Sirens, who bewitch every man who comes near them. Whoever in his ignorance draws close and hears the voice of the Sirens never again has his wife and little children stand beside him rejoicing at his homecoming — the Sirens enchant him with their clear song as they sit in their meadow, and around them lies a great heap of bones of rotting men, with the skin shriveling upon them. Row past them, and smear the ears of your comrades with sweet beeswax you have kneaded soft, so that none of the others may hear. But you yourself, if you wish to listen, have them bind you hand and foot upright against the mast-block, with the rope-ends made fast to the mast itself, so that you may listen and take pleasure in the voice of the two Sirens. And if you beg your comrades and order them to set you free, let them bind you then with even more turns of rope.
"'Now once your comrades have rowed the ship past the Sirens, I will not go on and tell you in detail which of two paths lies ahead — you must decide that for yourself in your own heart. But I will describe both to you. On the one side stand overhanging cliffs, and against them the great wave of dark-eyed Amphitrite roars and crashes — the blessed gods call these the Wandering Rocks. No winged thing passes that way, not even the trembling doves that carry ambrosia to father Zeus — the smooth rock always snatches one of them away, and the father sends another to keep their number whole. No ship of men that comes there has ever escaped — the waves of the sea and blasts of ruinous fire sweep along together the planks of ships and the bodies of men. Only one seagoing ship has ever sailed past that way, the Argo, sung by every poet, on her way home from Aeetes' land — and even she would have been dashed there against the great rocks, but Hera sent her safely through, for she loved Jason.
"'On the other course stand two great crags. One of them reaches up with a sharp peak into the wide sky, and a dark cloud surrounds it always — it never clears, and no bright sky ever holds that peak, not in summer nor in harvest-time. No mortal man could climb it or set foot upon it, not even if he had twenty hands and twenty feet, for the rock is smooth, as if it had been polished. Halfway up that crag is a dim cave, facing west toward Erebus — the very course, glorious Odysseus, along which you must steer your hollow ship. Not even a strong man shooting from a hollow ship below could reach that cave with an arrow. In it lives Scylla, yelping her terrible cry. Her voice, indeed, is no louder than that of a newborn pup, but she herself is a monstrous horror — no one could look on her gladly, not even a god who met her. She has twelve feet, all of them dangling, and six long necks, and on each neck a horrible head, and in each head three rows of teeth, thick-set and close, full of black death. Her middle is sunk down inside the hollow cave, but she holds her heads out beyond the terrible pit, and there she fishes, groping all around the crag for dolphins and dogfish, and whatever bigger thing she may catch, of the countless creatures loud-groaning Amphitrite feeds. No sailors yet have boasted that they passed her by unharmed in their ship — with each of her heads she snatches away a man from the dark-prowed vessel and carries him off.
"'The other crag you will see is lower, Odysseus — the two lie close to one another, so close you could shoot an arrow across. On it stands a great fig tree, thick with leaves, and beneath it divine Charybdis sucks down the black water. Three times a day she spews it out, and three times she sucks it down again, terribly — may you never be there when she sucks it down, for not even the Earth-Shaker could pull you free from that disaster. No, drive your ship close by Scylla's crag instead, and row past swiftly, since it is far better to lose six comrades from your ship than all of them together.'
"So she spoke, and I answered her and said:
"'Come, goddess, tell me the truth of this — is there some way I might escape deadly Charybdis, and also fight off the other one, when she comes to prey on my comrades?'
"So I spoke, and the shining goddess answered at once:
"'Reckless man, once again your heart is set on deeds of war and hard struggle. Will you not yield even to the deathless gods? She is no mortal thing but an undying horror, dreadful and grievous and savage, not to be fought — there is no defense against her; to flee is the only strength worth having. If you linger there arming yourself beside the rock, I fear she will dart out again and seize you with as many heads as before, and snatch as many men. No — row past with all your strength, and call upon Crataiis, Scylla's mother, who bore her as a plague to mortal men; she will keep her from lunging out again after that.
"'Then you will come to the island of Thrinacia, where the many cattle of the Sun graze, and his fat flocks — seven herds of cattle and as many fine flocks of sheep, fifty animals in each. They bear no young, and they never die, and their shepherds are goddesses, nymphs with lovely hair, Phaethusa and Lampetia, whom shining Neaera bore to Helios Hyperion. Their mother reared them and bore them and then settled them on the island of Thrinacia, far away, to live there and guard their father's sheep and their shambling cattle. If you leave these unharmed and keep your mind on your homecoming, you may yet reach Ithaca, though after much suffering. But if you harm them, then I foretell ruin for your ship and your comrades, and even if you yourself escape, you will come home late and in misery, having lost all your companions.'
"So she spoke, and at once golden-throned Dawn arrived. Then the goddess went off up the island. And I went to the ship and roused my comrades to come aboard themselves and loosen the stern cables. They climbed aboard quickly and sat down at the oarlocks, and sitting in their rows they struck the gray sea with their oars.
Circe of the lovely hair, the dread goddess who speaks with human voice, sent behind our dark-prowed ship a following wind, a good companion, filling our sail. We saw to all the ship's gear and sat down, and the wind and the helmsman held her steady on course.
"Then, my heart heavy, I spoke to my comrades and said:
"'Friends, it is not right that only one of us, or only two, should know the prophecies Circe told me, the shining goddess. No, I will tell them to all of you, so that whether we die or escape death and doom, we may know it beforehand. First she told us to avoid the voice of the wondrous Sirens, and their flowering meadow. I alone, she said, should hear their voice — but you must bind me in a painful knot, so that I stay fixed to the spot, upright against the mast-block, the rope-ends made fast to the mast itself. And if I beg you and order you to set me free, you must bind me tighter still, with more turns of rope.'
"So I spoke, telling my comrades each thing in turn. Meanwhile our well-built ship came quickly to the island of the two Sirens, for a gentle wind was driving her on. But then all at once the wind dropped, and a windless calm fell over the sea — some god lulled the waves to rest. My comrades stood up and furled the ship's sail, and stowed it inside the hollow ship, and then sat down at the oars and churned the water white with their polished blades of pine.
"Then I took a great round cake of beeswax and cut it into small pieces with my sharp bronze blade, and pressed the pieces in my strong hands. Soon the wax grew warm and softened, worked by the strength of my grip and by the burning rays of lord Helios Hyperion's son, and one by one I smeared it into the ears of all my comrades. They in turn bound me hand and foot together, upright against the mast-block, with the rope-ends made fast to the mast itself, and sat down again and struck the gray sea with their oars.
"But when we were as far off as a man's shout can carry, driving swiftly onward, the Sirens did not fail to notice the swift ship drawing near, and they raised their clear song.
"'Come here, famous Odysseus, great glory of the Achaeans, bring your ship to a stop, so that you may hear our voice. No man has ever yet rowed his black ship past this place without staying to hear the honeyed sound from our lips — rather he goes on his way delighted, and knowing more than before. For we know all the hardships that the Argives and Trojans suffered in wide Troy by the will of the gods, and we know everything that comes to pass on the fruitful earth.'
"So they sang, sending out their beautiful voice, and my heart longed to listen, and I signaled to my comrades with my brows to set me free — but they bent to the oars and rowed on harder. At once Perimedes and Eurylochus stood up and bound me with still more rope, drawing it tighter. And when they had rowed the ship well past the Sirens, and we could no longer hear their voice or their song, my loyal comrades at once took the wax from their ears, which I had smeared there, and untied me from my bonds.
"But no sooner had we left that island behind than I saw smoke and a great wave, and heard a roaring crash. My men were terrified, and the oars flew from their hands — all of them clattered down along the current, and the ship stood still, since the men no longer drove her forward with their oars. So I went the length of the ship, rousing my comrades, standing beside each man in turn with gentle words.
"'Friends, we are surely not unfamiliar with hardship — this danger is no greater than when the Cyclops penned us by brute force in his hollow cave. Yet even from there my courage and cunning and quick wit brought us out safely, and I think we will remember this day too, some time to come. Come now, let us all do as I say. You, sit at your benches and strike the deep breakers of the sea with your oars, in hopes that Zeus may grant us to escape this destruction and get clear of it. And you, helmsman, I charge you with this — hold it fixed in your mind, since you handle the steering-oar of our hollow ship: keep the ship clear of that smoke and that wave, and hug the crag instead, or else she may swing off toward the other side before you know it, and you will drive us all to ruin.'
"So I spoke, and they quickly obeyed my words. But I did not tell them about Scylla, that thing no one could fight off, for fear my comrades might grow so frightened that they would stop rowing and huddle together below deck. And at that moment I forgot Circe's painful order not to arm myself at all — instead I put on my splendid armor, took two long spears in my hands, and went up onto the half-deck at the bow, since I expected Scylla of the rock to appear from there first, bringing pain to my comrades. But I could not catch sight of her anywhere — my eyes grew tired scanning every part of the misty crag.
"So we sailed up the narrow strait, groaning in fear — on one side lay Scylla, and on the other divine Charybdis terribly sucked down the salt water of the sea. Whenever she spewed it out, she would churn and roar like a cauldron over a great fire, and the spray would fly up and fall on the tops of both crags on either side. But whenever she sucked down the salt water of the sea, the whole inside of her showed churning, and the rock around her roared terribly, and the sea floor showed beneath, dark with sand — and pale terror seized my men. As we looked toward her, dreading destruction, in that instant Scylla snatched six of my comrades out of the hollow ship, the strongest of them in hands and strength.
"Looking back to the swift ship and to my comrades, I caught sight of their feet and hands already being lifted high above me, and they cried out to me, calling my name one last time, their hearts breaking with grief. Just as a fisherman on a jutting rock, with a long rod, casts his bait to lure small fish, throwing out into the sea his line tipped with the horn of an ox from the field, and then, catching one that struggles, flings it up onto the shore — so those men were lifted struggling up toward the rocks, and there at her doorway she devoured them, screaming and stretching out their hands to me in their terrible death-struggle. That was the most pitiful thing my eyes have seen in all my sufferings while searching out the pathways of the sea.
"Once we had escaped the rocks, and dreadful Charybdis, and Scylla, we soon came to the blameless island of the god, where the fine broad-browed cattle and the many fat flocks of Helios Hyperion were kept. While I was still out at sea in my black ship, I heard the lowing of penned cattle and the bleating of sheep, and the words of the blind prophet came back to my mind, Theban Tiresias, and of Circe of Aeaea, who had charged me again and again to avoid the island of Helios, joy of mortals. So, my heart heavy, I spoke to my comrades and said:
"'Hear my words, comrades, for all your hardships, so that I may tell you the prophecies of Tiresias and of Circe of Aeaea, who charged me again and again to avoid the island of Helios, joy of mortals — for she said the worst evil for us lay there. No, row the black ship on, past the island.'
"So I spoke, and their hearts were broken within them. And Eurylochus answered me at once with hateful words.
"'You are a hard man, Odysseus — your strength never fails, and your limbs never tire; you must be forged entirely of iron, that you will not let your comrades, worn out with toil and lack of sleep, set foot on land, where on this island washed by the sea we might once more prepare ourselves a welcome meal — instead you tell us to wander on, just as we are, through the swift night, driven off from the island onto the misty sea. Out of the night come harsh winds, the ruin of ships — how could a man escape sheer destruction, if a sudden storm-blast should come up, whether from the South Wind or blustering West Wind, the very winds that wreck ships most of all, against the will of the gods, our masters? No — let us give way now to the black night, and make our meal here, staying beside our swift ship, and at dawn we will go aboard and put out onto the open sea.'
"So spoke Eurylochus, and the rest of my comrades agreed. Then I knew that some god was planning trouble for us, and I spoke to him and said in winged words:
"'Eurylochus, you all overpower me now, one man against you all. But come, all of you, swear me a solemn oath — that if we find some herd of cattle or great flock of sheep, no one, in his reckless folly..."
"'Or kill some ox or sheep — no, stay calm and eat the food the immortal Circe gave us.'
"So I said, and they swore at once, just as I told them. When they had sworn and finished the oath, we moored our well-built ship in the hollow harbor near a spring of sweet water, and the crew went ashore and made their supper with skill. But once they had put away their hunger for food and drink, they remembered their dear companions and wept for them — those Scylla had snatched from the hollow ship and devoured. And as they wept, sweet sleep came over them.
When it was the third watch of the night and the stars had wheeled past their height, Zeus who gathers the clouds roused a furious wind against us in a terrible squall, and covered land and sea alike with clouds; night rose up out of the sky. When early Dawn appeared with her rose-red fingers, we hauled the ship into a hollow cave and moored her there, where there were fine dancing-floors and seats of the nymphs. Then I called the men together and spoke among them:
"'Friends, since we still have food and drink aboard the swift ship, let us keep our hands off these cattle, so that we come to no harm. For these belong to a dread god — cattle and fat sheep alike — to Helios, who watches everything and hears everything.'
"So I said, and their proud hearts agreed. But for a whole month the South Wind blew without ceasing, and no other wind rose after it except the East and the South. As long as the men had bread and red wine they held off from the cattle, for they wanted to live. But when the ship's stores were all used up, and hunger drove them to range the island hunting whatever came to hand — fish, birds, anything their hands could catch on bent hooks, for their bellies were pinched with famine — then I went off across the island to pray to the gods, hoping one of them might show me a way home. And when I had crossed the island and left my men behind, I washed my hands where there was shelter from the wind, and prayed to all the gods who hold Olympus. And they poured sweet sleep down over my eyelids.
Meanwhile Eurylochus was urging a wicked plan on the men:
"'Listen to me, friends, hard as your suffering has been. Every kind of death is hateful to wretched mortals, but to die of hunger, to meet that fate, is the most pitiful of all. Come, then — let us drive off the best of Helios's cattle and sacrifice them to the immortals who hold the wide heaven. And if we ever reach Ithaca, our homeland, we will at once build a rich temple to Helios Hyperion, and set in it many fine offerings. But if he is angered over his straight-horned cattle and wants to destroy our ship, and the other gods go along with him, I would rather lose my life at once, gulping down the wave, than waste away slowly on this desolate island.'
"So spoke Eurylochus, and the other men agreed with him. At once they drove off the best of Helios's cattle — they were grazing nearby, for the dark-prowed ship was not far off, those handsome, broad-browed cattle with curving horns. The men stood around them and prayed to the gods, plucking tender leaves from a high-crowned oak, since they had no white barley left on the well-benched ship. And when they had prayed and cut the throats and flayed the cattle, they cut out the thighbones and wrapped them in a double layer of fat, and laid raw strips of meat over them.
They had no wine to pour over the blazing offering, so they poured libations of water instead, and roasted all the entrails. When the thighs were burned and they had tasted the innards, they cut up the rest of the meat and skewered it on spits.
It was then that sweet sleep slipped from my eyelids, and I set off back toward the swift ship and the shore of the sea. But as I came near the curved ship, the sweet smell of roasting fat drifted around me. Groaning, I cried out loud to the immortal gods:
"'Father Zeus, and all you other blessed gods who live forever — you lulled me with that pitiless sleep to my ruin! My companions, left behind, have plotted and carried out a monstrous deed.'
"Quickly Lampetie of the trailing robes carried the news to Helios Hyperion, that we had killed his cattle. At once he spoke among the immortals, his heart full of anger:
"'Father Zeus, and you other blessed gods who live forever, punish the companions of Odysseus, son of Laertes — they have insolently killed my cattle, the very cattle that gave me joy whenever I climbed the starry sky, and again when I turned back down from heaven toward the earth. If they do not pay me a fitting price for my cattle, I will go down into the house of Hades and shine among the dead instead.'
"Zeus who gathers the clouds answered him and said:
"'Helios, shine on as you always do among the immortals and among mortal men on the grain-giving earth. As for those men, I will soon strike their swift ship with a flashing bolt and shatter it to pieces in the midst of the wine-dark sea.'
"I heard this from Calypso of the lovely hair, and she said she herself had heard it from Hermes the guide.
"When I came back down to the ship and the sea, I confronted the men one after another, but there was no remedy to be found — the cattle were already dead. And soon after, the gods began showing us signs and wonders: the hides crawled, and the meat on the spits bellowed, both roasted and raw, and there came a sound like the lowing of cattle.
"For six days my trusted companions feasted on the best of Helios's cattle. But when Zeus, son of Cronus, brought on the seventh day, the wind finally stopped its furious blowing, and we went aboard at once and put out onto the wide sea, raising the mast and hoisting the white sails.
"But when we had left that island behind, and no other land was in sight, nothing but sky and sea, then the son of Cronus set a dark cloud over the hollow ship, and the sea grew murky beneath it. She ran on for no great while, for suddenly the West Wind came shrieking down in a great squall, and the blast of wind snapped both the forestays of the mast; the mast fell backward, and all its rigging
spilled into the bilge. At the stern of the ship it struck the helmsman on the head and crushed the bones of his skull all at once, and he dropped from the deck like a diver, and his proud spirit left his bones. Then Zeus thundered and hurled his bolt into the ship; struck by the lightning of Zeus, she reeled all over, and filled with sulfurous smoke, and the men fell from the ship. Like sea-crows they were tossed about the black ship on the waves, and the god took from them their homecoming.
"But I kept pacing the ship's length, until the sea
tore the sides from the keel, and the wave carried her along stripped bare; it snapped the mast off at the keel. But a backstay had been thrown over the mast, made of ox-hide, and with this I lashed the two together, keel and mast, and sitting astride them I was carried along by the deadly winds.
"Then the West Wind ceased its furious blowing, but soon the South Wind came on swiftly, bringing fresh grief to my heart, for it meant I must measure again that deadly stretch back to Charybdis. All night I was swept along, and at sunrise I came to the cliff of Scylla and to dread Charybdis.
She was just then sucking down the salt water of the sea; but I sprang up to the tall fig tree and clung to it like a bat. I could find no place to plant my feet firmly or climb up, for the roots stretched far below and the branches hung high overhead, long and huge, overshadowing Charybdis. I held on grimly, waiting for her to spew back up the mast and keel — and to my longing, they came at last,
late, at the hour when a man rises from the assembly for his supper, having judged the many quarrels of quarreling young men — that was the hour the timbers reappeared from Charybdis. I let go my hands and feet from above and dropped, and fell with a splash beside the long timbers, and sitting astride them I rowed with my hands. But the father of gods and men did not let Scylla catch sight of me again — otherwise I would not have escaped sheer destruction.
"From there I drifted nine days, and on the tenth night the gods brought me to the island of Ogygia, where fair-haired Calypso lives, a dread goddess with a human voice, who took me in and cared for me. But why should I tell this tale again?
For I told it already yesterday in the house, to you and to your noble wife, and it is tiresome to me to repeat plainly what has already been told."

======== Book 13 ========

So he finished, and all of them fell silent, held in a spell throughout the shadowy hall. Then Alcinous spoke in answer:
"Odysseus, now that you have come to my bronze-floored house with its high roof, I do not think you will be driven off course again before you reach home, no matter how much you have already suffered. And to each of you men who drink my aged, glowing wine here in this hall night after night and listen to the singer, I have this to say. The stranger's clothes already lie folded in a polished chest, along with the wrought gold and all the other gifts the Phaeacian counselors brought him. But come, let us each add a great tripod and a cauldron besides. Later we will gather contributions from the people to pay ourselves back, since it is hard for one man alone to give so freely."
So Alcinous spoke, and his words pleased them well. Then each man went home to his bed, and when the early-born, rose-fingered Dawn appeared, they hurried to the ship carrying the fine-wrought bronze. Alcinous himself, that sacred strength of a king, went aboard and stowed it all carefully beneath the benches, so that it would not hamper any of the crew when they bent to their oars in haste. Then the men went up to Alcinous's house and prepared the feast.
There the sacred strength of Alcinous slaughtered a bull in offering to Zeus, dark-clouded son of Cronus, who rules over all. They burned the thigh pieces and feasted gloriously, taking their pleasure, while among them the godlike singer Demodocus, honored by the people, made music. But Odysseus kept turning his head again and again toward the blazing sun, eager for it to set, for he longed with all his heart to be on his way.
As a man longs for his supper when all day long his two wine-dark oxen have dragged the jointed plow across the fallow field, and the sinking of the sun is welcome to him so that he may go to his meal, his knees growing weak as he walks, so welcome to Odysseus was the setting of the sun.
At once he spoke to the oar-loving Phaeacians, and to Alcinous most of all he directed his words:
"Lord Alcinous, most honored of all your people, pour the libation and send me on my way in peace, and may you yourselves fare well. Everything my heart desired has now been done: safe passage, and the loving gifts which I pray the gods of heaven will bless. And may I find on my return a wife without fault, and my loved ones safe and sound at home. And may you, remaining here, bring joy to your wedded wives and your children; may the gods grant you excellence in every form, and may no evil ever come upon your people."
So he spoke, and they all applauded and urged that the stranger be sent on his way, since he had spoken as was fitting. Then the mighty Alcinous said to his herald:
"Pontonous, mix the wine in the bowl and serve it round to everyone in the hall, so that once we have prayed to father Zeus we may send this stranger off to his own native land."
So he spoke, and Pontonous mixed the honey-sweet wine and poured it out to each man in turn. They poured libations to the blessed gods who hold the wide heaven, each from where he sat. Then noble Odysseus rose, placed a two-handled cup in Arete's hands, and spoke to her in winged words:
"Farewell to you, O queen, for all your days, until old age and death come to you, as they come to all mortal people. As for me, I am going home. May you take your joy in this house, with your children, your people, and King Alcinous."
With these words noble Odysseus stepped over the threshold, and mighty Alcinous sent his herald along with him to lead him to the swift ship and the shore of the sea. Arete sent serving-women with him too: one carried a freshly washed cloak and tunic, another was given the sturdy chest to bring, and a third brought bread and dark wine.
When they came down to the ship and the sea, the noble escorts at once took the gifts and stowed them in the hollow ship, all the food and drink together. For Odysseus they spread out a rug and a linen sheet on the ship's deck near the stern, so that he might sleep undisturbed. He himself climbed aboard and lay down in silence, while the crew took their places at the oarlocks in good order and loosed the cable from the pierced stone. As soon as they leaned into their stroke and churned the sea with their oar-blades, a deep and sweet sleep fell upon his eyelids, unbroken sleep, the sweetest kind, most like death itself.
And the ship, like a team of four stallions on open ground, all leaping forward together under the whip's crack, rearing high and eating up the road at speed, so the ship's stern rose up while behind it the dark wave of the loud-roaring sea surged and broke. She ran on steady and sure, and not even a falcon, swiftest of winged things, could have kept pace with her. So lightly she ran, cutting through the sea's waves, carrying a man whose mind matched the gods' for wisdom -- a man who before this had suffered many pains in his heart, crossing the wars of men and the harsh waves of the sea, but now slept undisturbed, forgetting all he had endured.
When the brightest star rose, the one that comes always heralding the light of early-born Dawn, then the sea-crossing ship drew near to the island. There is a harbor there called after Phorcys, the old man of the sea, in the land of Ithaca. Two jutting headlands, steep on their seaward faces, lean in toward the harbor and shelter it, breaking the great waves that rough winds drive against it from outside; and within, ships with good benches ride without need of moorings once they have come to their anchorage.
At the harbor's head stands a long-leaved olive tree, and near it a lovely, shadowy cave sacred to the nymphs called Naiads. Inside are mixing bowls and jars of stone, and there the bees store their honey. There too stand tall looms of stone, where the nymphs weave cloth of sea-purple, a wonder to behold, and there is water that never fails. The cave has two doors: the one facing north is the way down for men, but the other, facing south, belongs to the gods alone, and no man passes through it -- it is the gods' own path.
Into this harbor they rowed, knowing it well from before. The ship ran up onto the beach as far as half her length, driven by the strength of the rowers' arms. The crew stepped out onto the land and first lifted Odysseus from the hollow ship, rug, bright linen sheet and all, and laid him down on the sand still overpowered by sleep. Then they lifted out the goods which the noble Phaeacians, moved by great-hearted Athena, had given him for his journey home, and set them all together by the trunk of the olive tree, off the road, so that no traveler might come upon them and do them harm before Odysseus woke. Then they themselves turned back toward home.
But the Earthshaker had not forgotten the threats he had made earlier against godlike Odysseus, and now he sought out the will of Zeus, saying:
"Father Zeus, I will no longer be honored among the immortal gods, when mortal men -- Phaeacians, who are indeed sprung from my own blood -- show me no honor at all. I said that Odysseus would reach home only after suffering many hardships, yet I never meant to rob him of his homecoming altogether, once you had promised it and nodded your assent. But now these men have carried him sleeping across the sea in a swift ship and set him down in Ithaca, and given him boundless gifts besides -- bronze and gold in plenty, and woven cloth -- more than Odysseus would ever have won for himself out of Troy, even if he had come home safe with his fair share of the spoil."
Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him:
"What is this you say, wide-ruling shaker of the earth! The gods do not dishonor you at all -- it would be a hard thing indeed to hurl insult at the oldest and greatest of us. As for mortal men, if any one of them, trusting in his own strength, refuses to honor you, you will always have your revenge on him afterward. Do as you wish, whatever pleases your heart."
Then Poseidon the earth-shaker answered him:
"I would act at once, dark-clouded one, as you say -- but I always fear your anger and avoid it. Now then, I mean to wreck that very beautiful Phaeacian ship as it returns from its escort duty, out on the misty sea, so that they will finally stop and give up ferrying every man who comes to them; and I will pile a great mountain around their city to hide it."
Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him:
"Friend, here is what seems best to my mind: when all the people from the city see the ship being driven in and watch, then turn it to stone close to the shore, in the shape of a swift ship, so that everyone may marvel -- and pile a great mountain around their city to hide it."
When Poseidon the earth-shaker heard this, he set out for Scheria, where the Phaeacians live, and there he waited.
The sea-crossing ship came very close now, running swiftly on, and the earth-shaker drew near it and turned it to stone, rooting it fast to the seabed with a downward stroke of his flat hand; then he went away.
The Phaeacians, men famed for their ships, long-oared and skilled, spoke to one another in winged words, and this is what one would say, glancing at his neighbor:
"No -- who has pinned our swift ship fast in the sea as it was racing home? A moment ago the whole of her was in plain sight!"
So one man would say, though none of them understood how it had truly happened. Then Alcinous rose among them and spoke:
"Ah, now the old prophecy my father once spoke has come upon me. He used to say that Poseidon resented us because we ferried every man safely, no matter who he was, and that one day he would wreck a beautiful Phaeacian ship as it returned from escort duty on the misty sea, and pile a great mountain around our city to hide it. So the old man used to say, and now all of it is coming to pass. Come, then, let us all obey what I now propose: from now on, let us stop escorting mortal men, whoever comes to our city, and let us sacrifice twelve chosen bulls to Poseidon, so that he may take pity on us and not pile a towering mountain around our city."
So he spoke, and they were struck with fear and made the bulls ready for sacrifice. So the leaders and rulers of the Phaeacian people prayed to lord Poseidon, standing around his altar.
Meanwhile godlike Odysseus woke on his native soil, but did not know it, for he had been away so long; and besides, Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, had poured a mist around him, so that she might make him unrecognizable and explain everything to him herself -- so that his wife, the townsfolk, and his friends would not know him before he had made the suitors pay for all their crimes.
For this reason everything appeared changed to their lord's eyes: the long paths, the sheltered harbors, the sheer cliffs, and the flourishing trees. He sprang up and stood, gazing at his own native land, then groaned aloud, struck both his thighs with his open hands, and cried out in grief:
"No -- into what men's country have I come this time?"
"Are they violent and wild, with no sense of justice, or do they welcome strangers and fear the gods in their hearts? Where shall I even take all these goods, and where am I wandering myself? I wish I had stayed there among the Phaeacians -- or else I could have gone to some other great king who would have loved me and sent me safely home. As it is, I do not know where to put these things, and I cannot simply leave them here, or someone else may carry them off as plunder. No -- so the leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians were not as wise or just as I thought,"
"since they carried me off to another land altogether, though they promised to bring me to clear-seen Ithaca, and never kept their word. May Zeus, protector of suppliants, who watches over all men and punishes whoever does wrong, make them pay for it! But come, let me count my goods and see that they carried nothing off with them in their hollow ship."
With these words he counted the beautiful tripods and cauldrons, the gold, and the fine woven cloth. None of it was missing at all -- yet still he grieved for his native land, dragging himself along the shore of the loud-roaring sea,
weeping many tears. Then Athena came close to him, in the shape of a young man, a herdsman of sheep, delicate as the sons of kings can be, a well-made cloak folded double about his shoulders, sandals on his gleaming feet, and a spear in his hand. Odysseus was glad to see him and went to meet him, and spoke to him in winged words:
"Friend, since you are the first person I have met in this place, greetings -- and may you come to me with no ill will, but rather save these goods, and save me too. For I pray to you as to a god, and I have come to clasp your knees. Tell me this truly, so that I may know for certain:
what land is this, what people, what men live here? Is it some clear-seen island, or a stretch of shore belonging to some rich mainland, sloping down to the sea?"
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him:
"You are simple indeed, stranger, or else you have come from very far away, if you truly have to ask about this land. It is not nearly so nameless as you think -- very many people know it, both those who live toward the dawn and the sun,
and those who live behind, toward the misty dark. It is a rugged place, not fit for driving horses, yet it is not entirely poor either, though it is not broad. There is grain in abundance here, and wine as well; rain never fails it, and the dew lies thick. It is good country for goats and for cattle; it has every kind of timber, and its watering-places never run dry. That is why, stranger, even as far as Troy the name of Ithaca is known -- and they say Troy lies very far off, in the land of Achaea."
So she spoke, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus felt joy
rejoicing in his native land, as Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, had told him of it. And he spoke to her in winged words -- yet he did not tell her the truth, but held the words back again, always turning over in his breast some shrewd and cunning thought:
"I had heard of Ithaca, even in broad Crete, far across the sea -- and now I have come here myself, with these goods of mine. I left just as much behind for my children when I fled, since I had killed the dear son of Idomeneus,
swift-footed Orsilochus, who in broad Crete
used to outrun every hard-working man alive on foot. I killed him because he wanted to strip me of all the plunder I had won from Troy, plunder for which I had suffered so much heartache, crossing the wars of men and the harsh waves of the sea -- all because I would not serve his father as he wished, back in the land of Troy, but led my own band of companions instead. I struck him down with my bronze-tipped spear as he was coming in from the fields, lying in wait near the road with one companion. It was a very dark night, and covered the sky, so no one saw us -- I took his life without anyone knowing.
But once I had killed him with the sharp bronze, I went straight to a ship and begged the noble Phoenicians there, and gave them a good share of my plunder. I asked them to carry me to Pylos and set me down there, or else to bright Elis, where the Epeians rule. But a gust of wind drove them off course from there, much against their will -- they had no wish to deceive me. From there we were blown about and came to this place at night. We rowed hard into the harbor, and none of us thought of supper, badly as we all wanted one,
but we simply went ashore and lay down together beside the ship. Sleep came over me then, sweet and heavy, for I was worn out, and the crew took my goods out of the hollow ship and set them down right where I myself lay on the sand. Then they boarded ship again and sailed off toward well-settled Sidon, and I was left behind, my heart full of grief."
So he spoke, and the bright-eyed goddess Athena smiled,
and stroked him with her hand; and now she took the form of a woman, tall and beautiful, skilled in fine handiwork, and she spoke to him in winged words:
"Whoever meant to outdo you in cunning would need to be a sly trickster indeed, and would have to work hard at it, even if it were a god who tried you. You shameless, endlessly scheming man, never tired of tricks -- so even here, on your own native soil, you were not ready to give up your lies and the crafty tales that are so dear to your heart from the very roots. But come, let us speak no more of this, since we both know how to be cunning -- you are by far the best of all mortal men in counsel and in speech, and I am famous among all the gods for wisdom and cunning. Yet you did not recognize me,
Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, who always...
"But we simply went ashore and lay down there, all of us, still by the ship. Then sweet sleep came over me, worn out as I was, and the others took my goods out of the hollow ship and set them down right where I myself lay sleeping on the sand. They went aboard and sailed off to Sidon, that city of good homes, and I was left behind with grief in my heart."
So he spoke, and the bright-eyed goddess Athena smiled and stroked him with her hand. She had taken the shape of a woman, beautiful and tall and skilled in fine handiwork, and she spoke to him and said:
"Whoever could outdo you in cunning, whatever tricks he tried, would have to be a sharp one indeed, a real thief — even a god would find it hard. You never quit it, do you, you stubborn, endlessly-scheming man, never tire of deception and the sly stories that are bred in your very bones, not even now, on your own native soil. But come, let's leave this off, both of us — we know the tricks of the trade well enough. You are far and away the best of all mortals at planning and speaking, and I am famous among all the gods for cleverness and cunning. And yet you did not know me — Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus, who always stands beside you in every hardship and watches over you. I even made you dear to all the Phaeacians. And now I have come here again, to help you weave a plan, and to hide the treasure the noble Phaeacians gave you on your way home — by my will and design — and to tell you all the sorrows that fate has decreed you must bear in your own well-built house. You must endure them, and you must not tell a soul, man or woman, that you have come back from your wanderings. No — in silence you must suffer many pains, and put up with the violence of men."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her and said: "It is hard, goddess, for a mortal to recognize you when he meets you, however sharp his wits — you take on every shape you please. But this I know well: you were kind to me before, back when we sons of the Achaeans were fighting at Troy. Yet once we had sacked Priam's steep city and boarded our ships, and a god scattered the Achaeans, after that I never saw you, daughter of Zeus, never noticed you come aboard my ship to keep some pain away from me. No, I wandered on and on, my heart torn inside my chest, until the gods finally freed me from misfortune — not until you encouraged me with your words in the rich land of the Phaeacians and led me yourself into their city. Now, by your father, I beg you — for I do not think I have really come to sunny Ithaca, but am wandering in some other land, and I think you are mocking me, saying this only to lead my mind astray — tell me truly whether I have really reached my own homeland."
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "Your mind always works that way, and that is why I cannot abandon you in your troubles — you are so courteous, so quick-witted, so level-headed. Any other man, wandering home after so long, would have rushed home gladly to see his children and his wife. But you — you do not care to learn or ask anything until you have first tested your own wife, who sits there in your halls as she always has, her nights and days wasting away in grief and tears. As for me, I never doubted it — I always knew in my heart that you would come home, though you would lose all your companions. But I did not want to fight my own father's brother, Poseidon, who nursed anger against you in his heart, furious that you blinded his dear son. Come, then, let me show you the ground of Ithaca, so you may be convinced. Here is the harbor of Phorcys, the old man of the sea, and here at the head of the harbor is the long-leaved olive tree, and near it the lovely, shadowy cave sacred to the nymphs called Naiads. This is the vaulted cave where you used to offer the nymphs many perfect sacrifices. And that — that is Mount Neriton, cloaked in forest."
With these words the goddess scattered the mist, and the land came into view. Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus rejoiced, glad to see his own country, and he kissed the life-giving earth. At once he lifted his hands and prayed to the nymphs: "Naiad nymphs, daughters of Zeus, I never thought I would see you again — but now I greet you with joyful prayers, and I will give you gifts too, as I used to, if the daughter of Zeus who drives the spoil is kind enough to let me live and lets my own dear son grow to manhood."
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena spoke to him again: "Take heart, and do not let these things trouble your mind. For now, let us stow your treasure at once in the depths of this wondrous cave, so that it stays safe for you there. And let us plan together how everything may turn out for the very best."
With these words the goddess went down into the shadowy cave, searching out its hidden corners, while Odysseus carried everything closer — the gold, the unbreakable bronze, and the finely made clothing the Phaeacians had given him. He stowed it all away carefully, and Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, set a stone across the entrance.
Then the two of them sat down at the foot of the sacred olive tree and began to plot death for the arrogant suitors. The bright-eyed goddess Athena spoke first, saying: "Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, think how you will lay your hands on these shameless suitors, who have lorded it over your house for three years now, courting your godlike wife and offering bridal gifts. She, meanwhile, mourns your return always in her heart, and gives every man hope, sending promises to each one separately, but her mind is set on something else entirely."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her: "Ah, then it truly seems I was fated to die a wretched death in my own halls, like Agamemnon son of Atreus, if you had not told me all this in proper order, goddess. Come, then, weave me a plan for how I can pay them back. Stand beside me yourself, breathe fierce courage into me, just as you did when we tore the shining headband from the walls of Troy. If you would stand by me with such spirit, bright-eyed one, I could fight three hundred men together with you, my lady goddess, if you helped me with all your heart."
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "I will indeed be beside you, and you will not escape my notice, whenever we set about this work. And I think that some of these suitors who are eating up your livelihood will spatter that vast floor with their blood and brains. But now let me make you unrecognizable to every mortal eye. I will wither the fine skin on your supple limbs, strip the golden hair from your head, and clothe you in rags that would make anyone sick to look at the man wearing them. I will dim those eyes of yours that were once so beautiful, so that you will look shabby and worthless to all the suitors, and to the wife and son you left behind in your halls. You yourself must go first to the swineherd, who tends your pigs but still bears you goodwill, and loves your son and level-headed Penelope. You will find him sitting among his swine, which graze near the Rock of Corax and the spring of Arethusa, eating the acorns that satisfy them and drinking the dark water that feeds the rich fat on their bodies.
"Stay there and question him about everything, while I go to Sparta, land of beautiful women, to summon Telemachus, your own dear son, Odysseus — he has gone to Menelaus, in wide Lacedaemon, to ask after you, to learn if you are still alive somewhere."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her: "Why did you not tell him yourself, since your mind knows everything? Was it so that he too might wander and suffer hardship on the barren sea, while others eat up his living?"
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena answered him: "Do not let him weigh too heavily on your mind. I myself sent him on his way, so that he might win good fame by going there. He suffers no real hardship — no, he sits at ease in the halls of the son of Atreus, with everything in abundance around him. It is true that young men lie in wait for him with a black ship, eager to kill him before he reaches his own native land — but I do not think that will happen. Sooner the earth will hold more than one of these suitors who are eating up your livelihood."
So speaking, Athena touched him with her wand. She withered the fine skin on his supple limbs, stripped the golden hair from his head, and covered every limb with the skin of an old, old man. She dimmed his eyes, once so beautiful, and dressed him in another set of rags — foul, torn, grimed with filthy smoke. Over this she threw the great hide of a swift deer, worn bare of hair, and gave him a staff and a wretched, tattered bag slung by a twisted cord. And so, once the two of them had settled their plan, they parted — she then went to holy Lacedaemon, to fetch the son of Odysseus.

======== Book 14 ========

He climbed from the harbor by a rough path, through wooded country and over ridges, to where Athena had told him he would find the noble swineherd, the one man among all his household servants who cared most for what his master owned. He found him sitting in the porch of his hut, where a high-walled yard had been built, in a spot with a clear view all around—fine and spacious, a yard the swineherd had raised with his own hands while his master was away, unaided by his mistress or by old Laertes, out of fieldstone topped with a hedge of thorn.
Outside it he had driven a stockade of stakes clear round, close-set and thick, split from the dark heartwood of oak; and within the yard he had built twelve sties close together, beds for the sows, and in each one fifty pigs that slept on the ground were penned, all breeding females; the boars slept outside, far fewer, for the godlike suitors kept whittling down their number by eating them, since the swineherd was forever sending them the best of his well-fed hogs. Three hundred and sixty of the boars remained.
Beside him always lay four dogs, fierce as wild beasts, that the swineherd had raised himself, a leader of men. He was just then fitting sandals to his feet, cutting out a hide of good color, while his other men had scattered off in different directions with the gathered pigs—three of them—and he had sent the fourth to town, driven there under compulsion to give to the overbearing suitors, so that they might slaughter it and satisfy their appetite for meat.
Suddenly the baying dogs caught sight of Odysseus. They rushed at him barking, and Odysseus, in his cunning, sat down and let the staff drop from his hand. There, right at his own steading, he would have suffered a shameful hurt, but the swineherd, running swiftly after them on quick feet, dashed out through the gateway, the hide falling from his hand. He shouted at the dogs and drove them off in every direction with a shower of stones, then spoke to his master:
"Old man, the dogs very nearly tore you apart just now, and you would have brought disgrace down on me. As it is, the gods have given me griefs and sorrows enough of my own. Here I sit mourning and grieving for my godlike master, fattening his hogs for other men to eat, while he—longing, perhaps, for food himself—wanders among foreign men and their cities, if indeed he is still alive and looks on the sun's light. But come, follow me into the hut, old man, so that once you've had your fill of bread and wine you can tell me where you're from and all the hardships you have borne."
With these words the noble swineherd led the way to his hut, brought him in and sat him down, spreading out a thick bed of brushwood, and over it he laid the skin of a shaggy wild goat, broad and deep, his own bedding. Odysseus was glad to be welcomed so, and he spoke and called him by name:
"May Zeus, my friend, and the rest of the immortal gods grant you whatever you most desire, since you have welcomed me so warmly."
And you answered him, swineherd Eumaeus: "Stranger, it isn't right for me to turn away a guest, not even one who came in worse shape than you, for all strangers and beggars come from Zeus, and a gift from men like us, however small, is welcome. That is simply how it is for slaves, always fearful, when young masters hold the power over them. As for the one whose homecoming the gods have blocked—he who would have loved me well and given me property of my own: a house, a plot of land, a wife much sought after, all the things a kind master gives a servant who has worked hard for him and whose labor a god has blessed, just as this work of mine has prospered, the work I still keep at. My master would have rewarded me richly if he had grown old right here. But he is lost—how I wish the whole family of Helen had perished outright, since she loosened the knees of so many men. For he too went to Troy of the fine horses, for Agamemnon's honor, to fight the Trojans."
So speaking, he quickly cinched his tunic with a belt and went out to the sties where the droves of pigs were penned. From there he took two, brought them in, and slaughtered both; he singed them, cut up the meat, and skewered it on spits. When he had roasted it all he brought it, still hot on the spits, and set it before Odysseus, then sprinkled it with white barley meal. He mixed honey-sweet wine in a wooden bowl and sat down facing his guest, urging him on:
"Eat now, stranger, this is what we slaves have to offer—young pork. The fat hogs the suitors eat, men who have no thought in their hearts for what the gods might do, no pity at all. Yet the blessed gods have no love for cruelty; they honor justice and the rightful deeds of men. Even hostile raiders who land on foreign soil, to whom Zeus grants plunder, and who sail home with their ships full—even in their hearts falls a strong dread of what the gods might do. But these men know something, they must have heard some word from a god, about my master's grim death, since they refuse to court his wife properly, refuse to go home to their own estates, but instead sit at their ease and devour his goods without restraint, sparing nothing.
For every night and day that comes from Zeus, they never sacrifice just one victim, or even two, and they draw off his wine recklessly, wasting it without limit. His wealth was beyond telling—no single hero had so much, not on the black mainland, not even here in Ithaca itself; not twenty men together have riches to match his. Let me tell you the count: twelve herds of cattle on the mainland, as many flocks of sheep, as many droves of swine, as many wide-ranging herds of goats, all tended by hired herdsmen and by his own men. And here, at the far end of the island, eleven wide herds of goats graze, watched over by good men.
Every single day each of these men brings in one animal for them, whichever goat seems fattest and best. As for me, I guard these pigs here and watch over them, and I pick out the best of the herd and send it to them." So he spoke, while Odysseus ate the meat eagerly and drank the wine in silence, brooding all the while on trouble for the suitors.
When he had finished eating and his appetite was satisfied, Eumaeus filled the cup he himself drank from and handed it over, brimming with wine. Odysseus took it, glad at heart, and spoke to him, winged words:
"Friend, tell me—who was it that bought you with his own wealth, a man so rich and powerful as you describe him? You say he died for Agamemnon's honor. Tell me his name; perhaps I've heard of such a man somewhere. Zeus and the other immortal gods know whether I might have seen him and could bring you news—I have wandered a great deal."
The swineherd, a leader of men, answered him: "Old man, no wandering stranger who came here with news of that man would ever persuade his wife or his son to believe him. Vagabonds in need of a welcome tell lies freely and have no wish to speak the truth. Any wanderer who reaches the land of Ithaca goes straight to my mistress and spins his deceits, and she receives him kindly, questions him about everything, and the tears fall from her eyelids as she grieves—just as is proper for a woman whose husband has died in some far place.
You too, old man, would quickly patch together a tale, if someone gave you a cloak and tunic to wear. But as for him, I think the swift dogs and birds have long since torn the skin from his bones, and his spirit has left him; or the fish have eaten him in the sea, and his bones lie somewhere on a shore, buried deep in sand. So he has died out there, and grief has been stored up ever after for all who loved him, for me most of all—I will never find so gentle a master again, wherever I go, not even if I returned to the home of my own father and mother, where I was born and where they raised me.
Yet I don't grieve so much for them now, much as I long to see them again with my own eyes in my native land—it's the longing for Odysseus, gone as he is, that eats at me. I feel shame, stranger, even speaking his name when he isn't here, so deeply did he love me and care for me in his heart. I call him 'elder brother,' even though he is far away."
Long-suffering, noble Odysseus answered him in turn: "Friend, since you refuse outright to believe, and say he'll never come, and your heart is always so unwilling to trust it—still, I won't just say it plainly, I'll swear to it: Odysseus is coming home. Let this be my reward for the good news, the moment he arrives back in his own halls—dress me in a cloak and tunic, fine clothing. Until then, however much I need it, I won't accept a thing. For a man who yields to poverty and speaks lies is as hateful to me as the gates of Hades themselves.
Let Zeus be my witness first among the gods, and this table of hospitality, and the hearth of blameless Odysseus which I have now reached: all this will surely come to pass exactly as I say. Within this very turning year Odysseus will come, between the waning of one month and the rising of the next he will return home, and he will take vengeance on whoever dishonors his wife and splendid son here."
And you answered him, swineherd Eumaeus: "Old man, I will never have to pay you that reward for good news, nor will Odysseus ever come home. Drink in peace, and let's talk of other things—don't remind me of this, for my heart aches inside my chest whenever anyone mentions my good master.
But as for the oath, let's let it be. Still, may Odysseus come, just as I wish it, and as Penelope wishes it, and old Laertes, and godlike Telemachus. But now it's for his son that I grieve without end, the boy Odysseus fathered, Telemachus. The gods raised him up like a young sapling, and I used to say he would be second to no man, his father included, in build and in noble looks—but then some god, or some man, disturbed the balance of his mind, and he went off after news of his father, to sacred Pylos, and now the proud suitors lie in wait for him on his way home,
meaning to wipe out the line of godlike Arcesius from Ithaca, root and name together. But let's leave him too—whether he's caught or escapes, and whether the son of Cronus holds a protecting hand over him. Come now, old man, tell me about your own troubles, and tell me truly, so I may know it well: who are you, and where from? Where is your city, who are your parents? What kind of ship brought you here? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaca, and who did they claim to be? For I can't imagine you got here on foot."
Odysseus, the man of many designs, answered him: "Then I will tell you all this quite truthfully. If the two of us had time enough, food and sweet wine here inside your hut, to feast at leisure while others went about their work, I could easily spend a whole year telling of all the sorrows of my heart, everything I have suffered by the gods' will.
I claim to be born of the wide land of Crete, the son of a wealthy man. Many other sons besides me were born and raised in his house, true-born of his wedded wife; but the mother who bore me was a bought concubine, though my father, Castor son of Hylax, honored me equally with his legitimate sons. I claim descent from him—a man who in his day was honored like a god among the Cretans, for his wealth, his riches, and his splendid sons. But then the fates of death came and carried him off to the house of Hades, and his proud sons divided up his estate and cast lots for it, while to me they gave only a very small share, and a house to go with it.
I married a wife from a family of great landholders, because of my own worth—I was no weakling, no runner from battle. All that is gone from me now, yet even so, I think, looking at the stubble you can still tell what the crop was, for trouble has worn me down terribly. Truly, Ares and Athena gave me courage and the power to break through enemy ranks; whenever I picked out the best men for an ambush, sowing trouble for my enemies, my proud heart never gave a thought to death, but I would leap out far ahead of the rest and cut down with my spear any enemy who was slower on his feet than I was.
Such was I in war; but working the land was never to my liking, nor keeping house, the kind of life that raises fine children. Ships with oars were always what I loved, and wars, and polished javelins and arrows—grim things, that make other men shudder just to think of. But to me they were dear, because some god put the love of them in my heart; different men delight in different pursuits. Before the sons of the Achaeans ever set foot on Trojan soil, nine times I led men and swift-faring ships against foreign peoples, and I came away with a great deal of plunder.
From it I would choose out what pleased me most, and much more fell to me by lot afterward; so my house grew quickly, and I became a man feared and respected among the Cretans. But then, when Zeus who thunders from the wide sky planned that hateful campaign which loosened the knees of so many men, they ordered me and famous Idomeneus to lead the ships to Troy, and there was no way to refuse—the voice of the people bore down too hard. There we sons of the Achaeans fought for nine years,
and in the tenth we sacked the city of Priam and set sail for home with our ships, but a god scattered the Achaeans. And for wretched me, Zeus the counselor devised further troubles: I stayed only one month, enjoying my children, my wedded wife, and my possessions, and then my heart drove me to sail for Egypt, once I had fitted out ships well, with godlike companions. I fitted out nine ships, and the men gathered quickly.
For six days then my loyal companions feasted, while I provided many victims for sacrifice to the gods and for a feast for the men themselves. On the seventh we set out from wide Crete and sailed on with a fresh, favorable North Wind behind us, easily, as if drifting downstream; and not one of my ships came to any harm, but we sat there unhurt and untouched by sickness while the wind and the helmsmen kept them on course.
On the fifth day we reached the fair-flowing Egypt, and I moored my curved ships in the river Egypt. There I told my loyal companions to stay right there by the ships and guard them, while I sent out scouts to watch from high ground.
But they, giving in to their own violence, carried away by their own reckless spirit, at once began plundering the beautiful fields of the Egyptians, carrying off the women and little children and killing the men; and the outcry soon reached the city. Hearing the shouting, the people came out as soon as dawn appeared, and the whole plain filled with foot soldiers and horses and the flash of bronze; and Zeus who delights in thunder cast panic among my men, cowardly panic, so that not one of them dared to stand his ground, for danger closed in on every side.
There they killed many of us with sharp bronze, and led the rest away alive to work for them as slaves. As for me, Zeus himself put this thought into my mind—though I wish instead I had died and met my fate right there in Egypt, since more suffering still awaited me—at once I stripped the well-made helmet from my head and the shield from my shoulders, and threw the spear from my hand, and went straight up to the king's chariot and horses, and caught his knees and kissed them. He took pity and spared me, set me beside him on his chariot, and drove me home, while I wept.
Many men indeed rushed at me with ash spears, eager to kill me—for they were furious beyond measure—but he held them back, in fear of the wrath of Zeus, god of guests, who above all others punishes evil deeds.
There I stayed seven years, and gathered a great deal of wealth among the Egyptians, for they all gave freely. But when the eighth year came round in its turn, then a Phoenician arrived, a man skilled in deceit, a swindler who had already done a great deal of harm to men, and he talked me into going with him, using all his cunning, until we reached
Phoenicia, where his home and his possessions lay. There I stayed with him a full year. But when the months and days had run their course and the year had come round again and the seasons turned, he put me aboard a seagoing ship bound for Libya, with a lying scheme in mind, so that I would carry cargo for him, but really so that once there he could sell me and pocket an enormous price. I went along with him aboard the ship, suspecting his purpose, but with no choice.
The ship ran on with a fresh North Wind behind her, over the sea past Crete, while Zeus was already planning their destruction.
But when we had left Crete behind and no other land was in sight, only sky and sea, then the son of Cronus set a dark cloud over the hollow ship, and the sea grew black beneath it. Zeus thundered and hurled a bolt into the ship. She spun and shuddered, struck by the lightning of Zeus, and filled with the reek of sulfur, and every man fell from her deck. Like sea-crows they were swept along beside the black hull on the waves, and the god took their homecoming from them. But Zeus himself, though my heart was full of pain, put into my hands the towering mast of the dark-prowed ship, so that I might still escape ruin, and clinging to it I was carried along by the deadly winds.
For nine days I drifted, and on the tenth black night a great rolling wave brought me to the land of the Thesprotians. There the Thesprotian king, the hero Pheidon, took me in and asked no ransom, for his own dear son had come upon me worn out with cold and weariness and led me to the house, raising me by the hand until I reached his father's halls, and dressed me in a cloak and tunic.
There I learned news of Odysseus, for that man said he had welcomed him and befriended him on his way home to his own land, and he showed me the treasures Odysseus had gathered — bronze and gold and hard-worked iron — enough to feed another man's line down to the tenth generation, so great was the store of that lord's riches lying in his halls. He said Odysseus had gone to Dodona, to hear the will of Zeus from the god's tall, leafy oak, and learn how he should return to the rich land of Ithaca, now that he had been gone so long — openly, or in secret.
And he swore to me himself, pouring a libation in his own house, that a ship was already drawn down to the sea and a crew stood ready to carry him home to his own dear land. But he sent me off ahead of him, for a Thesprotian ship happened to be sailing to Dulichium, rich in wheat. He ordered his men to bring me to King Acastus, but their hearts favored an uglier plan for me, so that I might sink even deeper into misery and pain. When the seagoing ship had sailed far from land, they set to work at once to make that very day a day of slavery for me.
They stripped the cloak and tunic and clothes from my body and threw around me instead this wretched rag and torn tunic — the very ones you see with your own eyes now. By evening we reached the fields of clear-seen Ithaca. There they bound me fast in the well-benched ship with a tightly twisted rope, while they themselves went ashore and hurried through their supper by the seashore. But the gods themselves loosened my bonds with ease, and wrapping the rags around my head I slid down the smooth steering-oar and lowered my chest
into the sea, then struck out swimming with both hands, and quickly I was clear of them and out of the water. There I climbed up where a thicket of flowering woodland grew, and lay crouched down. They went about groaning loudly, hunting for me, but it seemed no use to search further, so they turned back again to the hollow ship. The gods themselves hid me with ease, and led me on and brought me to the farmstead of a man who understood such things — for it is still my fate to live.
Then the swineherd Eumaeus answered him and said:
"Ah, poor stranger, truly you have stirred my heart, telling all this — everything you suffered, all your wanderings. But I do not think it rings true, and you will not persuade me by talking of Odysseus. Why must a man like you lie so needlessly? I myself know well enough about my master's homecoming — that he was hated utterly by every god, since they did not bring him down among the Trojans, nor in the arms of his friends once he had wound up the thread of that war. Then the whole Achaean army would have raised him a tomb, and he would have won great glory for his son too, in time to come.
"But now, without any glory, the storm-spirits have snatched him away. And here I live apart among the pigs; I do not go to town unless careful Penelope sends for me, when some report arrives from somewhere. Then they all sit around her and question the man closely, both those who still grieve for their long-lost lord and those who are glad, eating up his living and paying nothing for it. But it gives me no pleasure to ask and inquire, not since an Aetolian man deceived me with his story — a man who had killed someone and wandered over much country,
"and came to my house, and I welcomed him warmly. He said he had seen Odysseus among the Cretans, with Idomeneus, repairing ships that the storms had broken apart, and he said Odysseus would come back by summer or by harvest-time, bringing great wealth with him, together with godlike companions. So you too, old man, weighed down with sorrow, since some spirit has led you to me, do not try to please me with lies, and do not try to charm me — for it is not on that account that I will honor you or care for you, but because I fear Zeus, god of strangers, and pity you yourself."
Then resourceful Odysseus answered him and said:
"Truly there is some spirit of disbelief lodged in your heart, so unshakeable that not even an oath could win you over or persuade you. But come, let us make a pact between us, with the gods who hold Olympus as witnesses hereafter for us both. If your master comes home to this very house, dress me in a cloak and tunic and send me on to Dulichium, wherever my heart longs to go. But if your master does not come as I say he will, set your men on me to throw me from some great cliff, so that any other beggar will think twice before telling lies."
Then the noble swineherd answered him:
"Stranger, that indeed would win me fine repute and honor among men, now and ever after, if I first brought you into my hut and gave you a guest's welcome, and then turned around and killed you and took the dear life from you! How gladly I would pray to Zeus, son of Cronus, after that! But now it is time for supper — may my men soon be back, so we can make a good meal ready in the hut."
So they talked together, and just then the pigs and their herdsmen came up close by.
They shut the sows into their pens for the night, and a great clamor rose up from the penned herd. Then the noble swineherd called to his companions: "Bring the best of the hogs, so I may kill it for this stranger from a distant land, and we too will have some good of it, we who have long suffered hardship for the sake of these white-tusked pigs, while others eat up our labor and pay nothing for it." So saying, he split kindling with the pitiless bronze, and the others led in a hog, very fat, five years old. They stood it beside the hearth, and the swineherd
did not forget the immortal gods, for his heart was set in the right way. As the first offering he threw bristles from the head of the white-tusked hog into the fire, and prayed to all the gods that wise Odysseus might come home to his own house. Then he raised an oak log he had kept back uncut and struck the hog down, and its life left it. They cut its throat and singed it, then quickly carved it up, and the swineherd laid the raw meat on the fat, taking a strip from every limb, and threw some pieces into the fire, sprinkling them with barley meal, while the rest they sliced small and skewered on spits,
roasted it all with care, drew it off the fire, and heaped it together. The swineherd stood up to carve, for his mind understood fairness well, and he divided the whole into seven portions: one he set aside with a prayer for the nymphs and for Hermes, son of Maia, and the rest he shared out to each man; but to Odysseus he gave the long back-cuts of the white-tusked hog, unbroken, as a mark of honor, and gladdened his master's heart. Resourceful Odysseus spoke to him and said, "May you be as dear to father Zeus, Eumaeus,
"as you are to me, since you honor a man like this — a beggar — with such good things." Then the swineherd Eumaeus answered him: "Eat, strange guest, and enjoy what is here, such as it is. A god gives one thing and withholds another, whatever his heart decides — for he can do all things." So saying, he burned the first portions to the gods who live forever, and pouring a libation of the dark wine he set it in the hands of Odysseus, sacker of cities, who took his seat before his own share. Mesaulius shared out the bread among them, a man the swineherd himself had bought,
on his own, while his master was away, without help from his mistress or old Laertes — he had bought him from the Taphians with goods of his own. They all reached out their hands to the good food set ready before them, and when they had put away their desire for food and drink, Mesaulius cleared away the bread, and they, filled with meat and bread, hurried off to rest. A foul night came on, moonless and dark, and Zeus rained the whole night through, and the great West Wind blew on, always bringing rain with it. Then Odysseus spoke among them, testing the swineherd,
to see whether he would strip off his own cloak and give it to him, or urge one of the other men to do so, since he cared for him so deeply: "Listen now, Eumaeus, and all you other men — I will say something bold, for the wine commands me to, the wine that sets a man's wits spinning and makes even the wisest sing out loud, and laugh softly, and rises up in him to dance, and pulls out a word better left unspoken. But since I have already burst out with it, I will not hold the rest back now. If only I were young again, my strength still firm, as when we lay in ambush and led it under the walls of Troy.
"Odysseus led it, and Menelaus, son of Atreus,
"and with them I was a third commander, for they themselves gave me the post. When we had come close to the steep city and its wall, we crouched in our armor around the town, deep in thick brush, among reeds and marsh, and lay hidden there. A foul night came on, with the North Wind falling and a hard frost; snow came down from above like frost-crystals, bitter cold, and ice crusted thick around our shields. All the other men had cloaks and tunics and slept at ease, their shoulders wrapped in their shields, but I had left my cloak behind with my companions when I set out,
"foolishly, since I never thought I would feel the cold at all, and I had come along with nothing but my shield and a bright war-belt. But when it was the third watch of the night and the stars had turned, I spoke to Odysseus, who lay close beside me, nudging him with my elbow, and he heard me at once. 'Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, I will not be among the living much longer — the cold is beating me down, for I have no cloak. Some spirit tricked me into wearing nothing but my tunic, and now there is no way out of it.' So I spoke, and he turned it over in his mind,
"such a man as he was for counsel and for battle both, and he answered me low, in a quiet voice: 'Be still now, or one of the other Achaeans will hear you.' Then, resting his head on his elbow, he said, 'Listen, friends — a dream sent by a god came to me in my sleep. We have come too far from the ships. Someone should go and tell Agamemnon, son of Atreus, shepherd of the people, whether he might send more men down from the ships.' So he spoke, and at once Thoas, son of Andraemon, sprang up quickly, threw off his crimson cloak,
"and ran for the ships, and I lay wrapped gladly in the cloak he left behind, until Dawn rose on her golden throne. If only I were young now, my strength still firm — someone among these swineherds' huts would give me a cloak, both for friendship's sake and out of respect for a worthy man. But now they hold me cheap, seeing the poor clothes on my body."
Then the swineherd Eumaeus answered him:
"Old man, that was a fine tale you told, and not one word of it missed its mark or fell short of its purpose. So you will lack for neither clothing nor anything else
that a suffering wanderer deserves when he comes as a guest — for tonight, at least. In the morning you will have to shake out and put back on your own rags, for we do not have many cloaks or changes of tunic here — only one to a man. But when the dear son of Odysseus comes, he himself will give you a cloak and tunic and clothes, and send you wherever your heart tells you to go." With that he rose, and laid a bed for him close by the fire, throwing sheepskins and goatskins over it. There Odysseus lay down, and Eumaeus threw a cloak over him,
thick and heavy, one he kept in reserve to put on whenever a fierce storm came up. So Odysseus lay there and slept, and the young men slept nearby him. But it did not suit the swineherd to make his bed there, apart from his pigs, and he went outside to arm himself, and Odysseus was glad to see how much he cared for his master's property even while its owner was away. First he slung a sharp sword about his sturdy shoulders, and put on a thick cloak to break the wind, and took up the hide of a large, well-fed goat,
and picked up a sharp javelin, a defense against dogs and men, and set out to sleep where the white-tusked pigs lay, under a hollow rock, sheltered from the North Wind.

======== Book 15 ========

Pallas Athena went off to spacious Sparta, to remind great-hearted Odysseus's shining son of his homecoming and to hurry him on his way. She found Telemachus and Nestor's noble son asleep in the porch of glorious Menelaus's house — Nestor's son lying deep in soft sleep, but sweet sleep did not hold Telemachus. Through the sacred night, worries for his father kept him awake. Standing close beside him, grey-eyed Athena spoke:
"Telemachus, it isn't right to keep wandering so far from home any longer, leaving your possessions behind and men in your own house so overbearing — watch that they don't carve up all you own and eat their way through it, and you come home from a journey that gained you nothing. Come, urge Menelaus, good at the war cry, to send you off at once, so you may still find your blameless mother at home. Already her father and her brothers are pressing her to marry Eurymachus, for he outdoes all the other suitors with gifts and keeps raising the bride-price. Take care that she doesn't carry something of value out of the house against your will. You know what a woman's heart is like: she wants to enrich the house of whatever man marries her, and gives no more thought to the children of her first husband, nor asks after him, once he's dead. So go home, and put everything into the hands of whichever of your maidservants seems best to you, until the gods show you a noble wife to marry.
"And I have one more thing to tell you — take it to heart. The suitors' finest men are lying in ambush for you, on purpose, in the strait between Ithaca and rugged Samos, meaning to kill you before you reach your own land. But I don't think they will succeed — sooner will the earth close over more than one of those suitors who are eating up your livelihood. Still, keep your good ship well clear of the islands, and sail on through the night as well. Whichever immortal watches over you and guards you will send you a following wind astern. And when you reach the first headland of Ithaca, send the ship and all your comrades on to the city, but go yourself, first of all, to the swineherd, who watches over your pigs and is loyal to you besides. Sleep there for the night, and send him into the city to bring word to wise Penelope that you are safe and have come back from Pylos."
With these words she went off to high Olympus. Then Telemachus roused Nestor's son from his sweet sleep, nudging him with his heel, and said to him: "Wake up, Peisistratus, son of Nestor. Yoke the sure-footed horses to the chariot, so we can get on with the road."
And Peisistratus, son of Nestor, answered him: "Telemachus, however eager we are for the road, we can't drive through the murky night. Dawn will come soon. Wait until the hero, son of Atreus, spear-famed Menelaus, brings gifts and lays them in the chariot, and sends us off with kind words. A guest remembers all his days the man who took him in and showed him friendship."
So he spoke, and soon golden-throned Dawn arrived. Menelaus, good at the war cry, came to them, having risen from his bed beside lovely-haired Helen. When Odysseus's dear son caught sight of him, he hurried into his shining tunic, threw a great cloak over his broad shoulders, and went out the door — the young hero — and stood beside Menelaus and spoke to him:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nurtured by Zeus, leader of men, send me home now to my own dear country. My heart is longing to reach home already."
And Menelaus, good at the war cry, answered him: "Telemachus, I certainly won't keep you here long against your wish to go home. I feel the same scorn for any host who is overly fond of a guest, or overly quick to send him off — moderation in everything is best. It's just as wrong to hurry along a guest who doesn't want to leave as to hold back one who is eager to go. One should be kind to a guest while he stays, and speed him on his way when he wishes to leave. Wait, though, until I bring gifts and set them in your chariot — fine ones — and you can see them with your own eyes, and I'll tell the women to prepare a meal in the hall from what we have in plenty. It brings honor and glory both, and it does a man good, to travel the wide earth on a full stomach. And if you'd like to turn aside through Hellas and the middle of Argos, so that I myself might go along with you, I'll yoke the horses and guide you through the cities of men. No one will send us off empty-handed — everyone will give us something to carry away, a fine bronze tripod, or a cauldron, or a pair of mules, or a golden cup."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Menelaus, son of Atreus, nurtured by Zeus, leader of men, I wish to go home now. I left no one behind to watch over what is mine, and I fear that in searching for my godlike father I may lose myself, or that some fine treasure may be lost from my house."
When Menelaus, good at the war cry, heard this, at once he told his wife and the serving women to prepare a meal in the hall from what they had in plenty. Boëthous's son Eteoneus came to him soon after, having risen from bed nearby, and Menelaus, good at the war cry, told him to light a fire and roast some meat, and he obeyed at once. Menelaus himself went down to his fragrant storeroom, not alone — Helen went with him, and Megapenthes too.
When they reached the place where the treasures were kept, the son of Atreus took up a two-handled cup, and told his son Megapenthes to bring a silver mixing-bowl. Helen went and stood by the chests where her richly embroidered robes lay, the ones she herself had made. She lifted one out and carried it — Helen, most radiant of women — the most beautiful in its patterns and the largest, shining like a star, and it lay at the very bottom of the pile. They walked on through the house until they reached Telemachus, and fair-haired Menelaus spoke to him:
"Telemachus, may Zeus, Hera's thundering husband, bring about the homecoming your heart desires. Of the gifts stored as treasure in my house, I will give you the finest and most valuable one there is. I will give you a well-wrought mixing-bowl — it is pure silver, its rim finished in gold, the work of Hephaestus himself. The hero Phaedimus gave it to me, king of the Sidonians, when his house sheltered me on my way home. This I wish to give to you."
So saying, the hero, son of Atreus, put the two-handled cup into his hand. Then strong Megapenthes brought the shining silver mixing-bowl and set it before him. And fair-cheeked Helen came near, holding the robe in her hands, and spoke, calling him by name:
"I too give you this gift, dear child, a keepsake made by Helen's own hands, for your bride to wear on the happy day of your wedding. Until then, let it lie in your house in your mother's keeping. And may you come home safely to your well-built house and your own dear country."
So saying she placed it in his hands, and he received it gladly. The hero Peisistratus took the gifts and laid them in the chariot's basket, and marveled at them all in his heart. Fair-haired Menelaus led them into the house, and they sat down on couches and chairs. A maidservant brought water for washing in a beautiful golden pitcher, and poured it out over a silver basin, and set a polished table beside them. A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it out, adding many good things from her stores. Boëthous's son carved the meat and served the portions, while the son of glorious Menelaus poured the wine. And they reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them.
When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, Telemachus and Nestor's noble son yoked the horses and mounted the painted chariot, and drove out through the gateway and the echoing colonnade. Fair-haired Menelaus, son of Atreus, went after them, holding in his right hand a cup of honey-sweet wine, of gold, so the two might pour a libation before setting out. He stood in front of the horses and, pouring the offering, spoke to them:
"Farewell, young men, and give my greetings to Nestor, shepherd of his people — for he was as gentle to me as a father, in the days we Achaeans fought at Troy."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "We will surely tell him everything, nurtured by Zeus, just as you say, when we reach him. And how I wish that when I return to Ithaca and find Odysseus at home, I could tell him that I come from you, having met with every kindness, bringing back many fine treasures."
As he spoke these words, a bird flew by on the right — an eagle carrying off a huge white goose it had seized in its talons from the farmyard, a tame bird — and men and women followed after it, crying out. The eagle swooped close in front of the horses on the right, and when they saw it they rejoiced, and the hearts of everyone were warmed. Then Peisistratus, son of Nestor, spoke first among them:
"Consider, Menelaus, nurtured by Zeus, leader of men, whether the god has shown this sign to us or to you yourself."
So he spoke, and Menelaus, dear to Ares, pondered how he might rightly answer once he had thought it through. But long-robed Helen spoke before him, breaking in:
"Hear me — I will prophesy as the immortals put it in my heart, and as I believe it will come to pass. Just as this eagle seized the goose that was raised and fed in the house, coming down from the mountain where it was born and bred, so will Odysseus, after suffering much hardship and wandering far, come home and take his revenge — or perhaps he is home already, and is sowing ruin for all the suitors."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "So may Zeus, Hera's thundering husband, bring it to pass. Then I would pray to you there as to a god."
With that he flicked the whip over the horses, and they bolted eagerly out across the plain toward the city. All day long they shook the yoke that held them both. The sun went down and all the roads grew shadowed, and they came to Pherae, to the house of Diocles, son of Ortilochus, whom the river Alpheus had fathered. There they slept the night, and Diocles set out gifts of hospitality before them.
When early Dawn appeared with her rose-red fingers, they yoked the horses and mounted the painted chariot, and drove out through the gateway and the echoing colonnade. Telemachus whipped the horses on, and they flew eagerly. Soon they reached the steep citadel of Pylos, and Telemachus spoke to Nestor's son:
"Son of Nestor, could you promise me one thing and see it through? We claim to be friends going back through our fathers' friendship, and besides, we are of an age — and this journey together will only bind us closer still. Nurtured by Zeus, don't drive me past my ship, but leave me there, so the old man doesn't hold me back against my will in his house out of eagerness to entertain me. I need to get home quickly."
So he spoke, and Nestor's son turned it over in his mind, wondering how he might rightly keep his promise. As he thought it through, this seemed to him the better course: he turned the horses toward the swift ship and the shore of the sea, and took the fine gifts out of the chariot — the clothing and the gold that Menelaus had given — and stowed them in the ship's stern, and urged Telemachus on with winged words:
"Go aboard quickly now, and tell all your comrades to do the same, before I get home and report to the old man. I know this well in my heart and soul — his temper is fierce, and he will not let you go. He'll come himself to fetch you, and I don't think he'll go back empty-handed — he'll be thoroughly angry otherwise."
With these words he drove his fine-maned horses back toward the city of the Pylians, and soon reached his house. And Telemachus urged his comrades on, giving the order:
"Stow the gear, comrades, aboard the black ship, and let us all go aboard ourselves, so we can get on with the voyage."
So he spoke, and they listened well and obeyed, and quickly went aboard and took their places at the oarlocks. While he was busy with these tasks and praying, offering sacrifice to Athena beside the ship's stern, a man came up to him from far off, a fugitive from Argos who had killed a man — a seer, descended from the line of Melampus, who had once lived in Pylos, mother of flocks, in a rich and splendid house, far above the other Pylians. But then he had come to another people, fleeing his own country and great-hearted Neleus, most lordly of living men, who for a full year had held his great wealth by force, while he himself lay bound in cruel chains in the halls of Phylacus, suffering terrible pain because of Neleus's daughter and the crushing madness that the dread goddess of vengeance, the Fury, had put into his heart.
But he escaped death, and drove the loud-bellowing cattle from Phylace to Pylos, and paid back the godlike Neleus for his shameful act, and brought a wife home for his brother. He himself went off to another land, to Argos, land of fine horses — for it was fated that he should settle there and rule over many Argives. There he married a wife and built a high-roofed house, and fathered Antiphates and Mantius, two mighty sons. Antiphates fathered great-hearted Oicles, and Oicles fathered Amphiaraus, rouser of men, whom Zeus who bears the aegis and Apollo both loved with all their heart — yet he did not reach the threshold of old age, but perished at Thebes, brought down by a woman's love of gifts. His sons were Alcmaon and Amphilochus.
Mantius, in turn, fathered Polypheides and Clitus. Golden-throned Dawn carried off Clitus for his beauty, so that he might live among the immortals. But Apollo made great-hearted Polypheides the finest seer among mortals, after Amphiaraus died — he moved away to Hyperesia, angered at his father, and there he lived and prophesied to all mankind.
His son came up now — Theoclymenus was his name — and he stood close by Telemachus, and found him pouring a libation and praying beside his swift black ship, and spoke to him with winged words:
"Friend, since I find you sacrificing here in this place, I beg you, by the offering and by the god you honor, and then by your own life and by the lives of the comrades who follow you — tell me truly what I ask, and hide nothing: who are you, and where from? Where is your city, and who are your parents?"
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Then I will tell you plainly, stranger. I am from Ithaca by birth, and my father is Odysseus — if he ever truly was, for now he has perished by some grim fate. That is why I have taken my comrades and my black ship and come to learn news of my father, gone so long."
And godlike Theoclymenus said to him in turn: "So it is with me too — I have left my own country, having killed a man of my own tribe. He has many brothers and kinsmen through Argos, land of fine horses, and they hold great power among the Achaeans. To escape death and black fate at their hands I am fleeing, since it is my lot now to wander among men. But take me aboard your ship, since I have fled to you and beg your protection, or they will kill me — for I am sure they are in pursuit."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Since you wish it, I certainly won't turn you away from my trim ship. Come along, then — you'll be treated well among us, with whatever we have to offer."
So saying, he took the man's bronze spear from him and laid it down along the deck of the curved ship, and he himself climbed aboard the seafaring vessel. He sat down in the stern, and seated Theoclymenus beside him, and the crew loosed the stern cables. Telemachus urged his comrades on and told them to lay hold of the rigging, and they obeyed at once. They raised the fir mast and set it upright in its socket in the hollow hold, made it fast with the forestays, and hauled up the white sail with braided ox-hide ropes.
Grey-eyed Athena sent them a following wind, rushing strong through the sky, so that the ship might race as fast as possible across the salt water of the sea. They sailed past Crounoi and fair-flowing Chalcis. The sun went down and all the roads grew shadowed. Driven on by the wind of Zeus, the ship reached Pheae, and then passed by bright Elis, where the Epeians hold sway. From there Telemachus steered on toward the swift islands, wondering whether he would escape death or be caught.
Meanwhile in the hut Odysseus and the noble swineherd were taking their supper, and the other men supped beside them. When they had put away their desire for food and drink, Odysseus spoke among them, testing the swineherd, to see whether he would still treat him kindly and urge him to stay there at the steading, or would send him off to the city.
"Listen now, Eumaeus, and all you other companions. At dawn I mean to go into the town to beg, so that I won't wear you and your men down any longer. Only give me good advice, and send a guide with me, someone reliable, to lead me there. In the city itself I'll have to wander on my own, in hope that someone will hand me a cup and a crust of bread. And if I could reach the house of godlike Odysseus, I might bring word to wise Penelope, and I could even mix with those overbearing suitors — perhaps they'll give me a meal, since they have food in abundance. I'd be quick to do whatever work they wanted among them. For I'll tell you plainly, and you mark my words and listen: thanks to the guide Hermes, who gives grace and glory to the labors of all men, no other mortal could rival me in service — building up a fire well, splitting dry kindling, carving meat, roasting it, pouring wine — the sort of tasks lesser men do for their betters."
Then, greatly troubled, you answered him, swineherd Eumaeus: "Ah, stranger, why has this notion come into your mind? You must be truly longing to die there among them, if you really mean to plunge into the crowd of suitors, whose violence and outrage reach the iron sky. The men who serve them are nothing like you — no, they're young, finely dressed in cloaks and tunics, their hair always sleek, their faces handsome, and it's such men who wait on them, while the polished tables groan under bread and meat and wine. Stay here instead — no one begrudges your presence, not I, nor any of my fellow herdsmen here. And when the beloved son of Odysseus comes home, he'll dress you himself in a cloak and tunic, and send you wherever your heart desires."
Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Eumaeus, may you be as dear to father Zeus as you are to me, for putting an end to my wandering and my bitter misery. There is nothing worse for men than a roaming life — yet for the sake of their cursed bellies men endure grievous hardships, whenever wandering and pain and suffering come upon them. But now, since you press me to stay and wait for him, tell me — of the mother of godlike Odysseus, and of his father, whom he left behind on the threshold of old age when he sailed — are they still alive, still looking on the light of the sun, or are they dead already, in the house of Hades?"
Then the swineherd, leader of men, answered him: "Then I will tell you the plain truth, stranger. Laertes still lives, but he prays continually to Zeus that the life may waste from his limbs there in his own halls, for he grieves terribly for his son who is gone, and for his wedded wife, wise in her ways, whose death grieved him most of all and brought him early into old age. She died of sorrow for her glorious son — a wretched death — may no one who lives here and loves me and treats me kindly die such a death as hers.
While she still lived, grieving as she was, it was always dear to me to ask after things and question her, since she had raised me herself, together with Ctimene of the trailing robe, her own daughter, the youngest of her children — I was raised alongside her, and my mistress honored me only a little less. But when we both reached lovely youth, they sent Ctimene off to Same and took a rich bride-price for her, and me she dressed in a fine cloak and tunic, gave me sandals for my feet, and sent me out to the fields — and she loved me all the more in her heart for it.
Now I have lost all that. Still, the blessed gods make the work I tend to prosper — from it I have eaten and drunk and given to those who deserve honor. But from my mistress there is no kind word or deed to be had any longer, not since ruin fell upon the house — insolent men — and yet servants long badly to speak with their mistress face to face and learn all her news, and to eat and drink, and then to carry something back to the fields as well, the sort of thing that always warms a servant's heart."
Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Ah, Eumaeus, swineherd, how far you must have wandered as a child from your homeland and your parents! But come, tell me this and recount it truly — was it a broad-streeted city of men that was sacked, where your father and honored mother lived, or were you alone, tending sheep or cattle, when hostile men seized you, carried you off in their ships, and sold you here at this man's house, and he paid a fair price for you?"
Then the swineherd, leader of men, answered him again: "Stranger, since you ask and question me about these things, listen now in silence and enjoy yourself, and drink your wine as you sit. These nights are endless — there's time enough for sleep, and time enough to enjoy listening. You have no need to lie down before it's time — too much sleep is a burden in itself. As for the rest of you, let anyone whose heart urges him go out and sleep, and at the first light of dawn let him eat and follow the king's swine out. But the two of us, drinking and feasting here in the hut, will take some comfort in each other's bitter sorrows, remembering them — for a man finds pleasure even in pain, once he has suffered greatly and wandered far and wide. So I'll tell you what you ask and want to know.
There is an island called Syrie, if you've ever heard of it, above Ortygia, where the sun makes its turning. It isn't very crowded with people, but it's a good land — rich in pasture, rich in flocks, rich in wine, rich in wheat. Famine never comes upon its people, nor does any other hateful sickness fall on its wretched folk — but when the tribes of men grow old throughout the city, Apollo of the silver bow comes with Artemis, and moving among them with their gentle arrows, kills them without pain.
There are two cities on it, and everything is divided evenly between them, and over both my father ruled as king — Ctesius, son of Ormenus, a man like the immortals. Now there came to us Phoenicians, famous seafarers, cunning traders, bringing countless trinkets in their black ship. In my father's house there was a Phoenician woman, tall and beautiful, skilled in fine handiwork, and the crafty Phoenicians set about seducing her. First one of them lay with her by the hollow ship while she was washing clothes, in bed and in love — the very thing that leads astray the wits of even a capable woman, whatever her virtue.
He asked her then who she was and where she came from, and at once she told him of her father's high-roofed house: 'I claim to be from Sidon, rich in bronze, and I am the daughter of wealthy Arybas. But Taphian pirates snatched me away as I was coming in from the fields, and brought me here and sold me at this man's house, and he paid a fair price for me.'
Then the man who had lain with her in secret answered her: 'Then would you come back home again now with us, to see the high-roofed house of your father and mother, and them themselves? For they're still living, and still called wealthy.'
Then the woman answered him and spoke again: 'That could happen too, if you sailors would be willing to swear an oath to bring me home unharmed.'
So she spoke, and they all swore as she demanded. And when they had sworn and completed the oath, the woman spoke to them once more: 'Be silent now — let none of your companions speak to me, whether he meets me in the street or by the spring, for fear someone go to the old man in the house and tell him, and he suspect and bind me in painful chains, and plot your destruction as well. Keep the matter locked in your minds, and hurry the purchase of your cargo. But when your ship is full of goods, let word come to me quickly at the house, for I will bring gold too, whatever comes to hand, and I would gladly give you a further passage-fare besides. For I am nursing in the house the son of a good man — such a clever little thing, always running out the door with me — I could bring him aboard the ship, and he'd fetch you a vast price wherever you sold him among men of a foreign tongue.'
With these words she went back to the fine house, and they stayed on with us a full year, trading for great store of goods aboard their hollow ship. But when the hollow ship was loaded and ready for the voyage home, they sent a messenger to tell the woman. A cunning man came to my father's house bearing a golden necklace strung with amber beads.
The maidservants in the hall and my honored mother handled it and admired it with their eyes, offering him a price for it, but he only nodded to the woman in silence. Having given his sign, he went back to the hollow ship, and she took me by the hand and led me out of the house. In the front hall she found cups and tables left by the men who had been feasting there, guests of my father's — they had gone off to the assembly and the public gathering — and she quickly hid three goblets in the fold of her robe and carried them out. And I, in my innocence, followed along.
The sun set, and all the streets grew dark, and we came quickly down to the famous harbor, where the swift Phoenician ship lay. Then they put us aboard and set sail over the watery ways, and Zeus sent a fair wind behind us. For six days alike we sailed, nights and days together, but when Zeus, son of Cronos, brought on the seventh day, Artemis the archer struck the woman down, and she fell with a thud into the bilge like a diving seabird.
They threw her overboard as prey for seals and fish, and I was left behind, grieving in my heart. The wind and the current carried them on and brought them to Ithaca, where Laertes bought me with his own wealth. That is how I first saw this land with my own eyes."
Then Zeus-born Odysseus answered him again: "Eumaeus, truly you have stirred my heart deeply, telling me all these griefs you've suffered in your soul. And yet Zeus has set some good beside your ill, since after all your toil you came to the house of a kind man, who gives you food and drink freely, and you live a good life. But as for me, I have come here after wandering through many cities of men."
So they talked together of such things, and lay down to sleep, but not for long — only a little while, for soon fair-throned Dawn came. On shore, Telemachus's men were loosing the sails and quickly lowering the mast, and rowing the ship in to her mooring. They threw out the anchor stones and made the stern cables fast, and they themselves stepped out onto the breaking surf, made ready their meal, and mixed the sparkling wine.
When they had put away their desire for food and drink, wise Telemachus began to speak among them: "Now you row the black ship on to the city, while I go up to the fields and the herdsmen. In the evening, once I've looked over my lands, I'll come down into the town. And at dawn I'll set before you a traveler's fare, a fine feast of meat and sweet wine."
Then godlike Theoclymenus answered him: "And where shall I go, dear child? To whose house shall I come, of the men who rule over rocky Ithaca? Or shall I go straight to your mother's house and yours?"
Then wise Telemachus answered him: "At another time I would tell you to come to our own house — there'd be no lack of hospitality — but for you it would be worse, since I myself will be away, and my mother won't be there to see you. She doesn't often show herself before the suitors in the house — she keeps apart from them, weaving at her loom in the upper chamber. But I'll name you another man you might go to instead — Eurymachus, glorious son of wise Polybus, whom the men of Ithaca now look upon as though he were a god. He is by far the best man among them, and eager above all to marry my mother and take Odysseus's honor for himself. Yet Zeus who dwells in heaven, on Olympus, knows whether he'll bring some evil day upon them before that wedding comes."
As he was speaking a bird flew by on his right hand, a hawk, swift messenger of Apollo, with a dove clutched in its talons, and it plucked the feathers and let them fall to the ground midway between the ship and Telemachus himself. Then Theoclymenus called him apart from his companions, took his hand, and spoke, calling him by name:
"Telemachus, it was not without a god's will that this bird flew on your right — I knew it for an omen the moment I saw it face on. There is no house in the land of Ithaca more royal than yours — you and yours will always hold the power."
Then wise Telemachus answered him: "If only, stranger, this word might be fulfilled! Then you would soon know my friendship and many gifts from me, so that anyone who met you would call you blessed." And he turned and spoke to Peiraeus, his trusted companion: "Peiraeus, son of Clytius, you are the one of my companions who came with me to Pylos who obeys me most readily in everything else.
Now too, take this stranger, bring him to your house, and treat him kindly and with honor until I come."
Then spear-famed Peiraeus answered him: "Telemachus, even if you should stay away here a long time, I will look after him, and he'll lack nothing in hospitality."
With these words he went aboard the ship, and told his companions to embark as well and loose the stern cables. So they quickly went aboard and took their places at the oars. Telemachus bound the fine sandals on his feet, and took up his sturdy spear, tipped with sharp bronze, from the deck of the ship, while his men loosed the stern cables.
They pushed off and sailed toward the city, as Telemachus, dear son of godlike Odysseus, had ordered. His feet carried him swiftly forward until he reached the farmstead, where his countless swine were kept, and where the good swineherd slept, ever loyal in heart to his masters.

======== Book 16 ========

Meanwhile in the hut Odysseus and the noble swineherd were getting breakfast ready at dawn, and had lit a fire, and had sent the herdsmen out with the gathered pigs. The dogs that bay at strangers came fawning around Telemachus and did not bark as he approached. Godlike Odysseus noticed the dogs wagging their tails, and heard the tread of feet, and at once spoke winged words to Eumaeus: "Eumaeus, surely some friend of yours is coming, or someone else you know, since the dogs are not barking but fawning, and I hear footsteps."
The words were barely out of his mouth when his own dear son stood in the doorway. The swineherd sprang up in astonishment, and the bowls in which he had been mixing the bright wine dropped from his hands. He went to meet his master, kissed his head and both his fine eyes and both his hands, and a warm tear fell from him. As a father, loving him with all his heart, welcomes home a son who returns in the tenth year from a distant land, his only child, dearly cherished, for whom he has suffered many pains, so now the noble swineherd threw his arms around godlike Telemachus and covered him with kisses, as though he had escaped death itself, and weeping he spoke winged words: "You have come, Telemachus, sweet light of my eyes. I never thought I would see you again, once you had sailed off in your ship to Pylos. But come now, step inside, dear child, so that my heart may delight in looking at you, newly home, here under my roof. You so rarely come out to the farm and the herdsmen — you have been staying in town. It seems that is what pleases your heart, to keep watching that ruinous crowd of suitors."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "So it shall be, old friend. But it is for your sake that I have come here now, so that I might see you with my own eyes and hear your words — whether my mother still waits at home, or whether some other man has already married her, and Odysseus's own bed lies covered with foul cobwebs, empty, for want of anyone to lie in it."
The swineherd, the leader of men, answered him: "Indeed, she waits there still, with an enduring heart, in your own halls; and always in misery her nights and days waste away in tears." So saying he took the bronze spear from him, and Telemachus went in and crossed the stone threshold. His father Odysseus rose to give him his seat, but Telemachus, from the other side, held him back and said: "Sit down, stranger — we shall find another seat somewhere else in our hut. Here is a man who will provide one."
So he spoke, and Odysseus went back and sat down again, while the swineherd spread green brushwood beneath him and a fleece on top, and there the beloved son of Odysseus took his seat. Then the swineherd, their host, set before them platters of roasted meat left over from what they had eaten the day before, and quickly heaped bread into baskets, and mixed honey-sweet wine in an ivy-wood bowl, and himself sat down across from godlike Odysseus. They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them.
When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, Telemachus spoke to the noble swineherd: "Old friend, where does this stranger come from? How did sailors bring him to Ithaca? Who did they claim to be? I do not imagine he came here on foot."
Eumaeus the swineherd answered him: "Well then, my child, I will tell you the whole truth. He claims his birth is from wide Crete, and says he has wandered through many cities of men, driven by hardship — for so some god spun out his fate. Just now he ran off from a ship of Thesprotian men and came to my farm, and I am handing him over to you. Do with him as you wish; he says he comes as your suppliant."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Eumaeus, truly that is a painful thing you have said. How am I to receive this stranger in my house? I myself am young, and I do not yet trust my hands to fend off a man, should someone provoke me first. And my mother's heart is torn two ways in her mind — whether to stay here with me and keep the household, honoring her husband's bed and the voice of the people, or to go now with whichever of the Achaeans is the best man wooing her in the hall and offers the most gifts. But as for this stranger, since he has come to your house, I will clothe him in a cloak and tunic, fine garments, and give him a two-edged sword and sandals for his feet, and I will send him wherever his heart and spirit tell him to go. Or, if you wish, keep him here at the farm and look after him; I will send clothes here and all the food he needs to eat, so that he does not burden you and your men. But I will not let him go among the suitors, for they are far too reckless and insolent — I fear they would mock him, and that would grieve me terribly. It is hard for one man, even a strong one, to accomplish anything against so many, since they are far more powerful."
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Friend, since it is surely proper for me too to answer, my heart is truly torn apart to hear what you say the suitors are recklessly plotting in your halls, against your will, though you are such a man as you are. Tell me — do you submit to them willingly, or do the people of the land hate you, following some voice of a god? Or do you blame your brothers, on whose support a man relies even when a great quarrel arises? If only I were as young as my spirit is now, and were the son of blameless Odysseus, or Odysseus himself come home! Let some stranger cut off my head this instant if I did not become a disaster to every one of them, walking into the hall of Odysseus, son of Laertes. And even if they overpowered me by numbers, alone as I would be, I would rather die, cut down in my own halls, than go on watching these shameful deeds forever — guests being manhandled, serving women dragged about the fine house disgracefully, wine drawn off and drained, and men eating bread endlessly, wastefully, for no purpose, in a task that will never be finished."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Well then, stranger, I will tell you very plainly. It is not that the whole people are hostile to me and angry, nor do I blame my brothers, on whose support a man relies even when a great quarrel arises. For the son of Cronus has made our family a line of only sons: Arceisius fathered only Laertes as his son, and Laertes in turn fathered only Odysseus, and Odysseus fathered only me in his halls, and got no joy of me, for he left before he could. So now there are countless enemies in my house. For all the chief men who hold power over the islands — Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus — and all who lord it over rocky Ithaca itself, all of them court my mother and waste away our household. She neither refuses the hateful marriage nor is able to bring it to an end, while they consume and destroy my household by their eating — soon they will tear me apart as well. But indeed, all this lies on the knees of the gods. Old friend, go now, quickly, and tell wise Penelope that I am safe and have come back from Pylos. I myself will stay here, and you go back to her alone with the message; let none of the other Achaeans learn of it, for many of them are plotting harm against me."
Eumaeus the swineherd answered him: "I understand, I see your meaning; you are telling this to one who already grasps it. But come, tell me this too, and speak it plainly — shall I go the same way to bring the news to unlucky Laertes as well? Until now, though grieving terribly for Odysseus, he used to oversee the work of the farm and would eat and drink among the household slaves whenever his spirit within him bade him. But now, ever since you sailed off to Pylos in your ship, they say he no longer eats or drinks as before, nor looks after the farm work, but sits grieving in groans and lament, and the flesh wastes away from his bones."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "That is grievous, but even so we must leave him be, however much it pains us. If mortal men could simply choose everything for themselves, we would first choose the day of my father's homecoming. No, once you have delivered your message, come back, and do not go wandering the fields after Laertes. But tell my mother to send her housekeeper to him secretly, as quickly as possible, for she could bring the old man the news."
So he spoke, and roused the swineherd, who took his sandals in his hands, bound them beneath his feet, and set off for the town. But Athena did not fail to notice Eumaeus leaving the farmstead. She drew near in the form of a woman, tall and beautiful and skilled in fine handiwork, and stood at the entrance to the hut, visible to Odysseus. Telemachus did not see her facing him, nor take any notice — for the gods do not appear openly to everyone — but Odysseus saw her, and so did the dogs, who did not bark but slunk whimpering to the far side of the yard in fear. She nodded with her brows, and godlike Odysseus understood, and went out of the hut, past the great wall of the yard, and stood before her. Athena spoke to him: "Son of Laertes, sprung from the gods, resourceful Odysseus, now is the time to speak your word to your son and hide it no longer, so that the two of you, having planned death and doom for the suitors, may go to the famous city. I myself will not be long absent from your side, for I am eager for the fight."
So speaking, Athena touched him with her golden wand. First she placed a well-washed cloak and tunic about his chest, and made him taller and younger to look at. His skin darkened again, his cheeks filled out, and the beard grew dark blue around his chin. Having done this she went away again, and Odysseus went back into the hut. His son was amazed at the sight, and in fear turned his eyes aside, thinking he must be a god, and spoke to him, saying: "Stranger, you look different to me now than you did a moment ago — your clothes are different, and your skin is no longer the same. Surely you are one of the gods who hold the wide heaven. Be gracious to us, so that we may give you pleasing offerings and gifts of well-wrought gold. Only spare us."
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "I am no god — why do you liken me to the immortals? I am your father, for whose sake you have groaned and suffered so many pains, enduring the violence of men." So saying he kissed his son, and let fall a tear down his cheeks onto the ground, though before he had held it back steadily, always.
But Telemachus, since he could not yet believe this was his father, answered him again: "You are not Odysseus, my father — some god is deceiving me, so that I may grieve and groan even more. For no mortal man could contrive such things by his own wit, unless a god himself came and easily, at will, made him young or old. Just now you were an old man in shabby clothes, and now you look like the gods who hold the wide heaven."
Odysseus of many wiles answered him: "Telemachus, it is not fitting for you to marvel so greatly, or to be so amazed, that your own father is here before you. No other Odysseus will ever come to you besides this one — I am he, just as you see me, who after suffering much and wandering far have come home in the twentieth year to my native land. This is the work of Athena, driver of the spoil, who makes me appear however she wishes, for she has the power — now like a beggar, now again like a young man wearing fine clothes about his body. It is an easy thing for the gods who hold the wide heaven, both to glorify a mortal man and to bring him low."
So saying he sat down, and Telemachus threw his arms around his noble father and wept, shedding tears, and in both of them rose a longing for lament. They cried out shrill and close together, more piercingly than birds — ospreys or vultures with hooked claws, whose young the farmers have taken before they could fly. So pitifully did the tears fall beneath their brows. And now the light of the sun would have gone down on their weeping, had not Telemachus suddenly said to his father: "In what kind of ship, dear father, did the sailors bring you here to Ithaca now? Who did they claim to be? For I do not imagine you came here on foot."
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Well then, my child, I will tell you the truth. The Phaeacians brought me, men famous for their ships, who also send on their way any other man who comes to them. They carried me sleeping in a swift ship over the sea and set me down in Ithaca, and gave me splendid gifts — bronze and gold in plenty, and woven cloth. All of that now lies hidden in a cave, by the will of the gods. And now I have come here at Athena's prompting, so that we might plan together the killing of our enemies. But come, count out the suitors for me and tell me their number, so that I may know how many and what kind of men they are, and turning it over in my own good judgment I may decide whether the two of us can stand against them alone, without help, or whether we must seek out others."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Father, I have indeed always heard great fame of you, that you are a spearman with your hands and a shrewd counselor; but what you have just said is far too much — I am struck with awe. It could hardly be that two men should fight against so many strong ones. The suitors are not just ten, nor even two tens, but far more — you shall soon learn their number here. From Dulichium there are fifty-two young men, chosen men, and six servants attend them; from Same there are twenty-four men; from Zacynthus there are twenty young men of the Achaeans; and from Ithaca itself there are twelve, all of them the best men, and with them is Medon the herald and the godlike singer, and two servants skilled in carving meat. If we face all of these gathered inside, I fear you will pay a bitter and terrible price for your vengeance when you come. So think, if you can devise some helper for us — consider who might defend the two of us with a willing heart."
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Well then, I will tell you — listen and take note. Consider whether Athena, together with father Zeus, will be enough for the two of us, or whether I should think of some other helper."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Those two you name are fine defenders indeed, though they sit high among the clouds; and they hold sway over other men and over the immortal gods as well."
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Those two will not, in fact, stay far from the furious clash for long, once the strength of Ares is put to the test between the suitors and us in my halls. But you go home now at dawn's first light, and mingle with the arrogant suitors. Later the swineherd will lead me to the town, looking like a wretched beggar, an old man. And if they treat me with contempt in the house, let your dear heart endure it, however badly I am used, even if they drag me by the feet through the house and out the door, or hurl things at me — watch and bear it. Only urge them, with gentle words, to give up their folly; they will not listen to you at all, for their fated day is already close upon them. And I will tell you something else — store it well in your mind. When resourceful Athena puts it in my thoughts, I will nod to you with my head, and you, noticing it, must take all the weapons of war that lie about the hall and carry them up to the storeroom of the high chamber, every one of them; and put the suitors off with soft words, whenever they miss them and ask you about it: 'I put them away out of the smoke, since they no longer look as they did when Odysseus left them behind on his way to Troy, but are tarnished, wherever the breath of the fire has reached them. Besides, the son of Cronus put this greater thought in my mind too — that you might quarrel with wine among yourselves and wound one another and disgrace the feast and your courtship; for iron itself draws a man on.' But for the two of us alone, leave out two swords and two spears, and two oxhide shields to take in hand, so that we may rush upon them and seize them; and then Pallas Athena and wise Zeus will bewitch the rest. And I will tell you one more thing — store it well in your mind: if you are truly my son and of our blood, let no one hear that Odysseus is here inside,
"Let no one know it — not Laertes, not the swineherd, not any servant, not even Penelope herself. Only you and I will learn where the women's loyalties lie, and we might also test some of the men among the slaves, to see which ones still honor and fear us in their hearts, and which ones care nothing for us and dishonor you, great as you are."
Then his shining son answered him: "Father, I think you will come to know my spirit well enough in time — no thoughtlessness rules me. But I do not see that this plan will do either of us any good. Think again. You would waste a long time testing each man one by one, going farm to farm, while inside the hall the suitors sit at their ease, devouring our goods without restraint, sparing nothing. As for the women, yes, I think you should find out which ones dishonor you and which are blameless. But I would not have us go from farmstead to farmstead testing the men — leave that for later, if you truly have a sign from Zeus who bears the aegis."
So they talked together of such things.
Meanwhile the well-built ship was putting in at Ithaca, the ship that carried Telemachus and all his companions home from Pylos. When they had come inside the deep harbor, they hauled the black ship up onto the shore, and the proud attendants carried off the gear, and at once brought the fine gifts to Clytius's house. Then they sent a herald on to the house of Odysseus, to bring word to wise Penelope that Telemachus was out in the country, but had ordered the ship to sail on to the city, so that the noble queen would not be frightened and shed soft tears.
So the herald and the good swineherd met, both on the same errand, both bringing the same news to the lady. When they reached the house of the godlike king, the herald spoke out among the serving women: "Already, my queen, your dear son has come home." But the swineherd went close to Penelope and told her privately everything her son had bidden him say. Then, having delivered the whole message, he went off to rejoin his pigs, leaving the courtyard and the hall behind him.
The suitors were dismayed, and their spirits sank. They came out of the hall past the great courtyard wall and sat down there in front of the gates. Eurymachus, son of Polybus, spoke first among them: "Friends, this is a monstrous thing that has been brought off — Telemachus's journey. We said it would never be finished. Come, let us drag down the best black ship we have and gather rowers from the sea folk, men who can carry word to our friends as fast as possible, to come home at once."
He had not finished speaking when Amphinomus, turning where he sat, caught sight of a ship inside the deep harbor, its crew furling the sails and holding the oars in their hands. Laughing with pleasure, he called out to his companions: "No need to send any message now — here they are. Either some god told them, or they themselves saw the ship going by and could not catch her." At that they rose and went down to the shore, quickly hauled the black ship up onto the land, and the proud attendants carried off the gear. Then they all went together to the assembly place, and let no one else, young or old, sit among them.
Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke among them: "Ah, how the gods have delivered this man from disaster! Day after day our watchmen sat on the windy heights, relay after relay, and the moment the sun went down we never once slept ashore, but rode the sea all night in a swift ship, waiting for bright dawn, lying in wait for Telemachus, to catch him and kill him — yet some god carried him home in the meantime. So now let us here plan a grim death for Telemachus, and let him not escape us — for I do not think our business here can succeed while he lives.
He himself is shrewd, in judgment and in mind, and the people no longer favor us at all. Come then, before he can gather the Achaeans to assembly — and I do not think he will hold back, but will rise in anger before them all and tell how we plotted his sudden death and failed to catch him. And when they hear of our wicked scheme, they will not approve — they may even do us harm and drive us from our own land, forcing us into some foreign country. So let us strike first and kill him, out in the fields far from the city, or on the road; and let us take his living and his goods for ourselves, sharing them fairly among us, and give the house to his mother to keep, and to whichever man marries her.
But if this plan displeases you, and you would rather he live and keep his father's whole estate, then let us stop gathering here to eat up his rich stores, and let each of us instead court her from his own house, offering bridal gifts — and let her then marry whoever offers the most and comes as fate ordains."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent, saying nothing.
Then Amphinomus rose among them and spoke — the shining son of Nisus, lord Aretias's son, who had led the suitors from rich, grassy Dulichium, and who pleased Penelope most of all with his words, for he had a good heart. With good will toward them he rose and spoke: "Friends, I for one would not want to kill Telemachus. It is a dreadful thing to kill one of royal blood — let us first ask counsel of the gods. If the decrees of great Zeus approve, I myself will kill him and urge all the rest to do the same; but if the gods turn us away from it, then I say we should stop."
So Amphinomus spoke, and his words pleased them. At once they rose and went to the house of Odysseus, and entering, sat down on the polished chairs.
Then wise Penelope had another thought — to appear before the suitors, arrogant as they were in their insolence, for she had learned of the plot against her son's life within the hall — Medon the herald had told her, for he had overheard their plan. So she went down to the hall with her attendant women.
When she, radiant among women, reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar of the strong-built roof, holding her shining veil before her cheeks, and rebuked Antinous, speaking his name: "Antinous, full of insolence, deviser of evil — and yet they say you are the best man of your age in Ithaca for counsel and for speech. You are nothing of the kind! Madman, why do you weave death and doom for Telemachus, and show no regard for suppliants, for whom Zeus himself stands witness? It is unholy to plot evil against one another.
Do you not know how your own father came here once, fleeing, in terror of the people? They were furious with him, because he had joined the Taphian raiders and harmed the Thesprotians, who were then our friends. The people wanted to kill him, to tear the life from him, and eat up his rich substance — but Odysseus held them back and stopped them, eager as they were. And now you devour that man's household without payment, court his wife, and seek to kill his son, and you bring me great grief. I tell you to stop, and to command the others to stop as well."
Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered her: "Daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, take heart — let none of this trouble your mind. There is no man alive, nor ever will be, who will lay hands on your son Telemachus while I live and see the light on this earth. For I tell you plainly, and it will come to pass — his dark blood will soon run fast around my spear, since Odysseus, sacker of cities, often set me on his own knees, put roasted meat in my hands, and held out red wine to me.
For this reason Telemachus is by far the dearest of all men to me, and I tell him he need have no fear of death, not from the suitors at least — though what comes from the gods, no man can escape."
So he spoke, trying to comfort her, though it was he himself who was preparing the boy's death. Penelope went up to her bright upper chamber and wept there for Odysseus, her dear husband, until gray-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids.
That evening the noble swineherd came back to Odysseus and his son, and they were busy preparing supper, having sacrificed a yearling pig. But Athena drew close to Laertes' son Odysseus, struck him with her wand, and made him an old man again, clothing his body in shabby garments, so that the swineherd would not recognize him at a glance and go running to tell steady Penelope, unable to keep it locked in his heart.
Telemachus was the first to speak to him: "You're back, good Eumaeus. What news is there in the city? Are the proud suitors already home again from their ambush, or are they still lying in wait for me on my way?"
Then you answered him, swineherd Eumaeus: "It was not my business to ask about that or look into it as I hurried through the city — my heart urged me to deliver my message and come straight back here as fast as I could. But a swift messenger from your companions met me on the road, a herald, who was the first to bring the news to your mother. But there is one thing more I know, for I saw it with my own eyes. I was already above the city, at the place where the hill of Hermes stands, when I saw a swift ship coming into our harbor, crowded with many men, loaded down with shields and two-edged spears — and I thought it was that same company, though I cannot be certain."
So he spoke, and the strong, sacred Telemachus smiled, glancing toward his father's eyes, but taking care that the swineherd should not see. Then, once they had finished their work and prepared the meal, they ate, and no one's heart lacked its fair share of the feast. And when they had put away their desire for food and drink, they thought of rest and took the gift of sleep.

======== Book 17 ========

When Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, young Telemachus, the son of godlike Odysseus, bound the fine sandals on his feet and took up his sturdy spear, the one that fit his grip so well. Eager to reach the city, he spoke to the swineherd.
"Old friend, I'm off to town, so my mother can see me with her own eyes. I don't think she'll ever stop her grim weeping and mournful tears until she looks on me herself. But here's what I want you to do: take this poor stranger into the city, so he can beg his meals there. Whoever wants to will give him a crust of bread and a cup of something to drink. I can't be expected to carry the weight of every man alive — I have troubles enough of my own. And if the stranger takes offense at that, so much the worse for him. I'd rather speak plainly."
Odysseus, the man of many wiles, answered him, "Friend, I've no wish to be kept here myself either. It's better for a beggar to beg his bread in the town than out in the fields — whoever wants to give will give. I'm not so young anymore that I can stay at a farmstead and take every order a foreman gives. Go on ahead — this man here will guide me, once I've warmed myself by the fire and the morning chill has passed. My clothes are wretched, as you can see, and I'm afraid the frost at dawn will get the better of me. And they say the city is a fair distance off."
So he spoke, and Telemachus strode out through the farmyard, walking briskly, sowing trouble for the suitors as he went. When he reached the well-built house, he set his spear against a tall pillar and went in himself, stepping over the stone threshold.
His old nurse Eurycleia was the very first to see him, spreading fleeces on the carved chairs. She burst into tears and came straight to him, and the other serving-women of steadfast Odysseus gathered round as well, kissing his head and shoulders in welcome. And wise Penelope came out from her chamber, looking like Artemis or golden Aphrodite, and threw her arms around her dear son, weeping, and kissed his head and both his lovely eyes, and said through her tears, her words taking wing,
"You've come back, Telemachus, sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I'd see you again, once you sailed off to Pylos in secret, against my wishes, to seek news of your dear father. Come, tell me what you learned."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her, "Mother, don't stir me to tears, don't wring my heart, now that I've just escaped a sheer disaster. No — go and bathe, put on clean clothes, go up to your room with your women, and vow to all the gods that you'll offer full sacrifices if only Zeus grants that these wrongs be paid back in full. As for me, I'm going to the assembly, to fetch the stranger who came here with me from Pylos. I sent him ahead with my godlike companions and told Piraeus to take him home and treat him well and with honor until I could come myself."
So he spoke, and his words went unchallenged. She bathed, put on clean clothes, and vowed to all the gods that she would offer full sacrifices if only Zeus would grant that these wrongs be paid back in full.
Telemachus then went out through the hall, spear in hand, and two sleek hounds went with him. Athena poured a marvelous grace over him, and all the people stared as he passed. The proud suitors crowded around him, speaking him fair while plotting evil in their hearts underneath. He slipped away from that mob of them and went instead to sit where Mentor was, and Antiphus, and Halitherses — men who had been his father's friends from the start. He sat down among them, and they questioned him closely about everything.
Then Piraeus, famous with the spear, came up to them, leading the stranger through the city to the assembly place. Telemachus did not stay far from his guest for long, but came and stood beside him. Piraeus spoke first.
"Telemachus, quickly send some of your women to my house, so I can send along the gifts Menelaus gave you."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered him, "Piraeus, we don't yet know how things will turn out. If the proud suitors kill me in secret in my own hall and carve up my father's estate between them, I'd rather you kept the gifts and enjoyed them yourself than any of them. But if I manage to sow death and doom among them, then bring the gifts to my house, and glad will I be to receive them, and glad will you be to bring them."
With that he led the travel-worn stranger toward the house. When they reached the well-built halls, they laid their cloaks down on the couches and chairs, went to the polished baths, and washed. Once the maidservants had bathed them and rubbed them with oil, and thrown warm cloaks and tunics around them, they came out of the baths and sat down on couches. A serving-woman brought water in a fine golden pitcher and poured it out over a silver basin for them to rinse their hands, and drew up a polished table beside them. The stately housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, adding many good things from her stores, generous with what she had. Telemachus's mother sat opposite, by the pillar of the hall, reclining on a couch, spinning fine thread on her distaff. And they reached out their hands to the good food laid ready before them.
When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, wise Penelope spoke first among them.
"Telemachus, I think I'll go upstairs and lie down on that bed of mine, which has become nothing but a place of grief, always wet with my tears, ever since Odysseus went off to Troy with the sons of Atreus. You never had the heart to tell me plainly, before the proud suitors came into this house, whether you'd heard any news of your father's return."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her, "Very well, Mother, I'll tell you the whole truth. We went to Pylos, to Nestor, shepherd of his people, and he received me in his lofty house and treated me as kindly as a father treats a son who has come home unexpectedly after a long absence — that's how warmly he and his fine sons cared for me. But he told me he'd heard nothing from any man on earth about steadfast Odysseus, whether he was alive or dead. Instead he sent me on, with horses and a well-built chariot, to the son of Atreus, Menelaus famed for his spear. There I saw Helen of Argos, for whose sake the Argives and the Trojans suffered so much by the will of the gods. And warlike Menelaus asked me at once what business had brought me to holy Sparta, and I told him the whole truth. Then he answered me and said,
'Well now! So cowards wanted to lie in the bed of a man of iron courage, weaklings that they are! Just as when a deer beds her newborn fawns, still suckling, in a lion's own thicket, and goes off to graze the mountain slopes and grassy hollows, and then the lion comes back to his own lair and deals both fawns a grim death — that is exactly the grim death Odysseus will deal these men. Oh, Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only Odysseus would come among the suitors as strong as he was that day in well-built Lesbos, when he rose up and wrestled Philomeleides on a challenge, and threw him down hard, and all the Achaeans cheered! If Odysseus came against the suitors like that, they'd all meet a quick end and a bitter wedding. But as for the news you're asking and begging me for, I won't turn aside from it or deceive you — I'll tell you exactly what the Old Man of the Sea, who never lies, told me, hiding nothing, keeping nothing back. He said he had seen Odysseus on an island, in bitter pain, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who holds him there against his will, and he cannot reach his own native land, for he has no ships with oars, no companions to send him across the sea's broad back.'
"So spoke Menelaus, son of Atreus, famed for his spear. Once he had finished, I set out for home, and the immortals gave me a fair wind and sent me swiftly back to my own country."
So he spoke, and stirred the heart deep in her breast.
Then godlike Theoclymenus spoke among them. "Honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes — Menelaus does not know the full truth. Listen instead to what I tell you, for I will prophesy to you plainly and hide nothing. Let Zeus, first among the gods, be my witness, and this table of hospitality, and this hearth of blameless Odysseus which I have come to — Odysseus is already in his own native land, sitting still or moving about, and learning of these wicked deeds, and he is sowing ruin for all the suitors. That is the omen I marked while sitting on the well-benched ship, and I declared it to Telemachus."
Wise Penelope answered him, "If only your words would come true, stranger! Then you would soon know my friendship and many gifts from me, so that anyone who met you would call you a fortunate man."
So they talked together of such things. Meanwhile the suitors, out in front of the hall of Odysseus, amused themselves throwing discus and javelin on the level, well-worn ground, just as insolently as before. But when it came time for dinner, and the flocks arrived from every direction, driven in by the men who always brought them, Medon spoke up — he was the herald the suitors liked best, and always attended their feasts.
"Young men, now that you've all had your fill of sport, come inside so we can get the meal ready. There's nothing wrong with taking dinner at the proper hour."
So he spoke, and they rose and went in, obeying him. When they reached the well-built house, they laid their cloaks down on the couches and chairs, and set about slaughtering great sheep and fat goats, killing fattened hogs too and a cow from the herd, making the feast ready. Meanwhile Odysseus and the noble swineherd were setting out from the country toward the city. The swineherd, leader of men, spoke first.
"Stranger, since you're so eager to go into the city today, just as my master ordered — though truly I'd rather leave you here to watch the farmstead, but I respect him and fear him, in case he blames me later, for a master's rebukes are hard to bear — come, let's go now. The day is already well along, and toward evening it will turn colder."
Odysseus, the man of many wiles, answered him, "I understand, I take your point — you're telling me just what I was already thinking. Let's go, then, and you lead the way the whole distance. But give me a staff to lean on, if you have one cut somewhere, since you say the road is treacherous underfoot."
With that he slung his wretched bag over his shoulders, patched all over, with a twisted cord for a strap, and Eumaeus gave him a staff that suited him well. The two of them set out, leaving the dogs and the herdsmen behind to guard the farmstead. Eumaeus led his master toward the city, looking for all the world like a miserable old beggar, leaning on his staff, dressed in shabby rags.
As they made their way down the rugged path and drew near the city, they came to a fountain, finely built, with clear-running water, from which the townspeople drew their supply. Ithacus and Neritus and Polyctor had built it. Around it stood a grove of poplars fed by the water, growing in a full circle, and cold water ran down from the rock above. Above it stood an altar to the nymphs, where every traveler used to offer sacrifice.
There Melanthius, son of Dolius, came upon them, driving goats — the pick of all his herds — for the suitors' dinner, with two herdsmen following. When he saw the pair he taunted them, spitting out cruel and abusive words that stirred the heart of Odysseus.
"Well now, isn't this a fine sight — one wretch leading another! God always brings like to like, they say. Where are you taking that miserable scavenger, you sorry excuse for a swineherd, that tiresome beggar who ruins every feast? He'll stand rubbing his shoulders against every doorpost, begging for scraps, not for swords or cauldrons. If you handed him over to me to watch my farmstead, to sweep out the pens and carry fodder to the kids, he might drink whey and put some muscle on his thighs. But no — since he's only learned bad habits, he won't want honest work; he'd rather go skulking through the country begging, to feed that bottomless belly of his. I tell you this, and it will come true: if he ever goes near the house of godlike Odysseus, plenty of footstools flung from men's hands will bruise his ribs as he's pelted clean out of the hall."
So he spoke, and as he passed he kicked out at Odysseus's hip, a senseless, reckless thing to do — yet he did not budge Odysseus from the path; he stood firm. Odysseus weighed in his mind whether to rush at him and beat the life out of him with his staff, or to lift him by the head and dash him to the ground. But he steeled himself and held back. The swineherd, though, looked the goatherd in the face and rebuked him, and lifting his hands he prayed aloud.
"Nymphs of the spring, daughters of Zeus, if ever Odysseus burned the thighbones of lambs and kids for you, wrapped in rich fat, grant me this wish — that man might come home, and some god bring him back! Then he would soon scatter all this swagger you wear now, as you go strutting through the town while worthless herdsmen let the flocks go to ruin."
Melanthius the goatherd answered him, "Well, listen to that! The dog knows how to talk mischief, does he. One day I'll load him on a black, well-benched ship and haul him far from Ithaca, where he'll fetch me a good price. If only Apollo of the silver bow would strike Telemachus down today in his own hall, or the suitors finish him off, as surely as the day of Odysseus's homecoming has been lost far away!"
With that he left them there, walking on slowly, while he himself went ahead and quickly reached the house of the king. He went straight in and sat down among the suitors, opposite Eurymachus, whom he favored most of all. The carving men set a portion before him, and the stately housekeeper brought him bread to eat. Meanwhile Odysseus and the noble swineherd came up and stopped outside, and the sound of a hollow lyre drifted around them, for Phemius was striking up a song for the company. Odysseus took the swineherd's hand and said,
"Eumaeus, this must surely be the fine house of Odysseus — easy enough to recognize even among many others. Building rises upon building, the courtyard is well fenced with wall and coping, and the double doors are strongly made — no man could force his way through them. And I can tell that many men are feasting inside, for the smell of roasting meat rises up, and there's a lyre sounding too, which the gods have made the feast's companion."
Eumaeus the swineherd answered him, "You've got it at once — no wonder, since you're no fool in other matters either. But come, let's think how this should go. Either you go in first, into the well-built house, and mix with the suitors while I stay out here a while, or, if you'd rather, you wait here and I'll go in ahead. Only don't linger long, or someone outside may spot you and hit you or drive you off — think carefully on that."
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him, "I understand, I take your point — that's just what I was thinking too. Go on ahead, and I'll stay behind here a while. I'm no stranger to blows and things thrown at me — my spirit can take it, since I've suffered so much already, on the waves and in war; let this be added to the rest. But there's no hiding a demanding belly, cursed thing that it is, that brings men so much trouble — it's for its sake that well-built ships are fitted out to cross the barren sea, bringing hardship to men's enemies."
So they talked back and forth, saying such things to one another. And meanwhile the dog lying there lifted his head and pricked up his ears — Argos, the hound of steadfast Odysseus, whom he himself had raised, though he got no good of him, for before that he had gone off to sacred Troy. In earlier days the young men used to take the dog out after wild goats, deer, and hares, but now, with his master gone, he lay neglected on the heap of dung that had piled up before the gates, dung from the mules and cattle, waiting there until Odysseus's slaves should cart it off to manure the great estate. There lay the dog Argos, covered with ticks.
But now, when he sensed Odysseus standing near, he wagged his tail and dropped both his ears, but he no longer had the strength to drag himself closer to his master. Odysseus glanced away and wiped off a tear, hiding it easily from Eumaeus, and at once asked him:
"Eumaeus, this is a strange thing — that dog lying there in the dung. He has a fine build, but I can't tell for certain whether he had speed to match his looks, or whether he's simply one of those table-dogs that men keep around, the kind masters raise only to show off."
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him: "Indeed, this is the dog of a man who died far away. If he had the same build and the same skill now that he had when Odysseus left him behind on his way to Troy, you would be amazed to see his speed and his strength. No wild creature he chased through the deep woods could get away from him — he was that good at tracking a scent too. But now he's fallen on hard times. His master has perished far from his own country, and the careless women don't look after him anymore. Slaves, once their masters no longer hold them in check, no longer want to do their proper work — for wide-seeing Zeus takes away half a man's worth on the day that slavery comes down on him."
With these words he went into the well-built house, walking straight through the hall to join the proud suitors. But death's dark hand took hold of Argos the moment he saw Odysseus again — in the twentieth year.
Telemachus, godlike in form, was the first by far to notice the swineherd coming through the hall, and he quickly nodded and called him over. Eumaeus looked around and picked up the stool that stood there, the one the carver used when he served out generous portions of meat to the suitors feasting in the hall. He carried it over and set it down by Telemachus's table, facing him, and sat down there himself. Then the herald brought him his share and set it before him, lifting bread from the basket.
Close behind him Odysseus came into the house, looking like a wretched old beggar, leaning on a staff, with shabby rags wrapped around his body. He sat down on the ash threshold just inside the doors, leaning against a post of cypress wood that a carpenter had once skillfully planed and set straight to the line.
Telemachus called the swineherd over to him, took a whole loaf from the beautiful basket, and as much meat as his hands could hold, and said:
"Take this to the stranger and give it to him, and tell him to go around and beg from all the suitors in turn. Shame is no fit companion for a man in need."
So he spoke, and the swineherd went, once he had heard these words, and standing close by he said in winged words:
"Stranger, Telemachus gives you this, and he tells you to go around and beg from all the suitors in turn. He says shame is no good thing in a beggar."
And resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Lord Zeus, grant that Telemachus be blessed among men, and that he get everything his heart desires."
With that he took the food in both hands and set it down before his feet, on his shabby bag, and ate while the singer sang in the hall. He had just finished his meal as the godlike singer finished his song. The suitors set up a clamor through the hall. Then Athena came close and stood beside Odysseus, son of Laertes, and urged him to go around gathering crusts from the suitors, so he could learn which of them were decent men and which were lawless — though even so she meant to spare not one of them from ruin.
So he went, begging from each man in turn, moving to the right, holding out his hand on every side, as if he had long been a beggar. They pitied him and gave, and marveled at him, and asked one another who he was and where he had come from. Then Melanthius the goatherd spoke up among them:
"Listen to me, suitors of the famous queen, about this stranger — I have seen him before. The swineherd led him here, but I don't know for certain where he claims his people are from."
So he spoke, and Antinous turned on the swineherd with harsh words: "You notorious swineherd, why did you bring this fellow to town? Don't we have enough vagrants already, tiresome beggars who spoil a feast? Or do you think it's a small thing that men gather here to eat up your master's living, and now you've invited this one too?"
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him: "Antinous, that's an ugly thing to say, good as you are otherwise. Who goes out of his way to invite a stranger from abroad, unless he's someone skilled in a craft the people need — a seer, a healer of sickness, a builder of ships, or even a singer with a god-given gift to delight us? Such men are welcomed the world over. But no one would invite a beggar just to wear out his own house. You're always the harshest of all the suitors toward the slaves of Odysseus, and toward me most of all — yet I don't mind, so long as sensible Penelope lives in this hall, and godlike Telemachus."
But Telemachus, thoughtful as he was, spoke to him in turn: "Say no more — don't waste more words answering him. Antinous always likes to provoke with harsh talk, and he stirs up the others too."
Then he turned to Antinous and spoke winged words: "Antinous, truly you look after me the way a father looks after his son, when you tell this stranger to be driven from the hall by force. God forbid it should ever come to that. Give him something — take it and give it, I don't begrudge it, I myself urge it. Don't hold back on my mother's account, or on account of any other slave in the house of godlike Odysseus. But that's not really what's in your heart — you'd rather eat it all yourself than give any to another."
Then Antinous answered him: "Telemachus, big talker, temper unchecked, what have you just said? If every suitor gave him as much as I might, this house would be rid of him for a good three months."
So he spoke, and reaching under the table he pulled out the stool on which he had been resting his sleek feet at the feast.
All the other suitors gave something, and filled the beggar's bag with bread and meat, and Odysseus was on the point of going back to the threshold to taste what the Achaeans owed him freely. But he stopped by Antinous and spoke to him:
"Give me something, friend. You don't look to me like the worst of the Achaeans — quite the opposite, the best, since you carry yourself like a king. That means you ought to give me even more bread than the others, and I'll spread your fame across the wide earth. I too once had a house among men, and lived in wealth, and often gave to a wanderer, whoever he was and whatever he needed. I had countless slaves and everything else that makes men live well and be called rich. But Zeus, son of Cronus, brought me low — such must have been his will — for he sent me off with a band of roving pirates to sail to Egypt, a long voyage, so that I would be destroyed.
I anchored my curved ships in the river of Egypt. There I told my loyal companions to stay by the ships and guard them, and I sent scouts out to the high ground to look around. But my men gave way to their own recklessness, following their own violent impulse, and quickly began plundering the beautiful fields of the Egyptians, carrying off the women and little children, and killing the men. The outcry soon reached the city. Hearing the shouting, the Egyptians came out at dawn, and the whole plain filled with foot soldiers and horses and the flash of bronze. Zeus who delights in thunder threw my men into a shameful panic, and not one of them dared stand his ground, for ruin closed in on every side. There many of us were killed by the sharp bronze, and others were taken alive to be forced into labor. As for me, they gave me to a stranger who happened to be there, to be taken to Cyprus — Dmetor, son of Iasus, who ruled Cyprus by force. From there I have now come here, suffering hardship all the way."
Then Antinous answered him: "What god brought this nuisance here to spoil our feast? Stand off there in the middle, away from my table, or you'll soon find a bitter Egypt and Cyprus right here. What a bold, shameless beggar you are. You go from one man to the next, and they give recklessly — no one holds back or feels pity when it costs them nothing of their own, since each man here has plenty to spare."
Odysseus stepped back and answered him: "Well, well — so your looks don't match your mind at all. You wouldn't give even a grain of salt from your own stores to someone who came asking, you who now sit at another man's table and can't bring yourself to hand me a scrap of bread from all this abundance in front of you."
So he spoke, and Antinous grew still angrier at heart, and glaring at him he spoke winged words: "Now I think you won't be leaving this hall in one piece after that insult."
So he spoke, and snatching up the stool he hurled it, striking Odysseus on the right shoulder, at the base of the back. But he stood firm as a rock, and Antinous's throw did not stagger him. He only shook his head in silence, brooding on evil in his heart. Then he went back to the threshold and sat down, set his well-filled bag beside him, and said to the suitors:
"Listen to me, suitors of the famous queen, while I say what my heart bids me say. There's no pain, no real grief, when a man is struck defending his own property — his cattle, say, or his white sheep. But Antinous struck me over my wretched belly, that cursed thing that brings men so much misery. Still, if there are gods and avenging spirits watching over beggars, may death overtake Antinous before his wedding day."
Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: "Sit there and eat in peace, stranger, or go somewhere else, or the young men will drag you through the hall by a foot or a hand for talk like that, and strip the skin right off you."
So he spoke, and all the others were furiously indignant at him. And one of the young, arrogant suitors would say something like this:
"Antinous, that was no fine thing, to strike a wretched wanderer — a curse on you, if he should happen to be some god from heaven. The gods do take the form of strangers from far-off lands, appearing in every guise, and walk through cities watching over the arrogance and the justice of men."
So the suitors said, but Antinous paid their words no heed. Telemachus, though, felt a great grief swelling in his heart at seeing the man struck, yet he let no tear fall to the ground from his eyes — he only shook his head in silence, brooding on evil in his heart.
When circumspect Penelope heard that the stranger had been struck in the hall, she said among her maids: "If only Apollo of the silver bow would strike you down just like that, Antinous."
And the housekeeper Eurynome answered her: "If only our prayers could come true — not one of these men would live to see the dawn on her golden throne."
And circumspect Penelope said to her in turn: "Nurse, they are all hateful, for they scheme nothing but harm, but Antinous is most like black death itself. Some poor stranger wanders through the house begging from the men, driven by need, and while all the others filled his bag and gave to him, this one struck him on the right shoulder with a stool."
So she spoke among her serving women, sitting there in her room, while noble Odysseus was eating his meal. Then she called for the noble swineherd and said to him: "Go, good Eumaeus, and tell the stranger to come to me, so that I may greet him and ask him whether he has heard anything of steadfast Odysseus, or seen him with his own eyes — for he seems like a man who has wandered far and wide."
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered her: "If only the Achaeans would keep quiet, my queen — the things he tells could charm your very heart. I kept him three nights and held him three days in my hut, for he came to me first after slipping away from his ship, but he hasn't yet finished the whole tale of his misfortunes. Just as men gaze at a singer who has learned from the gods to sing songs that stir the heart of mortals, and they long to hear him without end whenever he sings — that's how he charmed me as he sat beside me in my hut. He says he is an old friend of Odysseus's family, a native of Crete, where the line of Minos rules. From there he has now come here, after enduring many hardships, tumbling from one trouble to the next. He swears he has heard news of Odysseus close by, alive, among the rich land of the Thesprotians, and that he is bringing home a great store of treasure."
And circumspect Penelope said to him in turn: "Go, call him here, so he may tell me himself, face to face. As for these men, let them sit at the doors and amuse themselves, or here in the house, since their hearts are content enough. Their own stores lie untouched at home — bread and sweet wine — while their own servants eat them, and these men come flocking to our house day after day, slaughtering our cattle and our sheep and our fat goats, feasting and drinking our glowing wine without a thought, recklessly, while our wealth is squandered. For there's no man now, such as Odysseus was, to keep ruin away from this house. But if Odysseus should come back, should reach his own native land, he and his son together would soon make these men pay for their violence."
As she spoke, Telemachus sneezed loudly, and the sound rang through the house. Penelope laughed, and at once spoke winged words to Eumaeus:
"Go and call the stranger here to me, just as he is. Don't you see how my son sneezed at everything I said? That means death is coming for the suitors, every one of them, complete and certain — none of them will escape their fate. And I'll tell you something else — keep it in your heart. If I find that he tells me the whole truth without deceit, I will dress him in a cloak and tunic, fine clothes."
So she spoke, and the swineherd went, once he had heard these words, and standing close to Odysseus he spoke winged words:
"Father stranger, circumspect Penelope calls for you, the mother of Telemachus. Her heart urges her to ask you something about her husband, grieved as she has been. And if she finds that you tell her the whole truth, she'll dress you in a cloak and tunic, the very things you need most. And you can still fill your belly begging bread through the town — whoever wants to will give to you."
Then long-suffering, noble Odysseus answered him: "Eumaeus, I would gladly tell the whole truth without deceit to Icarius's daughter, circumspect Penelope, for I know a great deal about him, and we have shared the same hard fortune. But I fear the crowd of harsh suitors, whose arrogance and violence reach up to the iron sky. Even now, when this man struck me as I walked through the house, doing him no harm, and gave me pain for nothing, neither Telemachus stepped in to help nor anyone else. So tell Penelope, however eager she is, to wait in the hall until the sun goes down. Then let her ask me about her husband's day of homecoming, seated closer to me by the fire — for the clothes I have are wretched, as you know yourself, since I came to you first as a suppliant."
So he spoke, and the swineherd went, once he had heard these words. And as he stepped over the threshold, Penelope said to him:
"You haven't brought him, Eumaeus? What is the wanderer thinking? Is he afraid of something out of the ordinary, or is he simply too ashamed to come into the house? A beggar who is too proud is a poor sort of beggar."
And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered her: "He speaks reasonably, just as anyone else might expect, wanting to avoid the insults of these arrogant men. But he asks you to wait until the sun goes down. And truly it's better this way for you too, my queen — to speak with the stranger alone, and hear him without others listening."
And circumspect Penelope answered him in turn: "The stranger is no fool. He sees clearly how things stand. For surely no other mortal men anywhere plot such reckless outrages as these."
So she spoke, and the noble swineherd went off to rejoin the crowd of suitors, once he had explained everything. At once he spoke winged words to Telemachus, bringing his head close so the others would not hear:
"Friend, I'm off now, to look after the pigs and everything there, your living and mine. You must see to things here. First and foremost, look after your own safety, and be careful nothing happens to you — many of the Achaeans wish us harm. May Zeus destroy them before they can bring ruin down on us."
But thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "So it will be, old friend. Go now, once you've had your evening meal, and come back at dawn, bringing fine animals for sacrifice.
"But all that will be my concern, and the gods' too."
So he spoke, and the swineherd sat back down on his polished chair. When he had filled himself with food and drink, he set off to rejoin his pigs, leaving the courtyard and the hall crowded with feasters, who took their pleasure in dancing and song, for the evening hour had now come on.

======== Book 18 ========

Now a beggar came up, one known to the whole town, who used to beg his bread through Ithaca, and he was famous for his greedy belly, endlessly eating and drinking. He had no strength, no real power in him, though he was big and impressive to look at. His mother had named him Arnaeus at his birth, but the young men all called him Irus, because he ran errands whenever anyone sent him. He came now and tried to drive Odysseus from his own house, taunting him with winged words:
"Get away from the doorway, old man, before you're dragged out by the foot. Don't you see them all winking at me, egging me on to haul you out? I'm ashamed to do it, but get up, before you and I come to blows."
Odysseus the master of many wiles looked at him darkly and said, "Friend, I do you no harm, I say nothing against you, and I don't grudge you whatever you can get, however much of it. This doorstep is wide enough for both of us — you have no need to be jealous of what belongs to someone else. You look like a wanderer just as I am, and the gods are the ones who will decide who prospers. But don't provoke me too far with your fists, or you'll make me angry, and old as I am I may bloody your chest and your lips. I'd have more peace tomorrow, since I don't think you'll be coming back a second time to this hall of Odysseus, son of Laertes."
Then Irus the tramp flew into a rage and answered him: "Look at that — how the greedy pig rattles on, like an old woman at her oven! I could plan him some real trouble, knock him down with both fists and scatter every tooth from his jaws onto the ground, like a pig that's been caught rooting in the corn. Belt yourself now, so all these men can watch us fight. How could you stand up to a younger man anyway?"
So the two of them, right there before the lofty doors, on the smooth threshold, worked themselves into a fury. And the sacred strength of Antinous heard them and, laughing with pleasure, called out to the suitors:
"Friends, nothing like this has ever happened here before — what sport a god has brought to this house! The stranger and Irus are ready to go at each other with their fists. Let's get them into it quickly."
At this they all leaped up laughing and crowded around the two ragged beggars. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke to them:
"Listen to me, you proud suitors, while I say something. Here are goat bellies roasting on the fire, ones we set aside for supper, stuffed full with fat and blood. Whichever of these two wins and proves himself the stronger, let him stand up and choose whichever one of these he wants. From now on he'll always eat with us, and we won't let any other beggar come in among us to ask for scraps."
So spoke Antinous, and his words pleased them all. Then Odysseus, with cunning in his mind, spoke among them:
"Friends, there's no way an old man worn down by suffering can fight a younger one — but my belly, that troublemaker, is pushing me on to take a beating. Come, then, all of you swear me a solid oath, that none of you, to do Irus a favor, will strike me with a heavy hand and knock me down unfairly, to help him beat me by force."
So he spoke, and they all swore the oath just as he asked. Then, once they had sworn and finished the oath, the strong figure of Telemachus spoke up among them:
"Stranger, if your heart and your proud spirit urge you to stand up to this man, don't be afraid of any of the other Achaeans — whoever strikes you will have to fight a great many more. I am your host, and both the leading men here approve of it, Antinous and Eurymachus, both men of good sense."
So he spoke, and they all agreed. And Odysseus tied his rags around his waist, baring his thighs, handsome and powerful, and his broad shoulders showed, and his chest and sturdy arms. And Athena, standing close beside him, made the limbs of the shepherd of the people swell larger. All the suitors were struck with astonishment, and one would say, glancing at the man next to him,
"Irus will soon get himself an undeserved beating — look what a thigh the old man is showing from under those rags!"
So they said, and Irus's spirit was shaken badly. But even so his own attendants girded him and led him forward by force, terrified, the flesh trembling on his limbs. And Antinous scolded him, calling him by name:
"Now I wish you'd never been born, you great ox of a coward, if you're this frightened and this scared to death of him — an old man, worn down by the hardship that's come on him. Well, I'll tell you this, and it will be carried out: if he beats you and proves the stronger, I'll throw you on a black ship and send you to the mainland, to King Echetus, the maimer of all mankind, who'll cut off your nose and ears with pitiless bronze, tear out your privates and give them raw to the dogs to tear apart."
At this, trembling seized his limbs even harder. They led him into the middle, and the two men raised their fists. Then the long-suffering, godlike Odysseus considered whether he should strike him so hard that his life would leave him where he fell, or hit him lightly and just stretch him on the ground. As he thought it over, this seemed the better plan — to strike lightly, so the Achaeans would not see through him. They both raised their fists; Irus hit him on the right shoulder, and Odysseus struck him on the neck under the ear and crushed the bones inside. Dark blood came at once from his mouth, and he fell in the dust with a groan, grinding his teeth together and kicking the ground with his feet. The proud suitors threw up their hands and died laughing. Odysseus dragged him by the foot out through the doorway until he reached the courtyard and the gate of the portico, and propped him there sitting against the courtyard wall, and put his stick in his hand, and spoke to him with winged words:
"Sit there now and keep the pigs and dogs away, and don't try to lord it over strangers and beggars, wretch that you are, or you may get something worse."
With that he slung his ugly, much-patched knapsack over his shoulders on its twisted cord, and went back and sat down on the threshold. The suitors went in laughing merrily and greeted him with words:
"May Zeus and all the other immortal gods grant you, stranger, whatever you want most, whatever pleases your heart — since you've stopped that insatiable creature from begging in this land. We'll soon ship him off to the mainland, to King Echetus, the maimer of all mankind."
So they said, and godlike Odysseus was glad at the good omen. Antinous set the great goat belly before him, filled with fat and blood, and Amphinomus took two loaves from the basket and set them beside him, and pledged him with a golden cup, saying,
"Good health to you, old stranger — may good fortune come to you hereafter, though right now you're weighed down with so much trouble."
Odysseus the master of many wiles answered him, "Amphinomus, you seem to me a truly sensible man, and worthy of your father — I've heard good report of him, that Nisus of Dulichium was a rich and honorable man, and they say you're his son. You seem a man of good sense. So I'll tell you something, and you should take it to heart and listen to me: of all the creatures that breathe and creep upon the earth, the earth nurtures nothing more helpless than man. He thinks he'll never suffer misfortune in the future, so long as the gods grant him strength and his knees are quick beneath him. But then, when the blessed gods bring him hard times too, he bears them against his will, with a heart that has to endure. For the mind of men who live on the earth is exactly what the father of gods and men brings upon them, day by day. I too once expected to be a prosperous man among men, but I did many reckless things, giving in to my own strength and power, trusting in my father and my brothers. Because of this, let no man ever be lawless, not for anything, but let him hold in silence whatever gifts the gods give him. I see what reckless things these suitors are plotting — wasting the property and dishonoring the wife of a man who, I think, will not be long away now from his friends and his homeland; in fact he's very near. As for you, may some god lead you quietly out of here before that day, so you don't meet him face to face when he comes home to his own dear country — for I don't think the parting between him and the suitors will happen without bloodshed, once he's under his own roof again."
So he spoke, and poured a libation and drank the honey-sweet wine, then put the cup back into the hands of the leader of his people. And Amphinomus went back through the hall, his heart heavy, shaking his head, for his spirit already sensed trouble. But even so he did not escape his fate; Athena had bound him too, to be brought down by the hands and spear of Telemachus. And he sat back down again on the chair from which he had risen.
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena put it into the mind of the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, to appear before the suitors, so that she might make the suitors' hearts flutter even more, and so that she might seem more honored than ever in the eyes of her husband and her son. She laughed, though there was nothing behind it, and spoke, calling the housekeeper by name:
"Eurynome, my heart longs — as it never did before — to show myself to the suitors, hateful as they are to me. And I want to say something to my son that would serve him well: that he should not keep company so freely with these arrogant suitors, who speak fair words but plan evil underneath."
Eurynome the housekeeper answered her, "Yes, my child, everything you've said there is exactly right. Go, then, and speak plainly to your son, and don't hold anything back — but first wash your skin and put oil on your cheeks. Don't go down there with your face all stained with tears; it does no good to grieve endlessly like this. Your son is already grown to the age you always prayed to see him reach a bearded man among the immortal gods."
Wise Penelope answered her again, "Eurynome, don't urge that on me, however much you care for me — that I should wash my skin and anoint myself with oil. The gods who hold Olympus destroyed my beauty on the day he sailed away in the hollow ships. But tell Autonoe and Hippodamia to come to me, so they can stand beside me in the hall. I won't go in among the men alone — I would be ashamed."
So she spoke, and the old woman went off through the hall to carry the message to the maids and urge them to come. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena thought of something else: she poured sweet sleep over the daughter of Icarius, and she slept, leaning back, and all her limbs relaxed there on the couch. Meanwhile the shining goddess gave her immortal gifts, so that the Achaeans might marvel at her. First she cleansed her lovely face with the immortal beauty that fair-crowned Cythereia uses when she goes to the lovely dance of the Graces. She made her taller to look at, and fuller, and whiter than sawn ivory. Having done this the goddess departed, and the white-armed maids came in from the hall, speaking as they came, and the sweet sleep let Penelope go, and she rubbed her cheeks with her hands and said,
"What a strange, gentle weariness wrapped around me. I wish holy Artemis would grant me so gentle a death, right now, so I would no longer waste my life away grieving in my heart, longing for the many kinds of goodness in my dear husband — since he was the best of the Achaeans."
So saying, she went down from the shining upper chamber, not alone — two maids went with her. And when the shining lady reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar of the well-built roof, holding a bright veil before her cheeks, and a faithful maid stood on either side of her. And the knees of the suitors went weak, and their hearts were charmed with desire, and every one of them prayed to lie beside her in bed. Then she spoke to Telemachus, her own dear son:
"Telemachus, your good sense and your judgment are no longer steady. When you were still a boy you used to think more shrewdly than this. But now that you're grown and reaching the measure of manhood — now that anyone looking at your size and good looks would say you must be the son of a fortunate man — your judgment is no longer sound or fitting. Look what a thing has just happened in this hall, that you let the stranger be treated so shamefully. What if some stranger sitting quietly in our house were to suffer such rough treatment? The shame and disgrace would fall on you before the world."
Wise Telemachus answered her, "Mother, I don't blame you at all for being angry about this. But I do understand and know each thing in my own mind, the good and the bad — though before this I was still a child. Even so, I can't think everything through wisely; these men sit around me, one on this side and one on that, urging me toward harm, and I have no one to help me. As for the fight between the stranger and Irus, it didn't turn out the way the suitors wanted — the stranger was the better man. Ah, Father Zeus, and Athena, and Apollo — if only the suitors in our house right now were bowing their heads defeated just like that, some out in the courtyard and some inside the house, every one of them with his limbs undone, just as Irus is sitting now by the courtyard gate, nodding his head like a drunken man, unable to stand up straight on his feet or make his way home, wherever home is for him, since his limbs are all undone beneath him."
So the two of them talked together like this. And Eurymachus spoke to Penelope, saying,
"Daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, if all the Achaeans throughout Iasian Argos could see you, still more suitors would be feasting in your halls from morning on, since you surpass all women in beauty and stature and in the good sense within you."
Wise Penelope answered him, "Eurymachus, whatever excellence, whatever beauty and figure I had, the immortals destroyed on the day the Argives went up against Troy, and my husband Odysseus went with them. If he were to come back and take care of my life, my fame would be greater and finer for it. But now I only grieve — so many troubles has some god sent driving upon me. When he was leaving to go from his own country, he took my right hand at the wrist and said to me: 'Wife, I don't think all the well-greaved Achaeans will come home safely from Troy, since they say the Trojans too are fighting men, skilled with the spear and the bow, and riders of swift horses, men who could quickly decide the outcome of the great leveling war. So I don't know whether some god will bring me home again, or whether I'll be trapped there at Troy. You must take care of everything here. Remember my father and mother in this house as you do now, or even more, while I am gone. But when you see our son grown bearded, marry whomever you wish, and leave this house behind.'
"That is what he told me, and now it is all coming to pass. A night will come when a hateful marriage will be forced on me, cursed as I am, whose good fortune Zeus has taken away. But this above all fills my heart and spirit with grief: this is not how suitors used to behave before. Men who wished to court a good woman, the daughter of a wealthy house, and who were rivals with one another, would themselves bring their own cattle and fat sheep, a feast for the friends of the bride, and give her splendid gifts — they would not eat up another man's living without paying for it."
So she spoke, and the long-suffering, godlike Odysseus was glad, because she was drawing gifts out of them while charming their hearts with soft words, though his mind was set on something else entirely. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered her,
"Daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, as for gifts — let any of the Achaeans who wishes bring them here; accept them, for it is not right to refuse a gift. But we will not go back to our own lands or anywhere else, not until you marry whichever of the Achaeans is best."
So spoke Antinous, and his words pleased them, and each man sent his herald to bring gifts. For Antinous his herald brought a great, beautiful robe, richly worked, with twelve golden brooches fitted with well-curved clasps. For Eurymachus his herald brought at once a finely wrought necklace of gold strung with amber beads, gleaming like the sun. Two servants brought earrings for Eurydamas, each with three drops like mulberries, radiant with grace. And from the house of lord Peisander, son of Polyctor, a servant brought a necklace, a very beautiful ornament.
Each of the suitors sent forward another gift by his own herald. So they went up, the beautiful women, to the upper chamber, and with them the maids carried the lovely gifts. The suitors turned to dancing and to the pleasure of song, taking their delight, and waited for evening to come on. And while they took their pleasure, dark evening did come on.
At once they set up three braziers in the hall to give them light, and around them they piled dry seasoned wood, long since dried out and freshly split with bronze, and mixed in torches of pine. The serving women of steadfast Odysseus took turns tending the fire and keeping it bright.
Then Odysseus himself, that resourceful man of divine descent, spoke to them: "Serving women of Odysseus, whose lord has been gone so long, go in to where the honored queen sits; there beside her twirl your distaffs and give her comfort, sitting in the hall, or card wool with your hands. I myself will keep the light burning here for all these men. Even if they wish to wait for the dawn on her fine throne, they will not wear me down — I am a man well used to hardship."
So he spoke, and the women laughed and glanced at one another.
But fair-cheeked Melantho rebuked him shamefully — the girl Dolius had fathered, whom Penelope had raised, treating her as her own child, giving her playthings to please her heart; yet not even so did she share the grief in Penelope's heart, but instead she slept with Eurymachus and loved him. She now scolded Odysseus with insulting words:
"Wretched stranger, you must be out of your mind, some way or other — you refuse to go and sleep at the smithy, or in some lodging house, but instead you sit here talking on and on, bold among all these many men, and your heart feels no fear at all.
Either the wine has gotten into your wits, or else your mind is always like this, so that you babble nonsense. Or are you giddy with pride because you beat that beggar Irus? Watch that someone better than Irus doesn't rise up soon against you, someone who will beat your head about with strong fists and send you bloodied from the house."
Resourceful Odysseus looked at her darkly and answered: "I will go straight to Telemachus, bitch, and tell him the things you say, so that he comes here and cuts you limb from limb on the spot."
So he spoke, and his words scattered the women in fright. They went off through the hall, and the knees of each went weak with terror, for they believed he had spoken the plain truth.
But he stood by the burning braziers, tending their light, watching all the men, while his heart turned over other things within him — things that would not go unfulfilled. Athena, meanwhile, would not let the overbearing suitors hold back at all from their heart-galling insults, so that the pain might sink even deeper into the heart of Odysseus, son of Laertes. Eurymachus, son of Polybus, was the one who now began speaking among them, mocking Odysseus, and stirring laughter among his companions.
"Listen to me, suitors of the far-famed queen, so I may say what the spirit in my breast bids me. This man has not come to the house of Odysseus without some god's help. At any rate, the gleam of the torches seems to come from his very head — for there isn't a hair on it, not even a little."
Then he spoke also to Odysseus, sacker of cities: "Stranger, would you be willing to work for hire, if I took you on, out at the edge of my land — the wage will be fair enough — gathering stone walls and planting tall trees? There I would supply you with grain enough to last,
clothe you, and give you sandals for your feet. But since you have only learned bad habits, you will not be willing to go about honest work — you would rather go skulking through the town begging, so as to feed that greedy belly of yours."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Eurymachus, if only there could be a contest of work between the two of us, in the season of spring, when the days grow long, out in the meadow grass — let me have a well-curved scythe, and you take one just like it, so we might put ourselves to the test at labor, fasting clean through until darkness falls, with grass enough at hand.
Or again, if there were oxen to drive, the very best kind, tawny, big, both well fed on grass, matched in age, equal in strength to pull, their power far from puny, and the field four acres wide, with soil giving way easily to the plow — then you would see whether I could cut a furrow running straight and unbroken clear across. Or if Zeus, son of Cronus, should stir up war from some quarter this very day, and I had a shield and two spears and a bronze helmet fitted close about my temples — then you would see me mixed in among the foremost fighters, and you would not be taunting me about my belly.
But instead you are altogether insolent, and your mind is a cruel one. No doubt you think yourself some great and mighty man because you keep company with men who are few and no good. But if Odysseus should come and reach his native land, quickly then that doorway of yours, wide as it truly is, would prove too narrow for you as you fled through the porch outside."
So he spoke, and Eurymachus grew still angrier at heart, and looking at him darkly he spoke winged words: "Ah, wretch, soon I will pay you back for the things you say so boldly among all these many men, with no fear in your heart at all.
Either the wine has gotten into your wits, or else your mind is always like this, so that you babble nonsense. Or are you giddy with pride because you beat that beggar Irus?"
So saying, he snatched up a footstool. But Odysseus sat down at the knees of Amphinomus of Dulichium, in fear of Eurymachus, who struck the wine-pourer's right hand instead — the pitcher fell to the floor with a clatter, and the man himself fell backward into the dust with a groan. The suitors broke into an uproar throughout the shadowy hall, and one would say, glancing at the man beside him,
"If only that wandering stranger had died somewhere else before he ever came here — then he would never have stirred up such an uproar among us. Now we are quarreling over beggars, and there will be no more pleasure in our fine feast, since the worse has won out."
Then the strong and sacred force of Telemachus spoke among them: "You poor fools, you have gone mad, and can no longer hide in your hearts the food and drink you've had — some god is surely driving you on. Come now, since you have feasted well, go home and lie down, whenever your spirit bids you — I am not driving anyone away."
So he spoke, and all of them bit their lips, amazed that Telemachus spoke out so boldly. Then Amphinomus, the shining son of lord Nisus, son of Aretias, addressed them and spoke among them:
"Friends, when a fair word has been spoken, no one should answer back with hostile words and grow angry over it. Let no one mistreat this stranger, nor any other of the servants who are in the house of godlike Odysseus. Come, let the wine-pourer begin the round with the cups, so that after pouring libations we may go home and lie down;
as for the stranger, let us leave him in the halls of Odysseus in Telemachus's care, for it is to his own house that he has come."
So he spoke, and his words pleased them all. Then the herald Mulius, a man of Dulichium, mixed them a bowl of wine — he was the attendant of Amphinomus — and served it round to each in turn. They poured libations to the blessed gods and then drank the honey-sweet wine. And when they had poured the offering and drunk as much as their hearts desired, they went off, each man to his own house, to take their rest.

======== Book 19 ========

But godlike Odysseus was left behind in the hall, turning over with Athena how to kill the suitors, and at once he spoke winged words to Telemachus.
"Telemachus, we must put away the weapons of war inside, every one of them, and when the suitors miss them and ask you where they've gone, you must talk them round with gentle words: say, 'I stowed them out of the smoke, since they no longer look as they did when Odysseus left for Troy — they're blackened now, whatever the fire's breath could reach. And besides, a god put this greater thought into my mind too — that you might quarrel over wine and wound one another and shame the feast and the courtship. Iron itself draws a man on to use it.'"
So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his dear father. He called out old Eurycleia, his nurse, and said to her, "Nurse, come now, shut the women up inside the hall while I carry my father's fine weapons into the storeroom — the gear that lies about the house neglected, tarnished by smoke, since my father has been gone and I was still a child. Now I mean to put it away where the fire's breath cannot reach it."
Then his dear nurse Eurycleia answered him, "Ah, my child, if only you would always take such care and thought — to look after the house and guard all its possessions! But come, who will go along and carry a light for you? You would not let the maids go ahead with one, the ones who could have shown the way."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her, "This stranger here will do it — I won't let a man sit idle who has come so far and shares my bread." So he spoke, and his words went unanswered — she said nothing back — and she locked the doors of the well-built hall.
Then the two of them, Odysseus and his shining son, sprang up and began carrying in the helmets and the bossed shields and the sharp spears, while Pallas Athena went ahead of them, holding a golden lamp, making a light most beautiful. Then Telemachus suddenly said to his father, "Father, what a wonder this is that I see with my own eyes! The walls of the hall, the fine crossbeams, the pinewood rafters, the tall columns — they all shine before my eyes as if a fire were burning. Surely there is a god here, one of those who hold the wide heaven."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him, "Be quiet, hold your thought in check, and ask nothing more. This is the way of the gods who hold Olympus. Now go and lie down; I will stay here a while longer, so that I may stir up the servant women and your mother further — she will ask me, grieving, about everything."
So he spoke, and Telemachus went out through the hall and off to his room, where he always slept whenever sweet sleep came upon him, torches lighting his way. There he lay down now too, waiting for shining Dawn.
But godlike Odysseus was left behind in the hall, turning over with Athena how to kill the suitors. And now circumspect Penelope came out from her chamber, like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. They set a chair for her by the fire where she always sat, one inlaid with ivory and silver, which the craftsman Icmalius had once made, fitting a footstool to it, joined to the chair itself, over which a great fleece was always thrown. There circumspect Penelope sat down. Then the white-armed maidservants came in from the hall.
They began clearing away the abundant food and the tables and the cups from which the overbearing men had been drinking. They threw the fire down from the braziers onto the floor and piled fresh wood high upon them, for light and for warmth. Then Melantho scolded Odysseus a second time. "Stranger, will you go on annoying us here all through the night, wandering about the house, peering at the women? Get outside, you wretch, and be content with your supper — or you'll soon be going out the door hit by a firebrand!"
Resourceful Odysseus scowled at her and answered, "Woman, why do you rage at me so, with such spite in your heart? Is it because I am unwashed, because I wear foul clothes on my body, and go begging through the land? Necessity drives me to it — such is the way of beggars and wanderers. I too once lived in a fine house among men, a wealthy man, and often gave to a wanderer, whoever he was and whatever he needed when he came. I had countless servants and everything else that men have who live well and are called rich. But Zeus, son of Cronus, brought me low — such, I suppose, was his will.
"So now, woman, take care that you too don't someday lose all the fine bearing that now sets you apart among the maidservants — take care your mistress doesn't grow angry with you and turn harsh, or that Odysseus doesn't come home — for there is still some measure of hope left. And even if he really has perished and will never return, still, by Apollo's grace, he has a son like him now, Telemachus, and no wrongdoing among the women in this house escapes his notice — he is no longer so young."
So he spoke, and circumspect Penelope heard him, and she scolded her handmaid, calling her by name. "You bold and shameless creature, nothing you do escapes me — this vile deed you're committing you'll pay for with your own head! You knew perfectly well, for you heard it from my own lips, that I meant to question this stranger in my hall about my husband, since I am worn down with grief."
Then she spoke to Eurynome, her housekeeper. "Eurynome, bring a chair here, and a fleece to put on it, so the stranger may sit and speak with me and listen — I mean to question him." So she spoke, and Eurynome went at once and brought a well-polished chair and threw a fleece over it. There long-suffering, godlike Odysseus sat down.
Then circumspect Penelope began to speak among them. "Stranger, I will ask you this first myself: who are you, and where are you from? Where is your city, and your parents?"
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, no man on the boundless earth could find fault with you — your fame reaches the wide heaven, like that of some blameless king who, god-fearing, ruling over many strong men, upholds justice, so that the black earth yields wheat and barley, the trees are heavy with fruit, the flocks bring forth young without fail, and the sea gives up its fish — all through his good governance — and the people flourish under him.
"So now, in your own house, ask me anything else you like, but do not ask about my birth and my native land, lest you fill my heart even fuller with pain as I remember it — I am a man of many sorrows. Nor is it right that I should sit in another's house weeping and wailing, for it is a poor thing to grieve without end. Some servant might resent me, or you yourself might, and say my tears come from a mind heavy with wine."
Then circumspect Penelope answered him, "Stranger, the immortals destroyed all my beauty and my form the day the Argives set sail for Ilion, and my husband Odysseus went with them. If he were to come home and tend to my life, my fame would be greater and finer for it. But as it is I only grieve — such are the many troubles a god has heaped upon me. All the chief men who hold power over the islands —
Dulichium, Same, wooded Zacynthus — and those who dwell round Ithaca itself, in plain sight of the sun, court me against my will and waste away my household. And so I pay no heed to strangers, or suppliants, or heralds who serve the public — I only waste my heart away with longing for Odysseus. And they press for the marriage, while I weave my schemes.
"A god first put a device into my mind: I set up a great loom in the hall and began weaving a robe, fine of thread and very wide, and at once I said to the suitors, 'Young men, my suitors, since noble Odysseus is dead, wait, eager as you are for my marriage, until I finish this robe — I would not have my thread wasted and come to nothing — a shroud for the hero Laertes, for when the deadly fate of death that lays men low finally takes him down. I would not have any of the Achaean women in this land reproach me if he who won so much should lie without a shroud.' So I spoke, and their proud hearts consented. Then by day I would weave the great web, and by night, when I had torches set beside me, I would unravel it.
"So for three years I deceived them, and got the Achaeans to believe me. But when the fourth year came and the seasons turned again, as the months waned and many days had run their course, then at last my maids — those shameless creatures — betrayed me, and they came upon me and caught me at it, and scolded me with harsh words. So I was forced to finish the robe, against my will, under compulsion. And now I can neither escape the marriage nor find any other plan. My parents press me hard to marry, and my son chafes to see our living devoured, for he sees it plainly now — he is a man now, well able to look after a household, and Zeus grants him honor for it.
"But still, tell me your lineage, where you are from. You are not sprung from the old oak of legend, or from a rock."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, honored wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, will you never stop asking about my birth? Well then, I will tell you, even though you will give me griefs worse than those I already carry — for that is only right, when a man has been away from his own country as long as I have, wandering through so many cities of men and suffering hardship.
"But even so I will tell you what you ask and seek to know. There is a land called Crete, in the middle of the wine-dark sea, a fine, rich land, ringed by water, and in it are many men, past counting, and ninety cities. Language mixes with language there: there are Achaeans, and great-hearted native Cretans, and Cydonians, and Dorians in their three tribes, and noble Pelasgians. Among their cities is Knossos, a great city, where Minos reigned and every nine years took counsel with great Zeus himself — Minos, the father of my own father, great-hearted Deucalion.
"Deucalion fathered me, and lord Idomeneus. Idomeneus sailed off in his curved ships to Ilion with the sons of Atreus, while I, the younger by birth, was named Aethon — my brother was the elder and the better man. There I saw Odysseus, and gave him guest-gifts, for the force of the wind had driven him to Crete too, off his course for Troy, sweeping him past Malea. He put in at Amnisus, where the cave of Eileithyia is, in a harbor hard to make, and barely escaped the storm. As soon as he came up to the city he asked after Idomeneus,
claiming he was his dear and honored friend — but Idomeneus had already sailed for Troy in his curved ships ten or eleven days before. So I brought him to my house and entertained him well, with warm hospitality, for I had plenty in my stores, and I gathered barley meal and glowing wine from the district for him and for the rest of his companions who were with him, and oxen to sacrifice, that they might satisfy their hearts. There the noble Achaeans stayed twelve days, for a great north wind held them in and would not let them stand even on land — some harsh god had stirred it up.
On the thirteenth day the wind fell, and they put out to sea."
So he told her many falsehoods shaped to sound like truth, and as she listened her tears flowed and her face melted with grief. As the snow melts on the mountain peaks, the snow the east wind has piled up and the west wind then thaws, and as it melts the rivers run full and swollen — so her fair cheeks melted as she wept, weeping for the husband who was sitting there beside her all the while. And Odysseus, though his heart pitied his weeping wife,
kept his eyes as steady as if they were horn or iron, unmoving beneath his lids, and by his cunning hid his tears. And when she had had her fill of tearful weeping, she spoke to him again in answer.
"Now, stranger, I mean to test you, to see whether you really did entertain my husband there in your halls, together with his godlike companions, as you say. Tell me what sort of clothing he wore on his body, what he himself looked like, and the companions who went with him."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, it is hard to speak of a man gone so long — this is already the twentieth year since he left there and went away from my country. But still I will tell you how he appears to my memory.
"Godlike Odysseus wore a thick purple cloak, doubled, with a golden brooch fastened on it, fitted with twin clasps, and on its front was fine work: a hound held a dappled fawn in its forepaws, gripping it as it struggled. Everyone marveled at how, though wrought of gold, the hound was throttling the fawn and holding it down, while the fawn struggled with its feet to break free.
"And I noticed the tunic he wore next to his skin, gleaming like the skin of a dried onion, so soft it was, and shining like the sun — many women indeed admired it. And I'll tell you something else, and mark it well in your heart: I don't know whether Odysseus wore these things at home, or whether one of his companions gave them to him as he boarded the swift ship, or perhaps some host, since Odysseus was dear to many — few of the Achaeans could match him.
"I myself gave him a bronze sword, and a fine, doubled purple cloak, and a fringed tunic, and saw him off with honor aboard his well-benched ship. And he had a herald with him, a little older than himself, and I'll describe him too, just as he was: round-shouldered, dark-skinned, curly-haired, and his name was Eurybates. Odysseus honored him above his other companions, because his mind matched his own."
So he spoke, and stirred in her still more the longing to weep, as she recognized the sure signs Odysseus had described to her. And when she had had her fill of tearful weeping, she answered him and said,
"Now, stranger, you who were pitiable before, you shall be dear and honored in my halls, for I myself gave him those very clothes, just as you describe, folding them from the storeroom, and pinned on that bright brooch to be his glory — but I will never welcome him home again, returning to his own dear country. It was by an evil fate that Odysseus sailed away in his hollow ship to see that cursed city, its name better left unspoken."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "My lady, honored wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, ruin your fair skin no more, nor waste your heart away, weeping for your husband — though I do not blame you for it in the least. Any woman would grieve, having lost the husband of her youth, the man she married and bore children to in love, even if he were a far lesser man than Odysseus, who they say was like the gods. But stop your weeping now, and take my words to heart, for I will tell you truly, and hide nothing: I have lately heard news of Odysseus's return,
that he is alive and near, among the rich land of the Thesprotians, and that he is bringing home many fine treasures which he has gathered begging through the land. But he lost his trusted companions and his hollow ship on the wine-dark sea, sailing from the island of Thrinacia — for Zeus and the Sun god were angry with him, since his companions had killed the Sun's cattle. They all perished in the surging sea, but the wave cast him up, clinging to the keel of the ship, on the shore of the Phaeacians, a people close to the gods, who honored him from their hearts as though he were a god,
and gave him many gifts, and were themselves eager to send him safely home. And Odysseus would have been here long ago, but it seemed to his mind more profitable to go on gathering wealth by traveling over much of the earth — so far beyond all other men does Odysseus know how to turn a profit; no mortal could rival him in it. So Pheidon, king of the Thesprotians, told me, and he swore an oath to me himself, pouring a libation in his house, that the ship was launched and the crew ready who would carry him home to his own dear country.
But he sent me off first, for a ship of Thesprotian men happened to be sailing for Dulichium, rich in wheat. And he showed me the treasures Odysseus had gathered — enough, indeed, to feed another man's family for ten generations, so many were the riches stored up for that lord in his halls. And he said Odysseus had gone to Dodona, to hear the will of Zeus from the god's tall, leafy oak, to learn how he should return to his own rich country after being gone so long — whether openly or in secret.
So he is safe, as I say, and will come soon —
"He will be here soon, quite near, no longer far off from his own people and his own land, though he has been kept from them a long while. Even so, I will swear you an oath. Let Zeus be my first witness, highest and best of gods, and the hearth of blameless Odysseus, to which I have now come: everything I tell you will come to pass exactly as I say. This very year Odysseus will come home, between the waning of one moon and the rising of the next."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "If only that word could come true, stranger. Then you would soon know my friendship and my many gifts, so that anyone who met you would call you a fortunate man. But this is what my heart tells me will really happen: Odysseus will never come home again, and you will find no ship to send you on your way, for there is no longer a master in this house like Odysseus among men, if he ever truly lived, to welcome and see off honored guests. But wash him, maids, and make up a bed for him — a mattress, cloaks, and shining blankets — so that he may lie warm until golden-throned Dawn arrives. And in the early morning bathe him and rub him with oil,
so that he may sit beside Telemachus inside and enjoy his meal in the hall — and it will go the worse for any man among these suitors who torments him and vexes his spirit; that man will get nothing more done here, however furiously angry he may be. For how else, stranger, will you learn whether I truly surpass other women in judgment and careful thought, if you sit at my table unwashed and shabbily dressed? Men's lives are brief enough as it is. Whoever is harsh himself and thinks harsh thoughts — all mortals call down troubles on his head while he lives, and mock him once he is dead. But whoever is honorable himself and thinks honorable thoughts — strangers carry his fame far and wide over all the earth, and many speak well of him."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Lady, revered wife of Laertes' son Odysseus, cloaks and shining blankets have been hateful to me ever since I first left behind the snowy mountains of Crete aboard a long-oared ship. I will lie now as I have lain through so many sleepless nights before.
Many nights I have spent on a wretched bed, waiting for the coming of the bright dawn. Nor does the washing of feet please my heart at all — no woman shall touch my foot among those who serve as handmaids in this house, unless there is some old woman, wise and loyal, who has suffered in her heart as much as I have. Her I would not begrudge the touch of my feet."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "Dear stranger — no man of such good sense, come from so far away, has ever reached my house as a welcome guest before, so wisely and thoughtfully do you say everything you say. I do have an old woman, careful and shrewd in her thinking, who nursed and cared for that unlucky man well, who took him in her own arms the moment his mother bore him. She shall wash your feet, weak as she now is. Come now, rise up, thoughtful Eurycleia, and wash the feet of one who is of an age with your master — Odysseus by now must have feet and hands just such as these. Men grow old quickly under hardship."
So she spoke, and the old woman covered her face with her hands, let fall hot tears, and cried out in grief, "Oh, my child, how helpless I am for your sake! Zeus must have hated you above all men, though you had a god-fearing heart. No man ever burned so many fat thigh-pieces and choice hecatombs to Zeus who delights in thunder as you gave him, praying that you might reach a sleek old age and raise your splendid son. Yet now he has stripped away from you, alone of all men, your day of homecoming. I suppose the serving-women mocked him too, far away in some rich man's house,
whenever he came there as a stranger from a distant land, just as all these shameless creatures here mock you now. And it is to escape their insults and their many taunts that you refuse to let me wash you. But it is not against my will that Icarius's daughter, thoughtful Penelope, has ordered me to do it. So I will wash your feet, both for Penelope's own sake and for yours, since my heart within me is stirred with pity. But listen now to what I am about to say. Many travel-worn strangers have come to this house, but I do not think I have ever seen one so like Odysseus
in build, in voice, and in the shape of his feet, as you are."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Old woman, that is what everyone says who has set eyes on both of us — that we are very much alike, just as you yourself have now shrewdly observed."
So he spoke, and the old woman took up a gleaming basin for washing his feet, and poured in a great deal of cold water, then added hot. But Odysseus sat down away from the fire and quickly turned himself toward the darkness, for at once a fear rose in his heart that as she took hold of him she might notice the scar and everything would come out into the open.
She came close and began to wash her master, and at once she recognized the scar — the one a boar had once given him with its white tusk, long ago, when he had gone to Parnassus to visit Autolycus and his sons, his mother's noble father, who surpassed all men in thieving and in the art of the oath, a skill the god Hermes himself had given him, since Odysseus's grandfather burned him thigh-pieces of lambs and kids that pleased him well, and the god went with him gladly. Autolycus, coming once to the rich land of Ithaca, found his daughter newly delivered of a son.
Eurycleia set the child on his knees just as he finished his supper, and said to him, "Autolycus, find now yourself a name to give this child of your child — he has been much prayed for."
Autolycus answered her, "My son-in-law, my daughter, give him whatever name I now tell you. Since I come here having caused offense to many, to men and women alike, across the fruitful earth, let his name be Odysseus — the man of offense. And when he grows to manhood and comes to the great house of his mother's people on Parnassus, where my possessions lie,
I will give him a share of them and send him home rejoicing."
For that reason Odysseus went there, so that Autolycus might give him splendid gifts. Autolycus and his sons welcomed him with open arms and gentle words, and his grandmother Amphithea threw her arms around him and kissed his head and both his fine eyes. Autolycus called on his glorious sons to prepare a meal, and they, hearing his order, quickly led in a five-year-old bull.
They flayed it and dressed it, cut it up entirely, sliced the meat skillfully and spitted it, roasted it with care, and divided the portions. So all that day, until the sun went down, they feasted, and no one's appetite lacked its fair share of the meal. When the sun set and darkness came on, they lay down and took the gift of sleep. When early Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, they set out to hunt, both the dogs and the sons of Autolycus themselves, and among them went noble Odysseus,
climbing the steep mountain of Parnassus, cloaked in forest, and soon reaching its windy folds. The sun had only just begun to strike the fields, rising fresh from the deep, calmly-flowing stream of Ocean, when the hunters reached a wooded hollow. Ahead of them the dogs went, tracking the scent, and behind them came the sons of Autolycus, and with them went noble Odysseus close on the dogs' heels, brandishing his long spear. There in a dense thicket lay a great boar; through it no force of wet-blowing winds could pass,
nor could the shining sun strike it with its rays, nor could rain soak all the way through — so thick was the growth, and such a great heap of fallen leaves lay piled within it. The sound of men's feet and dogs' feet came round the boar as they pressed in on the hunt, and it charged out from the thicket to meet them, bristling the hair along its back, its eyes blazing with fire, and stood its ground close before them. Odysseus was first of all to rush in, lifting his long spear in his powerful hand, eager to strike, but the boar was quicker and gored him above the knee, ripping deep through the flesh
as it charged in sideways, though it did not reach the bone. Odysseus struck it in return, catching it square on the right shoulder, and the point of his bright spear passed clean through; the boar dropped in the dust with a squeal, and its life flew away.
Autolycus's sons busied themselves over the beast, and skillfully bound up the wound of godlike, blameless Odysseus, and with a charm they stopped the dark blood flowing, and quickly returned to their dear father's house. Autolycus and his sons healed him well and gave him splendid gifts, and
sent him gladly and swiftly home to his own land, to Ithaca; and there his father and his honored mother rejoiced at his homecoming and asked him about everything, about the scar, how he had gotten it, and he told them the whole story well, how a boar had gored him with its white tusk while he was hunting, when he had gone to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus.
Now the old woman took the scar in the flat of her hands, felt it, and knew it, and let his foot drop; his shin fell into the basin, and the bronze rang out, and it tipped over sideways, spilling the water out onto the floor.
Joy and grief together seized her heart, and her eyes filled with tears, and her strong voice caught in her throat. She took hold of his chin and said, "You are Odysseus indeed, my dear child! And I did not know you until I had touched and felt my master all over."
With that she glanced toward Penelope, wanting to signal that her own dear husband was there in the house. But Penelope could neither look her way nor take note of it, for Athena had turned her attention elsewhere. Odysseus reached out, took hold of the old woman's throat with his right hand,
and with the other pulled her closer to him and said, "Nurse, why do you want to destroy me? You yourself nursed me at your own breast, and now, after suffering many hardships, I have come at last, in my twentieth year, to my own native land. But since you have noticed, and some god has put it in your heart, say nothing, in case anyone else in the house learns of it. For I tell you plainly, and it will indeed come to pass: if some god delivers these arrogant suitors into my hands, I will not spare even you, my own nurse, when I kill the other slave women in my house."
Thoughtful Eurycleia answered him, "My child, what a word has escaped the barrier of your teeth! You know how firm and unshakable my resolve is, hard as solid stone or iron. But I will tell you something else — take it to heart. If a god delivers these arrogant suitors into your hands, I will tell you then which women in this house dishonor you, and which are innocent."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Nurse, why do you need to speak of them? There is no need. I myself will watch closely and learn each one for myself. Keep this matter to yourself, and leave the rest to the gods."
So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to fetch fresh water for washing his feet, since all the first water had been spilled. When she had washed him and rubbed him with rich olive oil, Odysseus drew his chair closer to the fire again to warm himself, and covered the scar over with his rags.
Thoughtful Penelope then began to speak, "Stranger, I will ask you just one small thing more, for soon it will be time for welcome rest, for anyone whom sweet sleep will take, however troubled his heart. But as for me, some god has given me grief beyond measure.
By day I find some comfort in weeping and mourning, as I turn to my own tasks and those of the maids about the house; but when night comes and everyone else is claimed by sleep, I lie on my bed while sharp, crowding cares torment my grieving heart. Just as the daughter of Pandareus, the nightingale in the green wood, sings her lovely song when spring has newly come, perched among the thick leaves of the trees,
pouring out her rich, changeful voice, mourning her beloved child Itylus, whom she once killed with the bronze in her own folly, the son of lord Zethus — so my heart is torn two ways, this way and that: whether to stay beside my son and guard everything safely, my property, my maids, and this great high-roofed house, out of respect for my husband's bed and what the people say, or whether now, at last, to go with whichever of the Achaeans is the best man courting me here in the hall and offers me the greatest gifts. While my son was still a child and lacking judgment,
he would not let me marry and leave my husband's house; but now that he has grown tall and reached the measure of manhood, he actually prays that I will go away from this house, distressed over the property the Achaeans are eating up. But come, listen to my dream and tell me what it means. I keep twenty geese in the house that eat wheat soaked from the trough, and I love to watch them; but a great eagle with a hooked beak swooped down from the mountain and broke all their necks and killed them, and they lay scattered in a heap about the hall, while the eagle soared up into the bright sky.
And I wept and cried aloud, even within the dream, and the fair-haired women of Achaea gathered around me while I mourned bitterly that the eagle had killed my geese. But then it came back and settled on a jutting roof-beam, and in a human voice it checked my grief and said,
'Take heart, daughter of far-famed Icarius. This is no dream but a true vision, and it will surely come to pass. The geese were the suitors, and I, who was an eagle before, have now come back as your own husband, and I will bring an unseemly death upon every one of the suitors.'
So it spoke, and then honey-sweet sleep let go of me, and looking about I saw the geese in the hall still pecking wheat by the trough, just as before."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Lady, there is no way to interpret this dream by turning it into something else, since Odysseus himself has told you plainly how he will bring it about. Destruction is clearly shown for all the suitors, every one, and not one of them will escape death and his fate."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "Stranger, dreams are indeed baffling, hard to read, and not everything in them comes true for men.
There are two gates for the flimsy shapes of dreams: one is made of horn, the other of ivory. Those dreams that pass through the gate of sawn ivory deceive us, bringing words that are never fulfilled; but those that come out through the gate of polished horn bring true things to pass, whenever a mortal sees them. But I do not think my strange dream came from that gate — though it would be most welcome to me and to my son if it had. But I will tell you something else — take it to heart.
This coming dawn is the ill-omened day that will part me from the house of Odysseus, for now I will set up the contest — the axes, which he used to set in a row in his hall, twelve of them, like a row of ship's blocks, and standing well back he would shoot an arrow clean through them all. Now I will set this same contest before the suitors: whoever most easily strings the bow in his hands and shoots an arrow through all twelve axes,
with that man I will go, leaving behind this house I came to as a bride, this very beautiful house, so full of good living — a house, I think, I will remember even in my dreams."
Resourceful Odysseus answered her, "Lady, revered wife of Laertes' son Odysseus, do not put off this contest in the hall any longer. For resourceful Odysseus will be here before these men, for all their handling of the polished bow, manage to string its cord and shoot an arrow through the iron."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him, "Stranger, if only you were willing to sit beside me in this hall and give me pleasure with your talk, sleep would never fall upon my eyes.
But it is not possible for men to go forever without sleep, for the gods have set a due measure for everything in mortal life on the grain-giving earth. So now I will go up to my room above and lie down on my bed, which has become a bed of sorrow to me, always wet with my tears, ever since Odysseus went away to look upon that Ilion better left unnamed. There I will lie down; but you may sleep here in this house, either spreading a bed on the floor or letting the servants make one up for you."
So saying, she went up to her gleaming room above,
She did not go alone — her waiting-women went up with her. And once she had climbed to the upper room with her women, she wept there for Odysseus, her beloved husband, until grey-eyed Athena poured sweet sleep upon her eyelids.

======== Book 20 ========

Meanwhile godlike Odysseus made his bed in the entryway. He laid out an undressed ox-hide, and over it heaped many fleeces of the sheep the Achaeans had been slaughtering, and when he had lain down Eurynome threw a cloak over him. There Odysseus lay, awake, plotting evil for the suitors in his heart. And now the women who slept with the suitors came out from the hall, laughing and full of gaiety with one another as they had always done before. His spirit rose in fury inside him, and he turned over many plans in his mind and heart,
whether to leap up and kill each of them, or let them lie with the arrogant suitors this one last time, though his heart barked within him at the thought. As a bitch standing over her weak, helpless pups growls and strains to fight when she does not know the man approaching, so his heart growled inside him, outraged at their shameful deeds. He struck his chest and rebuked his own heart, saying: "Bear up, heart. You endured worse than this once before, on the day the Cyclops, raging and unstoppable, devoured my brave companions. You endured that too, until your cunning
got you out of that cave, though you thought you would die there." So he spoke, holding down the fury in his breast, and his heart stayed obedient, enduring without flinching, though he himself tossed from side to side. As a man before a great blazing fire turns a stomach stuffed with fat and blood, shifting it this way and that, eager to have it roasted through, so Odysseus tossed from side to side, turning over in his mind how he, alone, could lay his hands on the shameless suitors, so many against one. Then Athena came near him,
descending from the sky, and she took the shape of a woman. She stood over his head and spoke to him: "Why are you lying awake again, unluckiest of all men? This is your house, this is your wife within it, and you have a son such as any man would wish to call his own." Resourceful Odysseus answered her: "Yes, goddess, all that you say is exactly right. But this is what troubles my heart, this thought that keeps turning over in my mind, how I, alone, can lay my hands on the shameless suitors, when they are always gathered here together in force.
And there is a still bigger problem turning over in my mind besides. Even if I should kill them, by your will and by Zeus's, where could I escape to afterward? I ask you to think about that." Grey-eyed Athena answered him: "Stubborn man, other men trust even a lesser comrade, one who is mortal and does not have so much cunning in him — but I am a god, and I watch over you from beginning to end in every trial. I will tell you plainly: even if fifty companies of mortal men stood
around the two of us, eager to kill us in battle, still you would drive off their cattle and their fat flocks. Now let sleep take you. It is wearing to stay awake keeping watch the whole night through — you will soon come up out of your troubles." So she spoke, and poured sleep down over his eyelids, and then the shining goddess went back to Olympus. As sleep took hold of him, loosening the cares of his heart and slackening his limbs, his faithful wife woke, and sat up weeping on her soft bed. When she had wept her fill and satisfied her heart, radiant among women, she prayed first of all to Artemis:
"Artemis, mistress, daughter of Zeus, if only you would strike an arrow into my breast right now and take my life, or else a storm-wind would snatch me up and carry me away down the misty paths and drop me where the backward-flowing stream of Ocean pours in — as the storm-winds once carried off the daughters of Pandareus. The gods destroyed their parents, and the girls were left orphans in the house, but bright Aphrodite nursed them on cheese and sweet honey and pleasant wine, and Hera gave them, beyond all women,
beauty and good sense, and holy Artemis gave them stature, and Athena taught them to work fine handicrafts. But while Aphrodite was making her way up to great Olympus, to ask Zeus who delights in thunder — for he knows all things, the good and the ill fortune of mortal men — to grant the girls a ripe and happy marriage, in that time the storm-spirits snatched the girls away and gave them over to the hateful Furies to serve. So too may the gods who hold Olympus wipe me away, or may fair-haired Artemis strike me down, so that with Odysseus
still in my sight I might go down even beneath the hateful earth, rather than ever gladden the heart of a lesser man. But even so, grief has this one thing bearable in it: a person can weep all day long, heart heavy with sorrow, and yet have sleep at night — for sleep makes one forget everything, the good and the bad alike, once it has closed over the eyes. But for me even my dreams are wicked, sent by some cruel power. For this very night one lay beside me who seemed just like him,
exactly as he was when he went with the army, and my heart rejoiced, since I did not think it was a dream but that it was real at last." So she spoke, and at once golden-throned Dawn came. Godlike Odysseus heard the sound of her weeping, and pondered it, and it seemed to his heart that she already stood beside his head, knowing him. He gathered up the cloak and the fleeces on which he had slept and laid them on a chair in the hall, and carried the ox-hide out and set it outside, and lifted his hands and prayed to Zeus: "Father Zeus, if you gods willingly led me over dry land and sea to my own country, after treating me so harshly, let someone among the people waking up now
speak a word of omen for me inside the house, and let some other sign from Zeus appear outside as well." So he prayed, and Zeus the counselor heard him, and at once thundered from bright Olympus, out of the clouds on high, and godlike Odysseus rejoiced. And a woman grinding grain sent out a word of omen from within the house nearby, where the shepherd of the people kept his mills. There twelve women in all worked at them, grinding out barley meal and wheat flour, the marrow of men. The others were asleep, having finished grinding their share of grain, but one alone had not yet stopped, the weakest of them all.
She now stopped her mill and spoke a word — an omen for her master: "Father Zeus, who rules over gods and men, you have thundered greatly from the starry sky, though there is no cloud anywhere — this must be a sign you are showing to someone. Then grant even to wretched me the wish I am about to speak: let this be the last and final day the suitors take their sweet feast in the halls of Odysseus, the men who have loosened my knees with heartbreaking toil as I grind their barley meal — let this be their last supper." So she spoke, and godlike Odysseus rejoiced at the word of omen
together with Zeus's thunder, for he believed he would punish the guilty. And the rest of the household slave-women gathered in the fine halls of Odysseus and kindled a tireless fire on the hearth. Telemachus rose from his bed, a man like a god, put on his clothes, slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, bound fine sandals under his smooth feet, and took up his strong spear tipped with sharp bronze. He went and stood on the threshold and said to Eurycleia: "Dear nurse, did you all treat the stranger well in our house, with a bed and food, or does he lie there neglected?
That is just like my mother — sensible as she is in other things, she still shows favor thoughtlessly, sometimes honoring a lesser man and sending away a better one without respect." Wise Eurycleia answered him: "You should not blame her now, child, when she is not at fault. He sat and drank wine as much as he wished, and said he was no longer hungry for food, since she asked him. But when he thought of going to bed and sleeping, she told the slave-women to spread bedding for him, but he, like a man who has known nothing but misery and misfortune all his life,
refused to sleep on a bed and in blankets, but slept instead in the entryway on an undressed ox-hide and sheep fleeces, and we threw a cloak over him ourselves." So she spoke, and Telemachus went out through the hall carrying his spear, and two sleek dogs went with him. He set off to the assembly to join the well-armored Achaeans. And Eurycleia, daughter of Ops son of Peisenor, called to the slave-women, radiant among women: "Come, some of you sweep the hall and sprinkle it, and lay the purple coverings
over the well-made chairs; others of you wipe down all the tables with sponges and clean the mixing bowls and the well-made double-handled cups. And you others, go to the spring for water and bring it back quickly. The suitors will not be away from the hall for long — they will come back early, since today is a feast day for everyone." So she spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed. Twenty of them went to the dark-watered spring, and the rest worked skillfully about the house. Then the men who served the Achaeans arrived, and they
split the firewood well and skillfully, and the women came back from the spring, and after them came the swineherd, driving three fat pigs, the finest of the whole herd. He let them graze about the fine enclosure, and himself went over to Odysseus and spoke gently: "Stranger, are the Achaeans looking on you any more kindly now, or do they still treat you with contempt around the hall, as before?" Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "If only the gods would punish the outrage, Eumaeus, that these men recklessly plot
in another man's house, without a shred of shame." While they were saying such things to each other, Melanthius the goatherd came up close, driving the goats that were the pick of all his herds, meant for the suitors' dinner, with two herdsmen following him. He tied the goats under the echoing colonnade and then spoke mockingly to Odysseus: "Stranger, are you still going to be a nuisance here in the house, begging from the men, and not go out the door? I don't think the two of us are going to settle this
until you have had a taste of my fists, since you go begging in a way that is not decent — there are other feasts the Achaeans hold too." So he spoke, but resourceful Odysseus said nothing back to him, only shook his head in silence, brooding evil in his heart. After him came a third man, Philoetius, leader of men, bringing a barren cow and fat goats for the suitors. Ferrymen had brought them across, the same men who carry over anyone else who comes to them. He tied his animals carefully under the echoing colonnade, and then went and stood by the swineherd and questioned him closely:
"Who is this stranger who has just come to our house, swineherd? What men does he claim descent from? Where is his family, his native land? Poor man — he does have the build of a lord and king. But the gods bring hardship on men who wander far, even when they weave misfortune for kings." So saying he came up and clasped Odysseus's hand in welcome, and spoke to him with winged words: "Greetings, stranger and father — may good fortune come to you in time to come, though right now you are caught in so much misery.
Father Zeus, no other god is crueler than you — you show no pity to men, even though you yourself have given them life, and yet you let them fall into hardship and grinding pain. I felt the sweat break out on me, and my eyes filled with tears, when I remembered Odysseus, since I think he too, if he is still alive and looks on the light of the sun, must be wandering among men clothed in rags just like this. But if he is already dead and in the house of Hades, then how I grieve for blameless Odysseus, who set me over his cattle while I was still just a boy, in the land of the Cephallenians.
Now those cattle have grown beyond counting — no other man's herd of broad-browed cattle could put out shoots and multiply the way his has — but other men order me to bring the cattle in for them to eat, and they care nothing at all for his son in the house, nor do they fear the anger of the gods, for they are eager already to divide up the property of their long-absent lord. My heart keeps turning this over endlessly in my chest: it would be a wicked thing, while his son still lives, to go off to another people, taking the cattle with me, to live among strangers — but it would be even more bitter to stay here,
sitting among cattle that are no longer mine, and suffer this pain. Long ago I would have fled to some other of the mighty kings, since things have become unbearable, but I keep hoping that unlucky man may still come, somehow, from somewhere, and scatter the suitors through his own halls." Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Herdsman, since you seem neither a bad man nor a foolish one, and I can see for myself that good sense has reached your mind, I will tell you this, and I will swear a great oath on it. Let Zeus first among the gods be my witness, and this hospitable table,
and the hearth of blameless Odysseus, to which I have come: while you are still here, Odysseus will come home, and with your own eyes, if you wish, you will see the suitors who now lord it here being killed." The man who tended the cattle answered him: "If only, stranger, the son of Cronos would bring that word to pass — you would see what strength I have, and what my hands can do." And Eumaeus, just the same, prayed to all the gods that wise Odysseus would come home again to his own house. While they were saying such things to each other,
the suitors, for their part, were plotting death and doom for Telemachus. But then a bird flew up on their left, a high-soaring eagle gripping a trembling dove. And Amphinomus stood up among them and spoke: "Friends, this plan of ours will not succeed for us — the murder of Telemachus. Instead, let us turn our thoughts to the feast." So Amphinomus spoke, and his words pleased them. So they went into the halls of godlike Odysseus, laid their cloaks down on the couches and chairs, and set about sacrificing great sheep and fat goats,
and fat pigs too, and a cow from the herd. They roasted the entrails and passed them around, and mixed wine in the bowls, and the swineherd handed out the cups. Philoetius, leader of men, distributed bread to them in fine baskets, and Melanthius poured the wine. And they reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them. Telemachus, with a shrewd plan in mind, seated Odysseus inside the sturdy hall, near the stone threshold, setting out for him a shabby stool and a small table, and set before him a portion of the entrails, and poured wine
into a golden cup, and said to him: "Sit here now among the men and drink your wine. I myself will hold off the mockery and the blows of all the suitors, since this house is not a public house but belongs to Odysseus, and he won it for me. And you, suitors, restrain your hearts from insult and from violence, so that no quarrel or fight breaks out." So he spoke, and all of them bit their lips and marveled at Telemachus, that he spoke so boldly. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke among them:
"Hard as this word is, Achaeans, let us accept it from Telemachus — he speaks to us with real threats. Zeus, son of Cronos, did not allow it, or we would have stopped him in the hall by now, clear speaker though he is." So spoke Antinous, but Telemachus paid no attention to his words. Meanwhile the heralds led the sacred hecatomb for the gods through the city, and the long-haired Achaeans gathered in the shaded grove of Apollo, the god who strikes from afar. When they had roasted the outer meats and drawn them off the spits,
they divided the portions and feasted on the glorious meal. Those who served him set before Odysseus a portion equal to their own, for so Telemachus, the dear son of godlike Odysseus, had commanded. Yet Athena did not allow the overbearing suitors to hold back entirely from painful insult, so that the pain might sink even deeper into the heart of Odysseus, son of Laertes. Among the suitors was a man who knew no decency, Ctesippus by name, who lived in Same. Trusting in his own vast wealth,
he had been courting the wife of Odysseus, long gone from home, and now he spoke among the arrogant suitors: "Listen to me, proud suitors, while I say something. The stranger has had his fair share for some time now, as is right — it is not good, nor just, to slight the guests of Telemachus, whoever comes to this house. But come, let me give him a guest-gift too, so that he in turn may give some reward either to the bath-woman or to some other slave who works about the house of godlike Odysseus." So saying he snatched up an ox's foot in his strong hand
from the basket where it lay, and hurled it — but Odysseus dodged aside, tilting his head just a little, and smiled in his heart a grim, sardonic smile, while the ox-foot struck the well-built wall.
Then Telemachus rebuked Ctesippus: "Ctesippus, it turned out much better for you this way — you missed the stranger, since he dodged your throw himself. Otherwise I would have run you through the middle with my sharp spear, and instead of a wedding your father would have been busy here with a funeral. So let no one show me any more outrages in this house. I take notice now, and I understand each thing, the good and the bad alike — before this I was still a child.
Even so, we put up with watching all this, the sheep slaughtered, the wine drunk, the bread eaten — for it is hard for one man to hold back many. But come, do me no more harm out of spite. And if you are now bent on killing me myself with the bronze, I would choose even that — it would be far better to die than to keep watching these disgraceful deeds forever, guests knocked about and slave-women dragged shamefully through the beautiful house."
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent and still. At last Agelaus, son of Damastor, spoke among them: "Friends, when a thing has been said justly, no one should take offense and answer back with hostile words. Do not strike this stranger, nor any of the slaves in the house of godlike Odysseus. But to Telemachus and his mother I would say a gentle word, if it might please the hearts of them both. As long as your spirits still held out hope that wise Odysseus would come home to his own house, no one could blame you for waiting and holding off
the suitors in the halls — that was the better course, if Odysseus had returned and come back to his home. But now it is plain at last that he is never coming back. So go, sit beside your mother and tell her this: let her marry whichever man is the best, and offers the most. Then you can enjoy all your father's property in peace, eating and drinking, while she keeps another man's house."
Sensible Telemachus answered him: "No, Agelaus — by Zeus, and by the sufferings of my father, who far from Ithaca has either perished or still wanders — I am not delaying my mother's marriage at all. I tell her to marry whomever she wishes, and I offer countless gifts besides. But I am ashamed to drive her out of the house against her will with a word of compulsion. May the god never bring that to pass."
So spoke Telemachus. And among the suitors Pallas Athena stirred up unquenchable laughter, and set their wits astray. Now they were laughing with jaws that seemed not their own, and the meat they were eating was spattered with blood, and their eyes filled with tears, and their hearts felt like wailing. Then godlike Theoclymenus spoke among them:
"Wretched men, what is this evil that has come over you? Your heads and your faces and your knees below are shrouded in night. Wailing has blazed up, your cheeks are wet with tears, the walls and the fine crossbeams are spattered with blood. The porch is full of ghosts, and the courtyard is full of them too, hurrying down to Erebus, into the dark. The sun has perished out of the sky, and an evil mist has come rushing over everything."
So he spoke, and they all laughed merrily at him. Eurymachus, son of Polybus, began to speak to them: "The stranger newly come from elsewhere is out of his mind. Quick, young men, take him out of the house and send him off to the assembly, since he finds it as dark as night in here."
Godlike Theoclymenus answered him: "Eurymachus, I ask for no escorts from you. I have eyes and ears and both my feet, and a mind in my breast that is put together well enough. With these I will go out the door, for I see evil coming upon you which not one of you will escape or avoid — you suitors, who in the house of godlike Odysseus commit outrages against men and plot reckless deeds." With that he went out of the well-appointed house, and came to Peiraeus, who received him gladly.
But the suitors all looked at one another and tried to provoke Telemachus by laughing at his guests, and one of the arrogant young men would say: "Telemachus, no man has worse luck with guests than you. Here is one you keep, this filthy vagrant, hungry for bread and wine, good for no work and no fighting, nothing but a dead weight on the earth. And now this other one has stood up to play the prophet. If you would take my advice, it would be far better: let us throw these strangers into a many-oared ship and send them off to the Sicilians, where they would fetch you a decent price."
So the suitors talked, but he paid no attention to their words. In silence he watched his father, waiting always for the moment when he would lay his hands on the shameless suitors. And the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, had set her beautiful chair opposite them, and heard the words of each man in the hall. For they had prepared their midday meal amid laughter, a sweet meal to their liking, since they had slaughtered so much. But no supper could ever be more joyless than the one a goddess and a strong man were soon to set before them — for they had been the first to plot disgraceful deeds.

======== Book 21 ========

Then the goddess Athena, bright-eyed, put it into the mind of Penelope, wise daughter of Icarius, to set out the bow and the gray iron axeheads before the suitors, in Odysseus's own hall, to be both a contest and the start of their killing. She climbed the steep stairway of her house and took in her strong hand a curved bronze key, finely made, with a handle of ivory, and went with her waiting-women to the farthest storeroom, where the treasures of her lord lay heaped, bronze and gold and hard-worked iron. There too lay the great curved bow and the quiver full of groaning arrows, gifts a guest-friend had given Odysseus long ago in Lacedaemon when they met — Iphitus, son of Eurytus, a man who looked like a god.
The two of them had come together in Messene, in the house of wise Ortilochus. Odysseus had gone there to collect a debt the whole district owed him, for men of Messene had lifted flocks from Ithaca, three hundred head, driving them off in their benched ships along with their herdsmen. For their sake Odysseus, still only a boy, had made that long journey as an envoy, sent out by his father and the other elders. Iphitus, for his part, was hunting horses he had lost — twelve mares in foal, with sturdy mules running beside them. Those very horses would later be his death and his doom, for when he came to the house of Heracles, Zeus's iron-hearted son, that man who knew great deeds, killed him though he was a guest under his own roof — a brutal act, with no fear of the gods' anger and no regard for the table he himself had set before him. He killed him, and afterward kept the strong-hoofed horses for himself in his halls.
It was while searching for these horses that Iphitus had met Odysseus, and he gave him the bow which great Eurytus had once carried and which, dying, he left to his son in his high house. In return Odysseus gave him a sharp sword and a sturdy spear, the beginning of a warm friendship between them — though they never came to know each other over a shared table, for before that could happen the son of Zeus killed Iphitus, son of Eurytus, that man who looked like a god, the very one who had given him the bow. Odysseus never carried that bow with him when he went to war in his black ships; he kept it at home as a memorial of his dear friend, and only bore it within his own land.
Now, when Penelope in her divinity reached that storeroom and stepped up onto the oak threshold — which a carpenter long ago had planed with skill and trued to the line, setting the doorposts into it and hanging the shining doors — she quickly loosed the strap from its hook, thrust in the key, and shot back the bolts, aiming straight. The doors groaned as loud as a bull bellowing at pasture in a meadow — so loudly did the fine doors groan when struck by the key, and they swung open before her at once.
She stepped up onto the raised platform where the chests stood, each one holding sweet-smelling clothes. Reaching up from there she took the bow down from its peg, case and all, in its shining cover. Then she sat down right there, laid the case across her knees, and wept aloud as she drew the bow of her lord out of it. When she had had her fill of tearful weeping, she went on into the hall to the proud suitors, carrying in her hand the great curved bow and the quiver full of groaning arrows. Her waiting-women carried along with her a chest holding the iron and bronze, the prizes of that lord's contest.
When she, shining among women, reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar of the well-built roof, holding a shimmering veil before her cheeks, with a trusted attendant standing on either side of her. At once she spoke out to the suitors, saying:
"Listen to me, you overbearing suitors, who have descended on this house to eat and drink without end, day after day, while its master has been gone so long — you could find no other excuse to offer than this, that you are burning to marry me and make me your wife. Come then, suitors, since here is your contest set before you. I will set out the great bow of godlike Odysseus, and whichever of you strings it most easily in his hands and shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes, with that man I will go, leaving behind this house where I was a bride, this very beautiful house, so full of the good life — one I think I will remember, even in my dreams, forever after."
So she spoke, and told Eumaeus, the noble swineherd, to set the bow and the gray axeheads before the suitors. Eumaeus took them with tears in his eyes and set them down; and the cowherd, on the other side, wept too when he saw the bow of his master. Antinous rebuked them both, calling out:
"Fools, you country oafs, who think only of the day at hand — why are you two shedding tears, stirring up grief in her heart, when it already lies heavy enough with sorrow, now that she has lost her husband? Sit quietly and eat, or else go outside to cry, and leave the bow right here — a grim contest for us suitors, for I do not think this polished bow will be strung easily. There is no man among us all like the man Odysseus was. I saw him myself once — I remember it well, though I was only a small child then."
So he spoke, but in his heart he hoped he would be the one to string the bowcord and shoot the arrow through the iron. Yet he was to be the very first to taste an arrow from the hands of blameless Odysseus — the man he now dishonored as he sat in his hall, and whom he was even now urging his companions on against. Then the strong figure of Telemachus spoke among them:
"Well now, truly Zeus, son of Cronus, has made me a fool. My own dear mother, wise as she is, says she will go off with another man and leave this house behind — and here I am laughing, delighting in my own foolish heart. Come then, suitors, since here is your contest set before you, a woman the like of whom does not exist now anywhere in Achaea, not in holy Pylos, not in Argos, not in Mycenae, not even here in Ithaca or on the dark mainland — and you all know this as well as I do; what need have I to praise my own mother? Come, do not put this off with excuses, do not hold back any longer from stringing the bow — let us see what will happen. I myself would like to try my hand at this bow. If I string it and shoot the arrow through the iron, then my honored mother would not grieve me by leaving this house with another man, since I would then be left behind quite able to carry off my father's fine prizes of contest."
With that he sprang up, threw the purple cloak from his shoulders, and set aside the sharp sword that hung there too. First he dug a single long trench for all the axes, set them upright in a line, trued them to the cord, and stamped the earth firm around them; and everyone who watched was amazed at how neatly he set them up, since none had ever seen it done before. Then he went and stood on the threshold and tried the bow. Three times he made it quiver, straining to draw it, and three times he had to let the effort go, though in his heart he still hoped to string the cord and shoot the arrow through the iron. And he would have strung it on the fourth pull, straining with all his strength, but Odysseus shook his head at him and held him back, eager as he was. Then the strong figure of Telemachus spoke again among them:
"Well, it seems I am fated to stay weak and useless forever — or else I am simply too young yet, and cannot trust my hands to fight off a man who turns hostile first. But come, you who are stronger than I am, try your hand at this bow, and let us bring the contest to its end."
So saying he set the bow down on the ground, leaning it against the smooth, close-fitted doors, and rested the swift arrow against its fine curved tip, then went back and sat down on the chair he had risen from. Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke to them then:
"Rise in turn, my friends, all of you moving from left to right, starting from the place where the wine is poured."
So spoke Antinous, and his words pleased them all. Leiodes rose first, son of Oenops, who served them as their seer and always sat farthest back by the fine mixing bowl; he alone despised their wanton ways, and was angered by all the suitors' conduct. He was the first now to take up the bow and the swift arrow. He went and stood on the threshold and tried the bow, but he could not string it — his hands grew tired straining at it, hands soft and unused to work — and he said to the suitors:
"Friends, I cannot string it; let another take it up. This bow will rob many of our best men here of life and spirit, since it is far better to die than to go on living and fail to win what we have gathered here for, day after day, always hoping. Even now there is someone here who still expects and longs in his heart to marry Penelope, wife of Odysseus. But once he has tried the bow and seen for himself, let him then go seeking some other well-dressed woman of Achaea with gifts of courtship, and let her marry whoever offers the most and comes as fate decrees."
So he spoke, and set the bow down, leaning it against the smooth, close-fitted doors, and rested the swift arrow against its fine curved tip, then went back and sat down on the chair he had risen from. Antinous rebuked him, calling out:
"Leiodes, what a word has slipped past the fence of your teeth — a terrible, ugly word, and I am angry just hearing it — if this bow really is going to rob our best men of life and spirit, just because you cannot string it. Your honored mother did not bear you to be the sort of man to handle a bow and arrows. But other proud suitors will string it soon enough."
So he spoke, and called out to Melanthius, the goatherd:
"Quick now, Melanthius, light a fire in the hall, and set a big stool beside it with a fleece on it, and bring out a great round cake of fat from what is stored inside, so that we younger men can warm the bow, greasing it well, and try it again, and bring this contest to its end."
So he spoke, and Melanthius quickly kindled a steady fire, brought up a stool and set a fleece on it, and brought out a great round cake of fat from what was stored inside. The young men warmed the bow and tried it, but they could not string it — they fell far too short in strength. Antinous still held back from trying, and so did godlike Eurymachus, the leaders of the suitors, by far the best of them all in standing.
Meanwhile the two of them, the cowherd and the swineherd of godlike Odysseus, went out from the hall together, and Odysseus himself went out after them, out of the house. When they were outside the doors and the courtyard, he spoke to them with gentle words:
"Cowherd, and you too, swineherd — should I speak a certain thing, or keep it hidden? My heart tells me to speak it out. What kind of men would you be, to stand by Odysseus, if somehow he came from somewhere, just like this, suddenly, and some god brought him here? Would you stand by the suitors, or by Odysseus? Tell me exactly what your hearts and minds tell you to do."
Then the herdsman of the cattle answered him:
"Father Zeus, if only you would bring that wish to pass — that the man might come, and some god might lead him here! Then you would see what strength is in me, and what my hands can do."
And Eumaeus prayed in the same way to all the gods, that wise Odysseus might come home again to his own house. When Odysseus had learned the true feeling in both their hearts, he spoke to them again, answering:
"He is here already — I myself, home at last, after great suffering, in the twentieth year, come back to my own native land. I see that of all my servants, only you two have longed for my return; from none of the others have I heard a prayer for me to come home again. So to you both I will tell plainly how things will be. If a god brings the proud suitors down under my hand, I will find wives for each of you and give you property, and houses built close by my own, and from then on you will be companions and brothers to Telemachus in my eyes. But look — I will show you another clear sign, so that you may know me well and trust me in your hearts — this scar, where a boar's white tusk once gashed me, when I went to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus."
With these words he pulled the rags back from the great scar. When the two of them had seen it and understood every part of it, they wept, throwing their arms around wise Odysseus, and kissed his head and shoulders in their joy, and Odysseus in turn kissed their heads and hands. And the light of the sun would have gone down on their weeping, if Odysseus himself had not checked them, saying:
"Stop this weeping and wailing now, or someone may come out of the hall and see us, and go tell what is happening inside. Go in one at a time, not all together — I first, then you after me. And let this be the sign between us: all the rest, all the proud suitors, will refuse to let the bow and quiver be given to me. But you, noble Eumaeus, carry the bow through the hall and put it into my hands, and tell the women to bar the close-fitted doors of the hall, and if any of them hears groaning or the crash of men inside our walls, tell them not to rush out but to stay right where they are, quietly, at their work. And to you, noble Philoetius, I give this charge — bar the courtyard gate with its bolt, and quickly lash it fast."
With these words he went back into the well-built house and sat down again on the chair from which he had risen; and the two servants of godlike Odysseus went in after him.
By now Eurymachus was turning the bow in his hands, warming it this way and that at the fire's blaze, but even so he could not string it, and his proud heart groaned within him. Deeply troubled, he spoke out, saying:
"What shame — grief for myself, and grief for all of us. It is not so much the marriage I mourn, sore as that is — there are plenty of other Achaean women, some here in sea-girt Ithaca itself, others in other cities. What grieves me is that we should fall so far short in strength of godlike Odysseus, that we cannot even string his bow. It will be a disgrace for men yet to come to hear of."
Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him:
"Eurymachus, it will not be so — you know that yourself. Today is the sacred festival of the god, kept throughout the district; who would go stringing bows on a day like this? Let it rest quietly. As for the axes, let us leave them all standing where they are — I do not think anyone will come into the hall of Odysseus, son of Laertes, and carry them off. Come, let the wine-steward pour a first round for us all, so that after we have poured libation we may set the curved bow aside. In the morning tell Melanthius the goatherd to bring in goats, the very best from all his herds, so that we may lay their thighs on the fire for Apollo, the archer-god of fame, and then try the bow again and bring this contest to its end."
So spoke Antinous, and his words pleased them all. Then the heralds poured water over their hands, and young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with wine, and served it round to everyone, pouring first a portion for libation. When they had poured their offering and drunk as much as their hearts desired, resourceful Odysseus spoke among them, his mind working toward his own ends:
"Hear me, suitors of the far-famed queen, and let me say what my heart within me urges. I appeal above all to Eurymachus and godlike Antinous, since he spoke rightly just now, when he said to set the bow aside for today and leave the outcome to the gods — in the morning a god will give the strength to whomever he wishes. But come, give the polished bow to me, so that among you I may test the strength left in my hands, and see whether I still have the power I once had in these supple limbs, or whether wandering and neglect have already worn it away."
At this they all grew violently angry, afraid that he might actually string the polished bow. Antinous rebuked him, calling out:
"You wretched stranger, you have not even a grain of sense left in you. Are you not content to feast at ease among us, your betters, missing nothing of the meal, and even to listen in on our talk and our conversation — something no other beggar or stranger is allowed to do? It is the sweet wine that is doing you harm, wine that ruins other men too, whoever gulps it down and does not drink in moderation. Wine was what maddened the Centaur, famous Eurytion, in the hall of great-hearted Pirithous, when he came among the Lapiths; once wine had crazed his wits, he went wild and did terrible harm throughout the house of Pirithous. Grief seized the heroes there, and they sprang up and dragged him out through the doorway into the courtyard, hacking off his ears and nose with pitiless bronze —"
and sawing off his nose. Wrecked in his own wits, he went off dragging his ruin along with a mind gone blind. That was the start of the feud between Centaurs and men, but the Centaur himself, heavy with wine, found the trouble first. So I tell you plainly what disaster you are courting if you string that bow: you will find no kindness among our people here. We will pack you off at once in a black ship to King Echetus, the maimer of every man alive, and from there you will never come home safe. So drink your wine quietly and don't pick fights with men younger than you."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "Antinous, it isn't right, and it isn't fair, to mistreat any guest of Telemachus who comes to this house. Do you really imagine that if this stranger strings Odysseus's great bow, trusting to his hands and his strength, he'll take me home and make me his wife? He himself, I'm sure, hopes nothing of the kind. So none of you should sit here at dinner brooding over that — it wouldn't be fitting at all."
Eurymachus, son of Polybus, spoke up to her: "Daughter of Icarius, thoughtful Penelope, we don't imagine he'll take you home — that wouldn't be fitting either — but we're ashamed of what men and women might say, some lesser man among the Achaeans saying, 'Far weaker men are courting the wife of a great man, and can't even string his polished bow, while some wandering beggar came along and strung it easily and shot the arrow clean through the iron.' That's what people would say, and it would shame us."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "Eurymachus, there's no way men who eat up and dishonor the house of the finest of men can keep a good name in the district. Why treat this as a matter of shame? This stranger is tall and well built, and he claims to be the son of a noble father. Come, give him the polished bow and let's see. I'll declare this now, and it will be carried out: if he strings it, and Apollo grants him the glory, I'll dress him in a cloak and a tunic, fine clothes, and give him a sharp javelin to guard him against dogs and men, and a two-edged sword, and sandals for his feet, and send him wherever his heart and spirit tell him to go."
Thoughtful Telemachus answered her in turn: "Mother, over the bow no man of the Achaeans has more right than I do, to give it or refuse it, to whoever I please — not one of those who rule rocky Ithaca, nor any of those toward Elis, land of grazing horses. None of them will force me against my will, even if I choose to give this stranger the bow outright to carry off. Go back into the house now and see to your own work, the loom and the spindle, and tell your maids to get on with their tasks. The bow will be men's business, mine most of all — I am master of this house."
She went back to her room amazed, taking her son's firm words to heart. She climbed to the upper chamber with her maids and wept there for Odysseus, her dear husband, until grey-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep over her eyes.
Meanwhile the loyal swineherd took up the curved bow and carried it forward. The suitors all began jeering at him in the hall, and one of the arrogant young men would call out, "Where are you taking that curved bow, you miserable swineherd, you wanderer? Soon the swift dogs you've raised will eat you alive out among your own pigs, far from other men — if Apollo and the rest of the gods are kind to us."
So they jeered, and he set the bow down again right where he stood, frightened, since so many were shouting at him in the hall. But Telemachus called out a threat from the other side: "Old man, bring the bow on — you won't please everyone by obeying them all. Careful, or I'll chase you back to the fields with stones, young as I am, though I'm the stronger man. If only I were as much stronger in hand and strength than all these suitors crowding the house, I'd soon send more than one of them home sick to their stomachs, for the trouble they're plotting against us."
So he spoke, and all the suitors burst out laughing at him, and their hard anger toward Telemachus eased. The swineherd carried the bow on through the hall and set it in the hands of wise Odysseus. Then he called old Eurycleia aside and said to her, "Telemachus orders you, thoughtful Eurycleia, to bolt the doors of the hall, the close-fitted doors. If anyone hears groaning or a crash from the men inside our walls, tell them not to come rushing out, but to stay quietly at their work."
So he said, and his word went unquestioned. She bolted the doors of the well-built hall. And Philoetius slipped out of the house in silence and barred the gate of the strong-walled courtyard. A ship's cable of papyrus fiber lay under the portico of a curved vessel, and with this he lashed the gate shut, then went back in himself and sat down on the stool he had risen from, watching Odysseus.
By now Odysseus was turning the bow over in his hands, testing it this way and that, checking that worms had not eaten the horn while its master was away. And men would glance at their neighbor and say, "Look at him, a real connoisseur and pilferer of bows — either he has one like it lying at home himself, or he means to make one, the way he keeps turning it over in his hands, that vagabond, well versed in mischief."
And another of the arrogant young men would say, "May he have just as much luck at anything else as he'll ever have stringing that bow!"
So the suitors talked. But cunning Odysseus, once he had lifted the great bow and studied it all over — the way a man skilled with the lyre and with song easily stretches a new string around a peg, tying the twisted gut-cord at both ends — just so, without any strain, Odysseus strung the great bow. Then he took it in his right hand and tested the string, and it sang out sweetly under his touch, with a note like a swallow's cry. Grief hit the suitors hard, and the color drained from every face. Then Zeus thundered loud, sending a sign, and long-suffering Odysseus felt joy at this, that the son of crooked-minded Cronus had sent him an omen.
He picked up a swift arrow that lay bare on the table beside him — the rest lay hidden in the hollow quiver, the ones the Achaeans were soon to test. He set it against the bridge of the bow, drew the string and notched feathers back together, still sitting there on his stool, and let the arrow fly straight ahead. He did not miss a single axe-head from the first, and the bronze-heavy arrow passed clean through and out the far side. Then he said to Telemachus: "Telemachus, this guest sitting in your hall hasn't disgraced you. I didn't miss my mark, and it cost me no long struggle to string the bow. My strength is still sound — not as the suitors mocked and scorned me for. But now it's time to make the Achaeans their supper, while daylight lasts, and afterward there's room for other pleasures too, song and the lyre — the crowning grace of a feast."
He said this and nodded with his brows, and Telemachus, dear son of godlike Odysseus, buckled on his sharp sword and gripped his spear in hand, and stood close beside his father's chair, armored in gleaming bronze.

======== Book 22 ========

Then cunning Odysseus stripped off his rags and leaped up onto the great threshold, bow in hand and quiver full of arrows. He poured the swift shafts out before his feet and spoke to the suitors.
“This contest, unwinnable, is finished. Now I will aim at another mark no man has yet struck, if I can hit it — and may Apollo grant me the glory.”
With that he aimed a bitter arrow straight at Antinous, who was just then lifting a fine two-handled golden cup, about to raise it to his lips and drink. Death was the last thing on his mind — who would imagine that one man, alone among so many feasters, however strong he might be, would bring him death and black doom? But Odysseus took aim at his throat and shot, and the point drove clean through the soft neck. Antinous slumped sideways, the cup fell from his hand, and at once a thick jet of blood spurted from his nostrils. He kicked the table from him, spilling the food to the ground — bread and roasted meat lay fouled in the dust.
When the suitors saw him fall, an uproar rose through the hall. They sprang up from their seats in confusion, scanning the well-built walls on every side, but there was no shield to be found anywhere, no sturdy spear to snatch up. They turned on Odysseus with furious words.
“Stranger, you shoot at men — that was an evil thing to do! You will try no more contests. Now sheer destruction is certain for you. You have just killed the best young man in all Ithaca — the vultures will eat you for this.”
So each man cried out, thinking he had killed Antinous without meaning to. Fools — they did not see that the cords of death already bound them all. But Odysseus, glaring at them, answered.
“Dogs! You told yourselves I would never come home from the land of Troy. So you ate through my house, forced yourselves on my slave women, and while I still lived you courted my wife — with no fear of the gods who hold the wide heaven, and no thought that men would ever take revenge. Now the cords of death are fastened on you all.”
At his words pale fear seized every one of them, and each man looked about for some way to escape sheer ruin. Eurymachus alone spoke up in answer.
“If you are truly Odysseus of Ithaca come home, then what you say is just — all the reckless wrongs the Achaeans committed, so many in your halls and so many in your fields. But the man responsible for it all already lies dead — Antinous. He was the one who drove us to it, not so much wanting the marriage or needing it, but with another plan in mind, which the son of Cronus never let him finish — to become king himself over the fair land of Ithaca, once he had ambushed and killed your son. Now he has died as he deserved. Spare your own people. As for us, we will make amends afterward, gathering from the whole land the worth of everything eaten and drunk in your halls, each man paying you back the price of twenty oxen, in bronze and gold, until your heart is warmed. Until then no one could blame you for your anger.”
Glaring at him, Odysseus answered.
“Eurymachus, not even if you gave me all your fathers’ wealth, everything you now possess and whatever else you could add to it — not even then would I hold my hands back from killing until the suitors have paid in full for all their crimes. Now the choice lies before you: fight me face to face, or run, if any man thinks he can escape death and doom. But I do not think a single one of you will escape sheer ruin.”
At this their knees gave way and their hearts failed within them. Then Eurymachus spoke to the suitors once more.
“Friends, this man will not hold back his invincible hands. Now that he has the polished bow and the quiver, he will keep shooting from that smooth threshold until he has killed us all. Let us think of fighting. Draw your swords, and hold up the tables against his death-dealing arrows. Then all together let us rush him in a mass, and try to drive him from the threshold and the door. Then let us get out into the town, and raise the alarm as fast as we can — this man would soon be shooting his last arrow.”
So he spoke, and drew his sharp bronze sword, edged on both sides, and sprang at Odysseus with a terrible cry. But at that same moment noble Odysseus loosed an arrow and struck him in the chest beside the nipple, driving the swift shaft deep into his liver. The sword fell from his hand to the ground, and he doubled over, crashing across a table in his death throes, spilling the food and the two-handled cup to the floor. He beat the earth with his forehead in his agony, kicking at his chair with both feet until it toppled, and darkness poured down over his eyes.
Amphinomus then rushed straight at glorious Odysseus, sword drawn, hoping to force him back from the doorway. But Telemachus was quicker — he struck him from behind with his bronze-tipped spear, between the shoulders, and drove it clean through his chest. Amphinomus fell with a crash, striking the ground full on his forehead. Telemachus sprang back, leaving the long-shadowed spear planted in the body, afraid that some Achaean might rush him with a sword or stab him while he bent to pull it free. He ran, and quickly reached his father’s side, and standing close beside him spoke winged words.
“Father, let me bring you a shield and two spears now, and a bronze helmet to fit your temples. I will arm myself too as I go, and I will bring more to the swineherd and the cowherd — it is better that we all be armed.”
Resourceful Odysseus answered him.
“Run and fetch them, while I still have arrows to defend myself with, or they may push me back from the door while I stand here alone.”
So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his father, and went to the storeroom where the fine weapons lay. From there he took out four shields, eight spears, and four bronze helmets crested with horsehair, and hurried back to his father with them. He was the first to arm himself in bronze, and the two herdsmen likewise put on the fine armor, and all three took their stand around wise, cunning Odysseus.
As long as he had arrows to defend himself, he kept aiming and dropping one suitor after another inside his own house, and they fell in heaps. But when the arrows failed the shooting lord, he leaned the bow against the doorpost of the strong-built hall, against the shining wall, and slung the four-layered shield over his shoulders, and set on his mighty head the well-made helmet with its horsehair crest nodding fearsomely above, and took up two stout bronze-tipped spears.
Now there was a side door set in the well-built wall, high up near the top of the threshold of the strong-built hall, opening onto a passage, its panels fitted close. Odysseus told the noble swineherd to stand guard there, for it was the only other way in.
Then Agelaus spoke up, putting the thought before them all.
“Friends, could not one of us climb up through that side door and tell the people, and raise the alarm as fast as possible? Then this man would soon be shooting his last arrow.”
The goatherd Melanthius answered him.
“That cannot be done, Agelaus, son of the gods — the fine courtyard gate is far too close, and the mouth of the passage is narrow. One man of any courage could hold off you all from there. But come, let me go and bring you armor to put on from the storeroom — I am sure that is the only place Odysseus and his son have stored their weapons, and nowhere else.”
With this, the goatherd Melanthius climbed up through the smoke-vents of the hall to Odysseus’s storerooms. From there he took twelve shields, as many spears, and as many bronze helmets crested with horsehair, and hurried back and gave them to the suitors. When Odysseus saw them arming themselves, brandishing the long spears in their hands, his knees went weak and his heart sank — the task now looked huge to him. At once he spoke winged words to Telemachus.
“Telemachus, surely one of the women in the hall is stirring up this cruel fight against us — or it is Melanthius.”
Wise Telemachus answered him.
“Father, this fault is mine alone, no one else’s — I left the storeroom door standing open, and their watch was sharper than mine. But go now, good Eumaeus, and shut that door, and see whether it is one of the women doing this, or Melanthius, Dolius’s son, as I suspect.”
While they were saying this to each other, the goatherd Melanthius went back to the storeroom again to fetch more fine armor. But the noble swineherd noticed him, and quickly spoke to Odysseus, who stood nearby.
“Son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, there goes that treacherous man we suspected, heading for the storeroom. Tell me plainly — shall I kill him, if I prove the stronger, or bring him here to you, so he can pay for all the many crimes he has plotted against your house?”
Cunning Odysseus answered him.
“Telemachus and I will hold the noble suitors back inside the hall, eager as they are. The two of you twist his hands and feet up behind him and throw him into the storeroom, and tie the door shut behind him. Then run a braided rope from his body up to a high pillar and hoist him close to the roof beams, so that he stays alive a long while, suffering cruel pain.”
So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed. They went to the storeroom, and Melanthius did not notice them, being inside. While he searched the depths of the room for weapons, the two of them stood waiting on either side of the doorposts. When the goatherd Melanthius stepped over the threshold, carrying a fine helmet in one hand and in the other a broad old shield crusted with mold, once carried by the hero Laertes in his youth and now lying discarded, its straps come apart with age — the two men sprang and seized him, and dragged him inside by the hair, and threw him down on the floor, sick at heart. They bound his hands and feet tight behind him in a painful knot, twisting them well back, just as the son of Laertes, long-suffering, godlike Odysseus, had commanded. They ran a braided rope from his body up to a high pillar and hoisted him close to the roof beams. Then Eumaeus the swineherd taunted him.
“Now, Melanthius, you will keep watch through the night in comfort, stretched on a soft bed, as you deserve. You will not miss the golden-throned Dawn as she rises from the streams of Ocean, at the hour when you usually bring in goats for the suitors’ feast.”
So he was left there, stretched tight in his agonizing bonds. The two men put on their armor, shut the shining door, and went back to wise, cunning Odysseus. There they stood, breathing fury — four at the threshold, and inside the hall many brave men besides. Then Athena, daughter of Zeus, came near them, looking in form and voice like Mentor. Odysseus was glad to see her and spoke.
“Mentor, help me in this danger, and remember your dear comrade, who always treated you well — you are the same age as I am.”
So he spoke, though he guessed it was Athena, rouser of armies.
Meanwhile the suitors on the other side of the hall shouted threats. Agelaus, son of Damastor, was first to rebuke her.
“Mentor, do not let Odysseus talk you into fighting the suitors on his side, to defend him. For this is how I think our plan will end: once we have killed these two, father and son, you will be killed along with them for what you mean to do in this hall — you will pay for it with your own head. And once we have stripped your strength from you with bronze, we will add whatever you own, inside the house and out, to Odysseus’s goods, and we will not let your sons live on in your halls, nor your daughters, nor your honored wife go about the streets of Ithaca.”
At this Athena grew angrier still at heart, and rebuked Odysseus with furious words.
“Odysseus, your strength and courage are no longer what they were, that day you fought the Trojans nine years without pause for fair-armed, well-born Helen, killing many men in the dread press of battle — it was your plan that brought down Priam’s broad-streeted city. How is it that now, when you have come to your own house and your own possessions, you shrink from facing the suitors and being brave? Come now, stand by me, friend, and watch what I do, so you may see what kind of man Mentor, son of Alcimus, is among enemies — one who repays kindness.”
Yet she did not yet grant them outright victory, but went on testing the strength and courage of both Odysseus and his glorious son. She flew up into the smoky rafters of the hall and perched there, like a swallow to look at.
Meanwhile Agelaus, son of Damastor, rallied the suitors, along with Eurynomus, Amphimedon, Demoptolemus, Peisander son of Polyctor, and wise Polybus — these were by far the best of the suitors still alive and fighting for their lives, for the rest had already been brought down by the bow and its rain of arrows. Agelaus spoke to them, putting his thought before them all.
“Friends, this man will soon have to stop — his invincible hands will tire. Look, Mentor has gone off, after speaking empty boasts, and they stand alone at the front door. So do not all of you throw your long spears at once — come, let six of us throw first, and see if Zeus grants that Odysseus be struck and we win glory. Once he falls, the rest will be easy.”
So he spoke, and all six threw as he ordered, eager to hit their mark. But Athena made every throw miss. One man’s spear struck the doorpost of the strong-built hall, another’s struck the close-fitted door, another’s ashen spear, heavy with bronze, struck the wall. When the suitors’ spears had all gone wide, long-suffering, noble Odysseus spoke first among his men.
“Friends, now I say it is time for us to throw as well, into that crowd of suitors who are eager to strip and kill us, on top of all their earlier crimes.”
So he spoke, and all his men threw their sharp spears together, aiming straight ahead. Odysseus killed Demoptolemus, Telemachus killed Euryades, the swineherd killed Elatus, and the cowherd killed Peisander. All four suitors bit the vast earth in their fall, and the rest drew back into a corner of the hall. Odysseus’s men rushed forward and pulled their spears from the bodies.
Once more the suitors threw their sharp spears, eager to hit their mark, but Athena made most of the throws go wide. One man’s spear struck the doorpost of the strong-built hall, another’s struck the close-fitted door, another’s ashen spear, heavy with bronze, struck the wall. Amphimedon grazed Telemachus’s wrist with a glancing blow, the bronze just scratching the skin, and Ctesippus’s long spear passed over Eumaeus’s shield, grazing his shoulder before flying on and falling to the ground.
Then the men around wise, cunning Odysseus threw their sharp spears back into the crowd of suitors. City-sacking Odysseus struck Eurydamas, Telemachus struck Amphimedon, the swineherd struck Polybus, and then the cowherd struck Ctesippus full in the chest, and boasted over him as he fell.
“Son of Polytherses, lover of mockery — never again give in to your folly and talk big, but leave the outcome to the gods, since they are far stronger than you. This is my gift in return for the ox-hoof you once threw at godlike Odysseus, when he was begging through this house.”
So spoke the herder of shambling cattle. Meanwhile Odysseus stabbed the son of Damastor at close range with his long spear, and Telemachus stabbed Leocritus, son of Euenor, through the middle of the belly, driving the bronze clean through, and he fell forward, striking the ground full with his forehead.
Then Athena raised aloft from the roof her death-dealing aegis, and the suitors’ hearts were struck with terror. They fled through the hall like a herd of cattle that a darting gadfly drives wild and scatters in the springtime, when the days grow long.
The others in turn hurled their sharp spears at Odysseus, the wise and resourceful. Odysseus, sacker of cities, struck Eurydamas; Telemachus struck Amphimedon; the swineherd struck Polybus. And the man who tended the cattle struck Ctesippus square in the chest, and crowed over him as he spoke:
"Son of Polytherses, lover of mockery, never again puff yourself up with foolish talk and speak so grandly — leave the verdict to the gods, since they are far stronger than you. This is your guest-gift in return for the ox-hoof you once gave godlike Odysseus, when he went begging through his own house."
So spoke the herdsman of the curved-horned cattle. And Odysseus, meanwhile, wounded the son of Damastor with a thrust of his long spear. Telemachus struck Leocritus, son of Evenor, driving his spear through the middle of his belly, the bronze point punching clean through; he crumpled forward and struck the ground full on his forehead.
Then Athena raised aloft, from up near the roof-beam, her man-destroying aegis, and the suitors' hearts were struck with terror. They fled through the hall like a herd of cattle stampeding, driven mad when the darting gadfly strikes them in the season of spring, when the days grow long. And as vultures with hooked claws and curved beaks come down from the mountains and swoop upon smaller birds — the birds cower low, fleeing into the clouds over the plain, but the vultures pounce and cut them down, and no strength or flight can save them, while men rejoice at the hunt — so the suitors' killers swept through the hall and struck them down on every side, and a horrible groaning rose up from men whose skulls were being split, and the whole floor ran with blood.
Then Leodes rushed forward and caught hold of Odysseus's knees, and begged him, speaking words that flew like arrows:
"I clasp your knees, Odysseus — have mercy on me, spare me. Never once, I swear, did I speak or do anything reckless to any woman in this house. In fact I tried to stop the other suitors, whenever one of them meant to act so. But they would not listen to me, would not hold their hands back from wrongdoing, and so their own recklessness has brought them to this ugly death. And now I, who was only their priest, who did no wrong, will lie dead among them — since it seems there's no gratitude afterward for good service."
Odysseus of many designs looked at him darkly and answered:
"If you truly claim to have been their priest, then you must often have prayed in this hall that the sweet end of my homecoming would be kept far from me, and that my dear wife would follow you, and bear you children. For that, you will not escape a painful death."
So he spoke, and with his heavy hand he snatched up the sword that Agelaus had dropped to the ground when he was killed, and drove it clean through the middle of Leodes' neck. His head was still speaking when it rolled into the dust.
But Phemius the singer, son of Terpes, was still trying to escape black death — Phemius, who sang for the suitors only because he was forced to. He stood there holding his clear-toned lyre near the side door, torn between two thoughts: whether to slip out of the hall and sit at the great altar of Zeus of the courtyard, the well-built altar where Laertes and Odysseus had so often burned the thigh-pieces of oxen, or whether to rush forward and clasp Odysseus by the knees and beg him. And as he weighed it, this seemed the better course to him — to clasp the knees of Odysseus, son of Laertes.
So he set his hollow lyre down on the ground, between the mixing-bowl and the silver-studded chair, and rushed at Odysseus himself and caught his knees, and begged him, speaking words that flew like arrows:
"I clasp your knees, Odysseus — have mercy on me, spare me. You yourself will grieve for it afterward, if you kill a singer, one who sings for gods and men alike. I am self-taught; a god has planted in my mind songs of every kind, and I am fit to sing before you as before a god. Do not be so eager to cut my throat. Telemachus himself, your own dear son, could tell you this — that it was not by my own will or wish that I came to your house to sing at the suitors' feasts, but they were many and strong, and they forced me to it."
So he spoke, and the strong, sacred force that was Telemachus heard him, and quickly called out to his father, who stood near:
"Stop — do not strike this innocent man with your bronze. And let us spare Medon the herald too, who always cared for me in our house when I was a child — unless Philoetius or the swineherd has already killed him, or he ran into you as you raged through the hall."
So he spoke, and Medon, a man of careful judgment, heard him — for he lay crouched beneath a chair, wrapped in a freshly flayed oxhide, trying to escape black death. He sprang up quickly from under the chair and threw off the hide, then rushed to Telemachus and caught him by the knees, and begged him, speaking words that flew like arrows:
"Friend, here I am — hold back, and tell your father not to destroy me with the sharp bronze in his overwhelming strength, in his anger at the suitors who devoured his goods in this hall and, fools that they were, never once honored you."
Odysseus of many designs smiled at him and answered:
"Take heart, since this man has rescued you and saved your life, so that you will know in your heart, and tell others too, how much better a good deed is than an evil one. But now go out of the hall and sit outside in the courtyard, away from the killing — you and the singer of many songs — while I finish here in the house what still needs to be done."
So he spoke, and the two of them went out of the hall and sat down at the great altar of Zeus, glancing about them on every side, still expecting death at any moment.
Odysseus looked around his own house to see if any man was still alive, hiding, trying to escape black death. But he saw them all lying in blood and dust, so many of them, like fish that fishermen have hauled up out of the gray sea onto a curving beach in a wide-meshed net — and all of them lie heaped on the sand, gasping for the waves of the sea, until the shining sun takes the life out of them. So now the suitors lay heaped upon one another. Then Odysseus of many designs spoke to Telemachus:
"Telemachus, go and call the nurse Eurycleia to me, so I can tell her something that is on my mind."
So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his dear father. He shook the door and said to the nurse Eurycleia:
"Get up now, old woman, come here — you who watch over all the serving women in our house. Come — my father calls you, he wants to tell you something."
So he spoke, and his words found their mark unspoken further. She opened the doors of the well-built hall and went to him, with Telemachus leading the way before her.
She found Odysseus among the bodies of the men he had slain, spattered with blood and gore like a lion that has just fed on a farmyard ox — his whole chest and both cheeks are stained with blood, and he is terrible to look upon. So Odysseus was spattered, his feet and hands above them stained with blood. When she saw the bodies and the immense pool of blood, she made ready to cry out in triumph, so great was the deed she saw — but Odysseus held her back and checked her, eager as she was, and spoke to her, saying words that flew like arrows:
"Rejoice in your heart, old woman, but hold it in — do not cry out. It is not right to exult over slain men. It was the doom of the gods that overcame these men, and their own reckless deeds — for they honored no one among men on the earth who came to them, neither the good man nor the bad. And so their own recklessness brought them to this ugly death. But come now, tell me about the women in the house — which ones dishonor me, and which are blameless."
Then his dear nurse Eurycleia answered him:
"Then I will tell you the truth, my child.
There are fifty women serving in the house, whom we have taught to do their work, to card wool and bear the burden of servitude. Of these, twelve in all have crossed over into shamelessness, honoring neither me nor Penelope herself. And Telemachus was still growing up, and his mother would not let him give orders to the serving women. But come, let me go up to the gleaming upper rooms and tell your wife, upon whom some god has cast a sleep."
Odysseus of many designs answered her:
"Do not wake her yet. Instead, tell the women who have behaved shamefully in the past to come here."
So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to carry the message to the women and hurry them along. Meanwhile Odysseus called Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd to him and spoke to them, saying words that flew like arrows:
"Now begin carrying out the bodies, and set the women to it as well. Afterward, clean the beautiful chairs and tables with water and porous sponges. And once you have set the whole house in order,
lead the serving women out of the well-built hall, between the round-house and the fine wall of the courtyard, and cut them down with your long swords there, until you have taken the life from every one of them, and they have forgotten the love they knew beneath the suitors, sneaking off with them in secret."
So he spoke, and the women all came crowding together, wailing terribly and shedding warm tears. First they carried out the bodies of the dead and laid them under the portico of the walled courtyard, propping them one against another; Odysseus himself directed them,
driving them on, and they carried the bodies out because they had no choice. Then they cleaned the beautiful chairs and tables with water and porous sponges. Meanwhile Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd scraped the floor of the well-built house clean with spades, and the serving women carried the scrapings out and threw them away. And when they had set the whole hall in order,
they led the serving women out of the well-built house, and herded them into the narrow space between the round-house and the courtyard wall, from which there was no way to escape.
Then wise Telemachus began to speak among them:
"I will not let these women die a clean death — women who poured shame down on my head and on my mother, and who used to sleep with the suitors."
So he spoke, and he took the cable of a dark-prowed ship and looped it around a great pillar of the round-house, stretching it high up so that none of the women's feet could touch the ground. And just as when thrushes with spread wings, or doves, fly into a snare set in a thicket, meaning to come to roost, and a grim bed receives them there,
so the women's heads were held in a row, and around every neck a noose was fastened, so that they might die most piteously. They struggled with their feet a little while, but not for very long.
Then they led Melanthius out through the doorway into the courtyard, and with pitiless bronze they cut off his nose and ears, tore away his genitals for the dogs to eat raw, and hacked off his hands and feet in their fury. And then, once they had washed their hands and feet, they went in to Odysseus, and the work was done. Odysseus spoke to his dear nurse Eurycleia:
"Bring sulfur, old woman, a remedy for evils, and bring me fire, so I can purify the hall with fumes. And you, tell Penelope to come here with her attendant women; and rouse all the serving women to come to the hall as well."
Then his dear nurse Eurycleia answered him:
"Yes, my child, all this you have said is right and proper. But let me bring you a cloak and tunic to wear — do not go on standing here in the hall with your broad shoulders wrapped in rags. That would be a shameful thing."
Odysseus of many designs answered her:
"Let there first be fire for me here in the hall."
So he spoke, and his dear nurse Eurycleia did not disobey, but brought fire and sulfur, and Odysseus thoroughly fumigated the hall, the house, and the courtyard. Then the old woman went back through the fine rooms of Odysseus's house to carry the message to the women and hurry them along. They came out of the hall carrying torches in their hands, and they crowded around Odysseus and embraced him, and kissed his head and shoulders in welcome, taking hold of his hands. And sweet longing came over him to weep and groan, for he recognized every one of them in his heart.

======== Book 23 ========

The old woman climbed to the upper chamber, laughing with delight, to tell her mistress that her dear husband was inside the house. Her knees moved briskly and her feet stumbled over themselves in haste. She stood over Penelope's head and spoke to her:
"Wake up, Penelope, dear child, so you can see with your own eyes what you have longed for every day of your life. Odysseus has come, he is home at last, however late his coming. And he has killed the arrogant suitors who wasted his household, devoured his goods, and tormented his son."
Thoughtful Penelope answered her: "Dear nurse, the gods have made you mad — the gods who can turn even a sensible person foolish, and can set a simple-minded fool on the path of good sense. It's they who have addled you; before this your wits were sound. Why do you mock me, when my heart is already so full of grief, telling me these wild things and waking me out of the sweet sleep that bound me, wrapping itself around my eyelids? I have not slept so deeply since Odysseus went off to look upon that Ilium whose name I cannot bear to speak. Go now, go back down, return to the hall.
"For if any other of the women who serve me had come with this news and roused me from sleep, I would have sent her away in disgrace, back into the hall. But you — your old age will spare you that."
Her dear old nurse Eurycleia answered her: "I am not mocking you, dear child — it is the plain truth, just as I tell it: Odysseus has come, he is home, that very stranger whom everyone in the hall treated with contempt. Telemachus knew long ago that he was inside, but in his good sense he kept his father's plans hidden, so that Odysseus might have his revenge on the violence of those overbearing men."
So she spoke, and Penelope, full of joy, sprang from her bed and threw her arms around the old woman, and tears fell from her eyes. She spoke to her, and her words flew like birds: "Come now, dear nurse, tell me the truth. If he has really come home, as you say, how did he lay his hands on the shameless suitors, alone as he was, while they always stayed together inside, in a crowd?"
Her dear old nurse Eurycleia answered her: "I did not see it, I did not hear of it firsthand — I only heard the groaning of men being killed. We sat huddled together in the innermost part of our well-built chamber, terrified, while the close-fitted doors held us in, until your son Telemachus called me out of the hall — for his father had sent him to call me. Then I found Odysseus standing among the bodies of the slain, and they lay around him, one on top of another, on the hard-packed floor — it would have warmed your heart to see him. Now they all lie together in a heap by the courtyard gates, while he is fumigating the beautiful hall, kindling a great fire, and he sent me to call you.
"Come with me, so that the two of you may step into joy together, your two hearts, since you have both suffered so much. Now at last this long-cherished hope has been fulfilled: he himself has come alive to his own hearth, and he has found you and his son safe in the halls, while all the suitors who wronged him — every one of them — he has paid back in his own house."
Thoughtful Penelope answered her: "Dear nurse, do not exult too greatly and boast just yet. You know how welcome he would appear in these halls to everyone, and above all to me and to the son we bore together — but this story you tell is not the plain truth. It must be some god who has killed the proud suitors, angered by their heart-galling insolence and their wicked deeds. They honored no man on the earth, neither the base nor the noble, whoever came among them — and so, through their own recklessness, they met with disaster. But Odysseus himself has lost his homecoming, far from Achaea — he himself has perished."
Her dear old nurse Eurycleia answered her in turn: "My child, what a word has escaped the fence of your teeth! You said your husband, who is right here inside by the hearth, would never come home again — your heart was always slow to trust. But listen, let me tell you another sign, one beyond doubt: the scar the boar once gave him with its white tusk. I recognized it while washing his feet, and I wanted to tell you myself, but he seized my throat with his hands and, in his cunning wisdom, would not let me speak. But come with me — I will stake my own life on it: if I am deceiving you, kill me by the most pitiful death you can find."
Thoughtful Penelope answered her in turn: "Dear nurse, hard it is for you to trace the plans of the gods who live forever, wise as you are. Still, let us go to my son, so that I may see the dead suitors, and see the man who killed them."
So saying she went down from the upper chamber, and her heart turned over many things as she went — whether to stand apart and question her dear husband, or to go up to him, take his hands and his head, and kiss him. When she came in and crossed the stone threshold, she sat down opposite Odysseus, in the firelight, against the far wall, while he sat by the tall pillar, looking down, waiting to see whether his noble wife would say anything to him, now that her eyes had seen him.
But she sat a long while in silence, and amazement filled her heart. At one moment, looking straight at him, she seemed to know his face; at another she failed to know him, in those shabby clothes that covered his body. Telemachus rebuked her, speaking her name: "Mother, my hard mother, with your unyielding heart, why do you hold back from my father like this, why don't you sit beside him and ask him questions, question him closely? No other woman would keep such a stubborn heart, standing apart from a husband who, after so much suffering, has come home in the twentieth year to his own native land. But your heart is always harder than stone."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "My child, the heart in my breast is stunned with wonder, and I have no power to speak a word to him, or to ask him anything, or even to look him in the face. But if this is truly Odysseus, and he has come home, then the two of us will surely know each other even better than that — for we have signs between us, known to ourselves alone, hidden from everyone else."
So she spoke, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus smiled, and at once spoke winged words to Telemachus: "Telemachus, let your mother test me here in the hall as she wishes — soon she will know me even better. It is because I am filthy now, and wear such shabby clothes on my body, that she despises me and still will not say that I am he. But let us think how everything may turn out for the best. For even when a man has killed just one person in a community, one who does not leave behind many avengers, he still goes into exile, leaving his kinsmen and his native land. But we have killed the pillars of this city, the very best of the young men of Ithaca — that is what I want you to think carefully about."
Wise Telemachus answered him: "See to that yourself, dear father — men say your judgment is the best there is among mortals, and no other man alive could rival you in it. We will follow you eagerly, and I promise you we will not fall short in courage, so far as our strength allows."
Odysseus, master of many wiles, answered him: "Then I will tell you what seems best to me. First, all of you go and bathe and put on fresh tunics, and tell the maidservants in the hall to bring you clothing. Then let the godlike singer, with his clear-sounding lyre in hand, lead us in the merry rhythm of the dance, so that anyone hearing it from outside — a passerby on the road, or a neighbor — will say it is a wedding feast. That way no wide rumor of the suitors' slaughter will spread through the town before we have gone out to our orchard, thick with trees, in the country. There we will decide whatever advantage the Olympian god grants us."
So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed him. First they bathed and put on fresh tunics, and the women arrayed themselves, while the godlike singer took up his rounded lyre and stirred in them a longing for sweet song and the blameless dance. The great hall echoed all around with the tread of men and fair-girdled women at their revels, and anyone hearing it from outside the house would say: "Truly someone has married the queen so long besieged by suitors. Hard-hearted woman — she did not have the courage to keep watch over the great house of her true husband right to the end, until he came." So people said, not knowing what had really happened.
Meanwhile the housekeeper Eurynome bathed great-hearted Odysseus in his own home and rubbed him with oil, and dressed him in a fine cloak and tunic. And Athena poured great beauty down over his head, making him taller to look at and more powerful, and she made the curling locks flow down from his head like the petals of the hyacinth flower. Just as when a skilled craftsman overlays silver with gold — a man Hephaestus and Pallas Athena have taught every kind of art, and he finishes graceful work — so Athena poured grace over his head and shoulders.
He stepped from the bath looking like one of the immortals, and went back and sat again on the chair from which he had risen, facing his wife, and spoke to her: "Strange woman — the gods who hold the halls of Olympus have given you, beyond all women born, an unyielding heart. No other woman would keep such a stubborn heart, standing apart from a husband who, after so much suffering, has come home in the twentieth year to his own native land. Come then, nurse, make up a bed for me, so that I may lie down alone — for this woman's heart is iron within her."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "Strange man — I am not proud, nor am I scornful of you, nor am I too amazed to speak. I know very well what you looked like when you left Ithaca on your long-oared ship. But come, Eurycleia, make up the sturdy bed for him outside the well-built bedchamber that he built with his own hands. Set the sturdy bed out there for him, and pile it with fleeces, cloaks, and shining blankets."
She said this to test her husband. But Odysseus, deeply troubled, said to his wife, who knew him so well: "Woman, this is a painful thing you have said. Who has moved my bed elsewhere? That would be hard even for a very skilled craftsman, unless a god came in person and easily chose to set it somewhere else. But no living man, however strong in his prime, could easily pry it from its place, for a great secret was built into its construction, and it was my work, and no one else's. There grew a bush of long-leaved olive inside the courtyard, full-grown and flourishing, thick as a pillar.
"Around this I built my bedchamber, working until I finished it, with close-set stones, and I roofed it well above, and I fitted it with jointed doors that closed tight. Only then did I cut away the crown of the long-leaved olive tree, and trimmed the trunk from the root up, planing it with bronze, skillfully and carefully, and trued it to the line to make a bedpost, and I bored it all through with an auger. Starting from that I carved out my bed, and worked on it until it was finished, inlaying it with gold, silver, and ivory, and I stretched across it a strap of oxhide, dyed bright with purple.
"That is the sign I show you now — but I do not know, woman, whether my bed still stands firm in its place, or whether some man has already cut through the olive trunk and moved it elsewhere."
So he spoke, and her knees went weak, and her heart melted, as she recognized the sure signs that Odysseus had laid out before her. Weeping, she ran straight to him, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed his head, saying: "Don't be angry with me, Odysseus — you were always the wisest of men. The gods gave us sorrow, resenting that we should stay together and enjoy our youth and reach the threshold of old age side by side. But don't hold it against me now, don't be angry, that I did not welcome you like this the moment I first saw you.
"For always my heart within me trembled with fear that some man would come and deceive me with his words — for there are many who scheme for wicked gain. Not even Argive Helen, daughter of Zeus, would have lain with a foreign man in love if she had known that the warlike sons of the Achaeans would one day bring her home again to her own native land. It was a god who drove her to that shameful act; before that, she had never let such ruinous folly settle in her heart, the folly from which our own sorrow first began.
"But now, since you have told me the clear and certain signs of our bed, which no other mortal has ever seen, only you and I, and one single servant of mine, Actoris, whom my father gave me when I first came here, who guarded the doors of our sturdy chamber — now you have won my heart, hard as it has been."
So she spoke, and stirred in him an even greater longing for tears. He wept, holding his dear and faithful wife in his arms. And as when the sight of land is welcome to men swimming for their lives, after Poseidon has wrecked their sturdy ship at sea, driving it hard with wind and heavy waves, and only a few escape the gray water by swimming to shore, their bodies caked thick with brine, and they climb onto the land, glad to have escaped disaster — so welcome was her husband to her as she gazed at him, and she would not let her white arms release his neck.
And now rosy-fingered Dawn would have found them still weeping, had not the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, thought of something else. She held back the long night at its close, and kept golden-throned Dawn beside the Ocean, not letting her yoke her swift-footed horses that bring light to men, Lampus and Phaethon, the colts that draw the Dawn.
Then Odysseus, master of many wiles, said to his wife: "Woman, we have not yet come to the end of all our trials — there is still labor ahead, boundless, heavy and hard, all of which I must finish. For so the spirit of Tiresias prophesied to me on the day I went down into the house of Hades, seeking a homecoming for my companions and for myself. But come, let us go to bed, wife, so that at last we may lie down and take our fill of sweet sleep together."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "Our bed will be ready for you whenever your heart desires it, now that the gods have brought you home to your well-built house and your own native land. But since you have thought of it, and a god has put it in your heart, tell me now of this trial — for I will surely learn of it later, I think, so there is no harm in hearing it at once."
Odysseus, master of many wiles, answered her: "Strange woman, why do you press me so urgently to tell it? Still, I will speak, and hide nothing. Your heart will not rejoice in it — indeed I take no joy in it myself, since the prophecy commands me to go to a great many cities of men, carrying a well-shaped oar in my hands, until I come to a people who know nothing of the sea, and eat their food without salt, and know nothing of ships painted red at the prow, nor of shapely oars, which serve as wings for ships.
"And he told me a very plain sign, which I will not hide from you: when some other traveler I meet on the road says I carry a winnowing-fan on my strong shoulder, then I must plant my oar in the earth and offer fine sacrifices to lord Poseidon — a ram, a bull, and a boar that mounts the sows — and go home again, and offer sacred hecatombs to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven, all of them, one after another. And death will come to me myself, away from the sea, a very gentle death, that will take me when I am worn down by sleek old age, and my people around me will live in prosperity. All this, he told me, would come to pass."
Thoughtful Penelope answered him: "If the gods will indeed grant you a better old age, then there is hope that you will find an end to your troubles."
So the two of them spoke to each other of such things. Meanwhile Eurynome and the nurse were making up the bed with soft bedding by the light of blazing torches. And when they had spread the sturdy bed, working quickly, the old woman went back to her own quarters to sleep, while Eurynome, keeper of the bedchamber, led the couple to bed, a torch in her hands. Having brought them to the chamber, she went back out. And so, joyfully, they came to the rites of their marriage bed, as it had been long ago.
Then Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd stopped their feet from dancing, and stopped the women too, and they themselves lay down to sleep throughout the shadowy hall. And when Odysseus and Penelope had taken their fill of loving union, they delighted in talk, telling each other their stories,
She told him everything she had endured in the halls, watching the ruinous crowd of suitors — how many oxen and fat sheep they slaughtered for her sake, and how much wine was drawn from the jars.
And in turn Odysseus, sprung from Zeus, told all the griefs he had brought upon other men, and all the hardship he himself had suffered and labored through. She listened with delight, and sleep did not fall on her eyelids until he had told it all.
He began with how he first conquered the Cicones, and then came to the rich land of the Lotus-Eaters. He told what the Cyclops did, and how he paid him back for the brave companions the monster had eaten without pity. He told how he reached Aeolus, who welcomed him kindly and sent him on his way, though it was not yet his fate to reach his own country — a storm swept him up again and carried him, groaning heavily, over the swarming sea. He told how he came to Telepylus of the Laestrygonians, who destroyed his ships and his well-armored comrades, every one — Odysseus alone escaping in his black ship. He told of Circe's cunning and her many-schemed treachery, and how he went down to the dank house of Hades to consult the spirit of Theban Tiresias, sailing there in his benched ship, and saw all his companions, and his own mother, who had borne him and raised him when he was small. He told how he heard the throbbing song of the Sirens, and how he came to the Wandering Rocks and dread Charybdis and Scylla, whom no man has ever yet escaped unharmed. He told how his companions killed the cattle of the Sun, and how Zeus who thunders on high struck his swift ship with a smoking bolt, and his good comrades perished all together, while he alone escaped the deadly fates. He told how he reached the island of Ogygia and the nymph Calypso, who kept him there, longing to have him for her husband, in her hollow caves, and fed him, and promised to make him immortal and ageless for all his days — but she could never persuade the heart in his chest. He told how he came at last to the Phaeacians after much suffering, and how they honored him in their hearts like a god and sent him home in a ship to his own dear country, giving him bronze and gold and clothing in abundance.
This was the last thing he told her, when sweet sleep, loosener of limbs, came upon him and released the cares of his heart.
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena had another thought. When she judged that Odysseus had had his fill of his wife's embrace and of sleep, at once she roused golden-throned Dawn from the Ocean to bring light to men. And Odysseus rose from his soft bed and spoke these words to his wife:
"Wife, the two of us have had our fill of trials by now — you weeping here over my long and painful voyage home, while Zeus and the other gods held me back from my own country, though I longed for it. But now that we have both come to the bed we love, look after the possessions that are mine within the house. As for the flocks the arrogant suitors ate up, I will win back much of it myself by raiding, and the rest the Achaeans will give me, until they have filled all my folds again. Now I am going out to my orchards, thick with trees, to see my good father, who has grieved so heavily for me. And this I charge you, wife, wise as you are — as soon as the sun comes up, word will spread of the suitors I killed in the halls. Go up to your room with your women and sit there — do not look at anyone or question anyone."
So he spoke, and put on the fine armor about his shoulders, and roused Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd, and told them all to take weapons of war in their hands. They did not disobey him, but armed themselves in bronze, and opened the doors and went out, and Odysseus led the way. By now the light lay upon the earth, but Athena, hiding them in night, led them quickly out of the city.

======== Book 24 ========

Hermes of Cyllene now called forth the souls of the suitors. He held in his hands the wand, beautiful and golden, with which he charms to sleep the eyes of whatever men he wishes, or wakens others out of slumber. With this he roused them and led them on, and they followed, gibbering. As bats in the depths of some awesome cave flit about gibbering when one of them falls from the cluster where they cling to the rock and to one another, so the souls went gibbering together, and Hermes the Helper led them down the dank paths.
They passed the streams of Ocean and the White Rock, passed the gates of the Sun and the land of dreams, and came quickly to the meadow of asphodel, where the souls dwell, the phantoms of the used-up dead. There they found the soul of Achilles, son of Peleus, and of Patroclus, and of noble Antilochus, and of Ajax, who in build and bearing was the finest of the Danaans after the flawless son of Peleus. These crowded around Achilles, and close behind them came the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, grieving, with the others gathered about him, all those who had died with him and met their fate in the house of Aegisthus.
Achilles' soul spoke first to him. "Son of Atreus, we always said that you, of all the heroes, were the favorite of Zeus who delights in thunder, all your days — since you ruled over so many strong men in the land of Troy, where we Achaeans suffered our miseries. Yet even you were destined to meet that ruinous fate early, the doom no man born ever escapes. How much better if you had died in the glory of the power you held, there in the land of Troy, and met your death and fate there. Then the whole army of the Achaeans would have built you a grave-mound, and you would have won great fame for your son hereafter. Instead you were fated to die the most pitiful of deaths."
And the soul of Agamemnon answered him in turn. "Fortunate son of Peleus, godlike Achilles, who died at Troy far from Argos — around you others fell, the finest sons of the Trojans and the Achaeans, fighting over your body, while you lay there great in your greatness, sprawled in the whirl of dust, all thought of your horsemanship gone. We fought the whole day through, and would never have stopped the battle at all, if Zeus had not ended it with a storm.
When we had carried you from the fighting to the ships, we laid you on a bed, and cleansed your fair flesh with warm water and with oil. The Danaans wept hot tears over you and cut their hair. Your mother came up from the sea with her immortal sea-nymphs, hearing the news, and a terrible wailing rose over the water, and trembling seized every one of the Achaeans. They would have leapt up and run for their hollow ships, had not a man who knew many things ancient held them back — Nestor, whose counsel had always before proved best. He, meaning well, spoke out among them and said:
"Hold fast, Argives, do not flee, young men of the Achaeans. It is his mother coming up from the sea with her immortal nymphs, to meet the face of her dead son."
So he spoke, and the great-hearted Achaeans held back their flight. Around you the daughters of the old man of the sea stood, weeping pitifully, and clothed you in garments that do not die. And the nine Muses, all of them, sang the dirge back and forth in their beautiful voices — no one among the Argives could have kept from weeping then, so piercingly did the clear-voiced Muse stir them. For seventeen days and nights alike we wept for you, gods and mortal men together, and on the eighteenth day we gave you to the fire, and killed around you many fat sheep and shambling cattle.
You burned in the clothing of the gods, with abundant oil and sweet honey, and many Achaean heroes marched in their armor around your burning pyre, on foot and on horseback, and a great din rose up. But when the flame of Hephaestus had finished its work on you, at dawn we gathered your white bones, Achilles, and laid them in unmixed wine and oil. Your mother gave a golden urn for them — she said it was a gift of Dionysus, the work of glorious Hephaestus. In that urn your white bones lie, shining Achilles, mixed with the bones of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, who died before you, but kept apart from those of Antilochus, whom you honored above all your other companions once Patroclus was dead.
Over your bones and his, we, the sacred army of Argive spearmen, heaped up a great and flawless grave-mound on a jutting headland by the wide Hellespont, so that it might be seen from far out at sea by men now living and those yet to be born. Your mother asked the gods for splendid prizes and set them out in the middle of the gathering place for the best of the Achaeans to contend for. I have attended the funerals of many heroes before, when at the death of a king the young men gird themselves and make ready for the games, but you would have marveled most of all in your heart to see the prizes silver-footed Thetis set out in your honor — for you were greatly beloved of the gods. So even in death you have not lost your name, but your fame will always be fine among all men, Achilles.
But as for me, what joy is there in this, now that I have wound the war to its end? For on my homecoming Zeus devised for me a grim destruction, at the hands of Aegisthus and my accursed wife."
While the two of them were saying such things to each other, the messenger, the slayer of Argus, came near them, leading down the souls of the suitors killed by Odysseus. The two shades, astonished at the sight, went straight toward them. And the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, recognized the dear son of Melaneus, glorious Amphimedon, for he had been his host, living in a house on Ithaca. The soul of Atreus' son spoke first to him.
"Amphimedon, what happened to you, that you have all come down to the dark earth together, picked men, all of an age? A man choosing the best men in a city could not have chosen better. Did Poseidon overwhelm you on your ships, rousing harsh winds and towering waves? Or did hostile men cut you down on land as you were rustling their cattle and fine flocks of sheep, or while you were fighting over a city and its women? Tell me, since I ask you — I claim to be your guest-friend. Do you not remember when I came down to your house there, urging Odysseus to come with godlike Menelaus and join us on our way to Troy on the well-benched ships? A whole month it took us to cross the wide sea, so hard was it to win over Odysseus, sacker of cities."
And the soul of Amphimedon answered him in turn. "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, I remember all of this well, king cherished by Zeus, just as you tell it. And I will lay out for you, fully and truly, the wretched end of our death, how it came about. We were courting the wife of Odysseus, who had long been gone. She neither refused the hateful marriage nor brought it to an end, but planned death and doom for us in her heart, and this was the trick she devised. She set up a great loom in the hall and began weaving a web, fine of thread and very wide, and said to us at once:
"Young men, my suitors, since noble Odysseus is dead, wait, however eager you are for my marriage, until I finish this cloth, so that the thread I have spun will not go to waste — it is a shroud for the hero Laertes, for the day when the destroying fate of death that lays men low takes him down, so that none of the Achaean women in the district can reproach me if he who won so much should lie without a shroud."
So she spoke, and our proud hearts consented. Then by day she would weave the great web, and by night, when she had torches set beside her, she would unweave it. For three years she deceived us by this trick and won the Achaeans over. But when the fourth year came and the seasons rolled on, as the months waned and many days had run their course, one of her women who knew the truth told us of it, and we caught her in the act of unraveling the shining web. So she was forced to finish it, against her will.
When she showed us the cloth, having woven the great web and washed it, shining like the sun or the moon, then it was that some evil spirit brought Odysseus from somewhere to the edge of the estate, where the swineherd had his house. There too came the dear son of godlike Odysseus, back from sandy Pylos in his black ship. The two of them, having plotted a wretched death for the suitors, made their way to the famous town, Odysseus coming later, with Telemachus leading the way before him.
The swineherd brought him along, wearing wretched clothes on his body, looking like some miserable old beggar, leaning on a staff, with shabby rags wrapped around him. None of us could tell who he really was when he suddenly appeared before us, not even the older men among us, but we hurled abuse and missiles at him. He, for his part, endured it for a time in his own halls, pelted and abused, with a heart that bore it all patiently. But when at last the will of aegis-bearing Zeus roused him to act, he had Telemachus help him carry off all the fine armor and store it away in the storeroom, and bar the doors. Then he told his own wife, with cunning purpose, to set out the bow and the gray iron for us suitors — a contest, and the beginning of death, for us doomed men.
None of us could string the cord of that mighty bow — we fell far short of the strength needed. But when the great bow of Odysseus came around to his own hands, we all shouted out against giving him the bow, no matter how much he might argue for it. Telemachus alone urged him on and commanded it. Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus took it in his hand, strung the bow easily, and shot the arrow clean through the iron. He went and stood on the threshold, poured out the swift arrows before him, glaring terribly around, and struck down King Antinous. Then he aimed his groaning shafts at the rest of us, shooting straight at his mark, and they fell one after another.
It was plain that some god was fighting on their side, for at once they charged through the hall with all their fury and cut men down on every side, and a hideous groaning rose from men whose skulls were being smashed, and the whole floor ran with blood. So we perished, Agamemnon, and even now our bodies lie uncared for in the halls of Odysseus, for the news has not yet reached our families in each man's house, who might wash the dark clotted blood from our wounds, lay us out, and mourn us — for that is the honor due the dead."
And the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, answered him. "Fortunate son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, truly you won yourself a wife of great virtue. How good was the heart of blameless Penelope, daughter of Icarius, how well she remembered Odysseus, the husband of her youth. Because of this the fame of her virtue will never die, and the immortals will make a lovely song for those on earth in honor of steady Penelope — not like the daughter of Tyndareus, who devised wicked deeds and killed the husband of her youth. A hateful song about her will go among men, and she has brought a harsh reputation on all women, even those who do well."
While the two of them were saying such things to each other, standing in the house of Hades, deep beneath the earth, Odysseus and his companions, once they had gone down out of the city, soon reached the fine, well-worked farm of Laertes, which he himself had won long ago after great toil. There stood his house, with a shed running all around it, where the household slaves who worked for him ate and sat and slept. Among them was an old Sicilian woman who tended the old man faithfully out on the farm, far from the town.
There Odysseus spoke to the slaves and to his son. "Go on now, into the well-built house, and quickly slaughter the best of the pigs for our dinner. I will go test my father, to see whether he will know me and recognize me by sight, or fail to know me after so long a time away." So saying, he gave his slaves the weapons of war. They went off quickly toward the house, while Odysseus went nearer, to test the fruitful vineyard.
He did not find Dolius there when he went down into the great orchard, nor any of his sons or slaves — they had all gone off to gather stones for a wall to fence the vineyard, with the old man leading the way. He found his father alone in the well-worked vineyard, digging around a plant. He wore a filthy tunic, patched and shabby, with oxhide leggings bound and stitched about his shins to guard against scratches, and gloves on his hands because of the brambles, and on his head, to top it off, a cap of goatskin, nursing his grief.
When long-suffering, godlike Odysseus saw him worn down by old age, carrying such great sorrow in his heart, he stopped under a tall pear tree and let the tears fall. Then he turned the matter over in his mind and heart, whether to kiss his father and throw his arms around him and tell him everything — how he had come at last home to his own country — or whether to question him first about everything and put him to the test. As he thought it over, this seemed to him the better course: to test him first with taunting words.
With this in mind, godlike Odysseus went straight up to him. His father, head bent, was digging around the plant, and his shining son came and stood beside him and spoke. "Old man, you show no lack of skill in tending this orchard — everything is well cared for, not a plant, not a fig tree, vine, olive, pear, or garden bed in the whole plot goes untended. But I will say something else, and do not take it amiss — you yourself are not well cared for. Along with wretched old age you are unkempt and dressed shamefully.
It cannot be from laziness that your master fails to care for you, and nothing about your look or build suggests a slave — you look like a king. You seem like a man who, once bathed and fed, would sleep soft, as is fitting for old men. But come, tell me this, and speak it truly — whose slave are you, and whose orchard do you tend? And tell me truly, so that I may know for certain, whether this is really Ithaca I have reached, as a man I met just now, coming this way, told me — though he was not entirely sound of mind, for he would not stay to tell me everything, or listen when I asked about my host, whether he is still alive, or already dead and in the house of Hades.
For I will tell you plainly, and you listen and take note. Once, in my own dear homeland, I entertained a man who came to our house, and no other stranger from a distant land was ever a more welcome guest at my home. He claimed to be of Ithacan stock, and said that his father was Laertes, son of Arcesius. I brought him to my house and treated him well, welcoming him warmly, since we had plenty in the household, and I gave him the gifts due a guest, as was fitting. I gave him seven talents of well-wrought gold, and a mixing-bowl of solid silver worked with flowers, twelve cloaks of a single fold, as many rugs, as many fine mantles, and as many tunics besides, and beyond that, women skilled in flawless handiwork, four of them, comely, whichever he wished to choose."
His father answered him then, letting the tears fall. "Stranger, you have indeed come to the land you ask about, but violent, reckless men hold it now. All those gifts you gave so generously are wasted now. Had you found him alive still in the land of Ithaca, he would have sent you off well repaid with gifts and with the hospitality that is only right, when a man has first given it. But come, tell me this, and speak it truly — how many years has it been since you entertained that guest, my son, if he ever truly was — my poor, doomed son? Perhaps far from his loved ones and his native land the fish ate him in the sea, or on land he became prey for beasts and birds. His mother did not wash and dress him and weep over him, nor his father, we who bore him, nor did his devoted wife, steady Penelope, wail over her husband as he lay on the bed and close his eyes, as is fitting — for that is the honor due the dead.
And tell me this too, truly, so that I may know for certain — who are you, and where from, among men? Where is your city, and your parents? Where does your swift ship lie at anchor, the one that brought you here with your godlike companions? Or did you come as a passenger on someone else's ship..."
"So then I will tell you everything, quite truly. I come from Alybas, where I live in a splendid house, the son of lord Apheidas, son of Polypemon, and my own name is Eperitus. But some god drove me here from Sicania against my will, and my ship lies yonder off the fields, away from the city. As for Odysseus, this is now the fifth year since he left there and went away from my country,
unlucky man—though the birds were good for him as he went, birds of good omen, on the strength of which I sent him off rejoicing, and he went rejoicing too. Our hearts still hoped then that we would meet again as guest-friends and that he would give me splendid gifts."
So he spoke, and a black cloud of grief covered Laertes. With both hands he took up the grimy dust and poured it over his gray head, groaning heavily. His son's heart was stirred, and as he looked at his father a sharp force surged up through his nostrils. He rushed forward, threw his arms around him, kissed him, and said:
"I myself am the very man you ask about, father—here I am! I have come back to my native land in the twentieth year. But hold back your weeping and your tearful lament. For I will tell you plainly—though we must hurry all the same—I have killed the suitors in our halls, taking vengeance for their heart-galling insult and their wicked deeds."
Then Laertes answered him and said: "If you are truly Odysseus, my son, come here to me, tell me some clear sign now, so that I may believe it."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "First look with your own eyes at this scar, the one a boar's white tusk gave me on Parnassus, when I had gone there—you and my honored mother had sent me to my mother's father Autolycus, so that I might receive the gifts he had promised and pledged to me when he came here. And come, let me also tell you the trees in the well-tended orchard, which you once gave me—I was a small child then, following you through the garden and asking for each one. We walked among them, and you named them and told me each. You gave me thirteen pear trees and ten apple trees,
and forty fig trees, and you promised to give me fifty rows of vines as well, each one ripening at a different time—there are grapes of every kind on them, whenever the seasons of Zeus weigh down upon them from above."
So he spoke, and Laertes' knees and heart gave way beneath him, as he recognized the sure signs Odysseus had described. He threw his arms around his beloved son, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus caught him as he fainted against him. But when he had recovered his breath and his spirit gathered back into his chest, he spoke again in answer, saying:
"Father Zeus, so you gods still do exist on high Olympus, if the suitors have truly paid for their reckless insolence! But now I am terribly afraid in my heart that soon all the men of Ithaca will come down upon us here, and send messengers everywhere through the cities of the Cephallenians."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Take heart, do not let that trouble your mind. Let us go instead to the house that lies near the orchard. I have already sent Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd ahead there, so they can get a meal ready as quickly as possible."
So the two of them spoke, and went on toward the fine house. When they arrived at the well-built dwelling, they found Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd carving great quantities of meat and mixing the sparkling wine. Meanwhile, in his own house, a Sicilian serving-woman bathed great-hearted Laertes and rubbed him with oil, and threw a fine cloak around him. And Athena, standing close beside him, filled out the limbs of the shepherd of his people, and made him taller and stronger to look at than before. He stepped out of the bath, and his own son marveled
to see him looking like one of the immortal gods, and he spoke to him with winged words: "Father, surely one of the gods who live forever has made you finer to look at, in stature and appearance."
Wise Laertes answered him: "Would, father Zeus, and Athena, and Apollo, that I were the man I was when I took Nericus, that well-built stronghold on the mainland headland, ruling the Cephallenians—had I been that man, standing beside you yesterday in our halls with armor on my shoulders, to fight off
the suitors—then I would have loosened the knees of many of them there in the hall, and you would have rejoiced in your heart!"
So the two of them talked together like this. When the others had finished their work and the meal was ready, they sat down in order on couches and chairs. There they set to their dinner, and just then old Dolius arrived, and with him the old man's sons, worn out from their labors, since their mother had gone out and called them—the aged Sicilian woman who raised them and who tended the old man carefully now that age had gripped him.
When they saw Odysseus and recognized him in their hearts, they stood there in the hall struck with amazement. But Odysseus spoke to them gently and said: "Old man, sit down to your meal, and put aside your astonishment. We have been waiting here in the hall a long while, eager to set to the food, always expecting you."
So he said, and Dolius came straight toward him with both hands outstretched, and Odysseus took his hand and kissed it at the wrist, and spoke to him with winged words: "Old friend, since you have come home to us who longed for you so much,
and no longer even hoped—since the gods themselves have brought you back—hail and welcome, and may the gods grant you happiness! And tell me this truly, so that I may know well: does careful Penelope already know for certain that you have come home, or should we send a messenger to her?"
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Old man, she already knows. Why should you trouble yourself over that?" So he spoke, and the old man sat back down again on the polished bench. In just the same way, Dolius's sons gathered around glorious Odysseus, greeting him with words and clasping his hands,
and then they sat down in order beside Dolius, their father. So they busied themselves with the meal there in the hall. Meanwhile Rumor, the swift messenger, went everywhere through the city, telling of the suitors' hateful death and doom. Hearing it, the people came streaming from every direction, gathering with groaning and lament before the house of Odysseus, and each family carried out its own dead and buried them, while those from other cities they sent home, putting them aboard swift fishing boats for the journey. Then they all went together to the assembly place, grieving in their hearts.
When they had gathered and were all assembled, Eupeithes rose among them and spoke, for an endless grief for his son lay in his heart—for Antinous, the first man godlike Odysseus had killed. Weeping, he addressed the assembly and said: "Friends, what a monstrous thing this man has plotted against the Achaeans! He led away many brave men in his ships and lost them—he lost the hollow ships, and he lost the men. And now he has come back and killed the very best of the Cephallenians. Come, then, before he can quickly reach Pylos
or holy Elis, where the Epeans rule, let us go after him—or else we will hang our heads in shame forever after. For this will be a disgrace even for generations yet to come to hear of, if we do not take vengeance on the murderers of our sons and brothers. As for me, it would give my heart no pleasure to go on living—I would rather die at once and be with the dead. Come, let us go, before they can cross the sea and escape us."
So he spoke, weeping, and pity seized all the Achaeans. Then Medon and the godlike singer came up to them, out of the halls of Odysseus, for sleep had released them,
and they stood in the middle of the crowd, and astonishment seized every man there. Then wise Medon spoke among them and said: "Hear me now, men of Ithaca. Odysseus did not plan these deeds without the will of the immortal gods. I myself saw a deathless god standing close beside Odysseus, looking in every way like Mentor. This immortal god appeared now in front of Odysseus, giving him courage, now again driving the suitors into confusion, rushing through the hall—and they fell one upon another."
So he spoke, and pale fear gripped every one of them.
Then old Halitherses the hero spoke among them too, Mastor's son, for he alone among them could see both forward and behind. With good will toward them he addressed the assembly and said: "Hear me now, men of Ithaca, hear what I have to say. It was through your own cowardice, my friends, that these things happened—for you would not listen to me, nor to Mentor, shepherd of the people, when we told you to stop your sons from their foolishness. They did a monstrous thing through their wicked recklessness, wasting a great man's property and dishonoring his wife, since they thought he would never come home again.
Let it now be as I say—listen to me. Let us not go after him, or someone may bring disaster down on his own head."
So he spoke, and more than half of them leapt up with a great shout; the rest stayed together where they were, for his words did not please their hearts—instead they sided with Eupeithes. Quickly then they rushed to arm themselves, and when they had put the gleaming bronze around their bodies, they gathered together before the wide-wayed city. Eupeithes led them in his folly, thinking he would avenge his son's murder, but he was not destined
to return home again—instead, he would meet his death right there.
Then Athena spoke to Zeus, son of Cronus: "Our father, son of Cronus, highest of rulers, answer me this—what does your mind hide within it now? Will you stir up further war and dreadful battle, or will you set friendship between both sides?"
Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, answered her: "My child, why do you ask and question me about this? Was it not you yourself who devised this very plan, that Odysseus should come home and take vengeance on those men?
Do as you wish. But I will tell you what is fitting. Now that godlike Odysseus has taken vengeance on the suitors, let them swear firm oaths, and let him be king forever, while we make the people forget the killing of their sons and brothers. Let them be friends with one another as before, and let there be wealth and peace in abundance."
So speaking, he roused Athena, who was already eager, and she went rushing down from the peaks of Olympus.
When they had satisfied their desire for the sweet food, long-suffering, godlike Odysseus began speaking among them: "Let someone go out and look, in case they are already close and coming."
So he spoke, and Dolius's son went out as he had ordered. He stood on the threshold and saw all of them close at hand, and at once spoke to Odysseus with winged words: "Here they are, close by—let us arm ourselves quickly!"
So he spoke, and they rose and put on their armor—four men with Odysseus, and the six sons of Dolius. Laertes and Dolius too put on armor, gray-haired as they were, seasoned fighters out of necessity. When they had put the gleaming bronze around their bodies,
they opened the doors and went out, with Odysseus leading them. Then Zeus's daughter Athena came near them, in the likeness of Mentor, in both form and voice. Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus was glad when he saw her, and at once he spoke to Telemachus, his own dear son: "Telemachus, now you will learn for yourself, once you have gone into battle where the best men are tested, not to shame the line of your fathers, who since ancient times have been famous throughout the world for their strength and their manhood."
Wise Telemachus answered him: "You will see, father, if you wish, that in my present spirit I will bring no shame at all to your line, as you say."
So he spoke, and Laertes rejoiced and said: "What a day this is for me, dear gods! How glad I am—my son and my grandson are competing over which is braver!"
Then gray-eyed Athena stood beside him and said: "Son of Arceisius, dearest by far of all my companions, pray to the gray-eyed maiden and to father Zeus, then quickly poise your long-shadowed spear and hurl it." So Pallas Athena spoke, and breathed great strength into him.
He prayed then to the daughter of great Zeus, and quickly poised his long-shadowed spear and let it fly, and struck Eupeithes through his helmet with its bronze cheek-piece. The bronze did not stop the spear but drove straight through, and he fell with a thud, and his armor rattled upon him. Then Odysseus and his splendid son charged into the front ranks, striking with swords and two-edged spears, and now they would have killed them all and left none to return home,
had not Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, called out with a great voice and held back the whole crowd:
"Hold back from this grievous war, men of Ithaca, so that you may part from one another quickly, without bloodshed."
So Athena spoke, and pale fear seized them. In their terror the weapons flew from their hands and all fell to the ground at the sound of the goddess's voice, and they turned back toward the city, eager only to save their lives. Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus gave a terrible cry, and gathering himself, swooped down like a high-flying eagle. And at that moment the son of Cronus let fly a smoking thunderbolt, which fell before the gray-eyed daughter of the mighty father.
Then gray-eyed Athena spoke to Odysseus: "Zeus-born son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, hold back now, put an end to this strife of leveling war, or Zeus, the wide-thundering son of Cronus, may grow angry with you."
So Athena spoke, and he obeyed her, glad at heart. And Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, in the likeness of Mentor, in form and voice both, then set oaths of peace between the two sides for all time to come.