The Odyssey

But then, when thundering Zeus contrived that expedition— that disaster that brought so many fighters to their knees— and men kept pressing me and renowned Idomeneus to head a fleet to Troy,

there was no way out, no denying them then,

the voice of the people bore down much too hard.

So nine whole years we Achaeans soldiered on at Troy,

in the tenth we sacked King Priam's city, then embarked

for home in the long ships, and a god dispersed the fleet.

Unlucky me. Shrewd old Zeus was plotting still more pain.

No more than a month I stayed at home, taking joy

in my children, loyal wife and lovely plunder.

But a spirit in me urged, 'Set sail for Egypt—

fit out ships, take crews of seasoned heroes!'

Nine I fitted out, the men joined up at once

and then six days my shipmates feasted well,

while I provided a flock of sheep to offer up

to the gods and keep the feasters' table groaning.

On the seventh we launched out from the plains of Crete

with a stiff North Wind fair astern—smooth sailing,

aye, like coasting on downstream ...

And not one craft in our squadron foundered;

all shipshape, and all hands sound, we sat back

while the wind and helmsmen kept us true on course.

Five days out and we raised the great river Nile and there in the Nile delta moored our ships of war. God knows I ordered my trusty crews to stand by, just where they were, and guard the anchored fleet and I sent a patrol to scout things out from higher ground.

But swept away by their own reckless fury, the crew went berserk—

they promptly began to plunder the lush Egyptian farms,

dragged off the women and children, killed the men.

Outcries reached the city in no time—stirred by shouts

the entire town came streaming down at the break of day,

filling the river plain with chariots, ranks of infantry

and the gleam of bronze. Zeus who loves the lightning

flung down murderous panic on all my men-at-arms—

no one dared to stand his ground and fight,

disaster ringed us round from every quarter.

Droves of my men they hacked down with swords,

led off the rest alive, to labor for them as slaves.

And I? Zeus flashed an inspiration through my mind,

though I wish I'd died a soldier down in Egypt then!

A world of pain, you see, still lay in wait for me ...

Quickly I wrenched the skullcap helmet off my head,

I tore the shield from my back and dropped my spear

and ran right into the path of the king's chariot,

hugged and kissed his knees. He pitied me, spared me,

hoisted me onto his war-car, took me home in tears.

Troops of his men came rushing after, shaking javelins,

mad to kill me—their fighting blood at the boil—

but their master drove them off.

He feared the wrath of Zeus, the god of guests,

the first of the gods to pay back acts of outrage.

So,

there I lingered for seven years, amassing a fortune from all the Egyptian people loading me with gifts. Then, at last, when the eighth had come full turn, along comes this Phoenician one fine day ... a scoundrel, swindler, an old hand at lies who'd already done the world a lot of damage. Well, he smoothly talked me round and off we sailed, Phoenicia-bound, where his house and holdings lay. There in his care I stayed till the year was out. Then, when the months and days had run their course and the year wheeled round and the seasons came again, he conned me aboard his freighter bound for Libya,

pretending I'd help him ship a cargo there for sale

but in fact he'd sell me there and make a killing!

I suspected as much, of course, but had no choice,

so I boarded with him, yes, and the ship ran on

with a good strong North Wind gusting—

fast on the middle passage clear of Crete—

but Zeus was brewing mischief for that crew ...

Once we'd left the island in our wake—

no land at all in sight, nothing but sea and sky—

then Zeus the son of Cronus mounted a thunderhead

above our hollow ship and the deep went black beneath it.

Then, then in the same breath Zeus hit the craft

with a lightning-bolt and thunder. Round she spun,

reeling under the impact, filled with reeking brimstone,

shipmates pitching out of her, bobbing round like seahawks

swept along by the breakers past the trim black hull—

and the god cut short their journey home forever.

Not mine.

Zeus himself—when I was just at the final gasp—

thrust the huge mast of my dark-prowed vessel

right into my arms so I might flee disaster

one more time. Wrapping myself around it,

I was borne along by the wretched galewinds,

rushed along nine days—on the tenth, at dead of night,

a shouldering breaker rolled me up along Thesprotia's beaches.

There the king of Thesprotia, Phidon, my salvation,

treated me kindly, asked for no reward at all.

His own good son had found me, half-dead

from exhaustion and the cold. He raised me up

by the hand and led me home to his father's house

and dressed me in cloak and shirt and decent clothes.

That's where I first got wind of him—Odysseus ...

The king told me he'd hosted the man in style,

befriended him on his way home to native land,

and showed me all the treasure Odysseus had amassed.

Bronze and gold and plenty of hard wrought iron,

enough to last a man and ten generations of his heirs—

so great the wealth stored up for him in the king's vaults!

But Odysseus, he made clear, was off at Dodona then to hear the will of Zeus that rustles forth from the god's tall leafy oak: how should he return, after all the years away, to his own green land of Ithaca— openly or in secret? Phidon swore to me, what's more, as the princely man poured out libations in his house, The ship's hauled down and the crew set to sail, to take Odysseus home to native land.'

But I ...

he shipped me off before. A Thesprotian cutter

chanced to be heading for Dulichion rich in wheat,

so he told the crew to take me to the king, Acastus,

treat me kindly, too, but it pleased them more

to scheme foul play against me,

sink me into the very depths of pain. As soon

as the ship was far off land, scudding in mid-sea,

they sprang their trap—my day of slavery then and there!

They stripped from my back the shirt and cloak I wore,

decked me out in a new suit of clothes, all rags,

ripped and filthy—the rags you see right now.

But then, once they'd gained the fields of Ithaca,

still clear in the evening light, they lashed me fast

to the rowing-benches, twisting a cable round me;

all hands went ashore

and rushed to catch their supper on the beach.

But the gods themselves unhitched my knots at once

with the gods' own ease. I wrapped my head in rags,

slid down the gangplank polished smooth, slipped my body

into the water, not a splash, chest-high, then quick,

launched out with both my arms and swam away—

out of the surf in no time, clear of the crew.

I clambered upland, into a flowery, fragrant brush

and crouched there, huddling low. They raised a hue and cry,

wildly beat the bushes, but when it seemed no use

to pursue the hunt, back they trudged again and

boarded their empty ship.

The gods hid me themselves—

it's light work for them—and brought me here, the homestead of a man who knows the world. So it seems to be my lot that I'll live on."

And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, "So much misery, friend! You've moved my heart, deeply, with your long tale ... such blows, such roving. But one part's off the mark, I know—you'll never persuade me— what you say about Odysseus. A man in your condition, who are you, I ask you, to lie for no good reason? Well I know the truth of my good lord's return, how the gods detested him, with a vengeance— never letting him go under, fighting Trojans, or die in the arms of loved ones, once he'd wound down the long coil of war. Then all united Achaea would have raised his tomb and he'd have won his son great fame for years to come. But now the whirlwinds have ripped him away—no fame for him. And I live here, cut off from the world, with all my pigs. I never go into town unless, perhaps, wise Penelope calls me back, when news drops in from nowhere. There they crowd the messenger, cross-examine him, heartsick for their long-lost lord or all too glad to eat him out of house and home, scot-free. But I've no love for all that probing, prying, not since some Aetolian fooled me with his yarn. He'd killed a man, wandered over the face of the earth, stumbled onto my hut, and I received him warmly. He told me he'd seen Odysseus lodged with King Idomeneus down in Crete— refitting his ships, hard-hit by the gales, but he'd be home, he said, by summer or harvest-time, his hulls freighted with treasure, manned by fighting crews. So you, old misery, seeing a god has led you here to me, don't try to charm me now, don't spellbind me with lies! Never for that will I respect you, treat you kindly; no, it's my fear of Zeus, the god of guests,

and because I pity you ."

"Good god," the crafty man pressed on, "what a dark, suspicious heart you have inside you! Not even my oath can win you over, make you see the light. Come, strike a bargain—all the gods of Olympus witness now our pact! If your master returns, here to your house, dress me in shirt and cloak and send me off to Dulichion at once, the place I long to be. But if your master doesn't return as I predict, set your men on me—fling me off some rocky crag so the next beggar here may just think twice before he peddles lies."

"Surely, friend!"— the swineherd shook his head—"and just think of the praise and fame I'd win among mankind, now and for all time to come, if first I took you under my roof, I treated you kindly as my guest then cut you down and robbed you of your life— how keen I'd be to say my prayers to Zeus! But it's high time for a meal. I hope the men will come home any moment so we can fix a tasty supper in the lodge."

As host and guest confided back and forth the herdsmen came in, driving their hogs up close, penning sows in their proper sties for the night, squealing for all they're worth, shut inside their yard, and the good swineherd shouted to his men, "Bring in your fattest hog! I'll slaughter it for our guest from far abroad. We'll savor it ourselves. All too long we've sweated over these white-tusked boars—our wretched labor— while others wolf our work down free of charge!"

Calling out

as he split up kindling now with a good sharp ax and his men hauled in a tusker five years old,

rippling fat, and stood him steady by the hearth.

The swineherd, soul of virtue, did not forget the gods.

He began the rite by plucking tufts from the porker's head,

threw them into the fire and prayed to all the powers,

"Bring him home, our wise Odysseus, home at last!"

Then raising himself full-length, with an oak log

he'd left unsplit he clubbed and stunned the beast

and it gasped out its life ...

The men slashed its throat, singed the carcass,

quickly quartered it all, and then the swineherd,

cutting first strips for the gods from every limb,

spread them across the thighs, wrapped in sleek fat,

and sprinkling barley over them, flung them on the fire.

They sliced the rest into pieces, pierced them with skewers,

broiled them all to a turn and, pulling them off the spits,

piled the platters high. The swineherd, standing up

to share the meat—his sense of fairness perfect—

carved it all out into seven equal portions.

One he set aside, lifting up a prayer

to the forest nymphs and Hermes, Maia's son,

and the rest he handed on to each man in turn.

But to Odysseus he presented the boar's long loin

and the cut of honor cheered his master's heart.

The man for all occasions thanked his host:

"I pray, Eumaeus, you'll be as dear to Father Zeus

as you are to me—a man in my condition—

you honor me by giving me your best."

You replied in kind, Eumaeus, swineherd: "Eat, my strange new friend ... enjoy it now, it's all we have to offer. As for Father Zeus, one thing he will give and another he'll hold back, whatever his pleasure. All things are in his power."

He burned choice parts for the gods who never die and pouring glistening wine in a full libation, placed the cup in his guest's hands—Odysseus, raider of cities—and down he sat to his own share.

Mesaulius served them bread, a man the swineherd purchased for himself in his master's absence— alone, apart from his queen or old Laertes— bought him from Taphians, bartered his own goods. They reached out for the spread that lay at hand and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink, Mesaulius cleared the things away. And now, content with bread and meat, they made for bed at once.

A foul night came on—the dark of the moon—and Zeus rained from dusk to dawn and a sodden West Wind raged. Odysseus spoke up now, keen to test the swineherd. Would he take his cloak off, hand it to his guest or at least tell one of his men to do the same? He cared for the stranger so, who ventured now, "Listen, Eumaeus, and all you comrades here, allow me to sing my praises for a moment. Say it's the wine that leads me on, the wild wine that sets the wisest man to sing at the top of his lungs, laugh like a fool—it drives the man to dancing ... it even tempts him to blurt out stories better never told. But now that I'm sounding off, I can't hold back. Oh make me young again, and the strength inside me steady as a rock! Just as I was that day we sprang a sudden ambush against the Trojans. Odysseus led the raid with Atreus' son Menelaus. I was third in command—they'd chosen me themselves. Once we'd edged up under the city's steep ramparts, crowding the walls but sinking into the thick brake, the reeds and marshy flats, huddling under our armor there we lay, and a foul night came on, the North Wind struck, freezing cold, and down from the skies the snow fell like frost, packed hard—the rims of our shields armored round with ice. There all the rest of the men wore shirts and cloaks and, hunching shields over their shoulders, slept at ease. Not I. I'd left my cloak at camp when I set out— idiot—never thinking it might turn cold, so I joined in with just the shield on my back and a shining waist-guard . But then at last, the night's third watch, the stars just wheeling down— I muttered into his ear, Odysseus, right beside me, nudging him with an elbow—he perked up at once— 'Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, full of tactics, I'm not long for the living. The cold will do me in. See, I've got no cloak. Some spirit's fooled me— I came out half-dressed. Now there's no escape!' I hadn't finished—a thought flashed in his mind; no one could touch the man at plots or battles. 'Shhh!' he hissed back—Odysseus had a plan— 'One of our fighters over there might hear you.' Then he propped his head on his forearm, calling out, 'Friends, wake up. I slept and a god sent down a dream. It warned that we're too far from the ships, exposed. Go, someone, tell Agamemnon, our field marshal— he might rush reinforcements from the beach.' Thoas, son of Andraemon, sprang up at once, flung off his purple cloak and ran to the ships while I, bundling into his wrap, was glad at heart till Dawn rose on her golden throne once more. Oh make me young again and the strength inside me steady as a rock! One of the swineherds here would lend a wrap, for love of a good soldier, respect as well. Now they spurn me, dressed in filthy rags."

And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, "Now that was a fine yarn you told, old-timer, not without point, not without profit either. You won't want for clothes or whatever else is due a worn-out traveler come for help— not for tonight at least. Tomorrow morning you'll have to flap around in rags again. Here we've got no store of shirts and cloaks, no changes. Just one wrap per man, that's all. But just you wait till Odysseus' dear son comes back— that boy will deck you out in a cloak and shirt

and send you off, wherever your heart desires!"

With that

he rose to his feet, laid out a bed by the fire, throwing over it skins of sheep and goats and down Odysseus lay. Eumaeus flung on his guest the heavy flaring cloak he kept in reserve to wear when winter brought some wild storm.

So here

Odysseus slept and the young hands slept beside him. Not the swineherd. Not his style to bed indoors, apart from his pigs. He geared up to go outside and it warmed Odysseus' heart, Eumaeus cared so much for his absent master's goods. First, over his broad shoulders he slung a whetted sword, wrapped himself in a cloak stitched tight to block the wind, and adding a cape, the pelt of a shaggy well-fed goat, he took a good sharp lance to fight off men and dogs. Then out he went to sleep where his white-tusked boars had settled down for the night ... just under a jutting crag that broke the North Wind's blast.

Book XV

The Prince Sets Sail for Home

Now south through the spacious dancing-rings of Lacedaemon

Athena went to remind the hero's princely son

of his journey home and spur him on his way.

She found him there with Nestor's gallant son,

bedded down in the porch of illustrious Menelaus—

Pisistratus, at least overcome with deep sound sleep,

but not Telemachus. Welcome sleep could not hold him.

All through the godsent night he lay awake ...

tossing with anxious thoughts about his father.

Hovering over him, eyes ablaze, Athena said,

"It's wrong, Telemachus, wrong to rove so far,

so long from home, leaving your own holdings

unprotected—crowds in your palace so brazen

they'll carve up all your wealth, devour it all,

and then your journey here will come to nothing.

Quickly, press Menelaus, lord of the warcry, to speed you home at once, if you want to find your irreproachable mother still inside your house. Even now her father and brothers urge Penelope to marry Eurymachus, who excels all other suitors at giving gifts and drives the bride-price higher. She must not carry anything off against your will! You know how the heart of a woman always works: she likes to build the wealth of her new groom— of the sons she bore, of her dear, departed husband, not a memory of the dead, no questions asked. So sail for home, I say!

With your own hands turn over all your goods to the one serving-woman you can trust the most, till the gods bring to light your own noble bride.

And another thing. Take it to heart, I tell you. Picked men of the suitors lie in ambush, grim-set in the straits between Ithaca and rocky Same, poised to kill you before you can reach home, but I have my doubts they will. Sooner the earth will swallow down a few of those young gallants who eat you out of house and home these days! Just give the channel islands a wide berth, push on in your trim ship, sail night and day, and the deathless god who guards and pulls you through will send you a fresh fair wind from hard astern. At your first landfall, Ithaca's outer banks, speed ship and shipmates round to the city side. But you—you make your way to the swineherd first, in charge of your pigs, and true to you as always. Sleep the night there, send him to town at once to tell the news to your mother, wise Penelope— you've made it back from Pylos safe and sound."

Mission accomplished, back she went to Olympus' heights as Telemachus woke Nestor's son from his sweet sleep; he dug a heel in his ribs and roused him briskly:

"Up, Pisistratus. Hitch the team to the chariot— let's head for home at once!"

"No, Telemachus," Nestor's son objected, "much as we long to go, we cannot drive a team in the dead of night. Morning will soon be here. So wait, I say, wait till he loads our chariot down with gifts— the hero Atrides, Menelaus, the great spearman— and gives us warm salutes and sees us off like princes. That's the man a guest will remember all his days: the lavish host who showers him with kindness."

At those words Dawn rose on her golden throne and Menelaus, lord of the warcry, rising up from bed by the side of Helen with her loose and lovely hair, walked toward his guests. As soon as he saw him, Telemachus rushed to pull a shimmering tunic on, over his broad shoulders threw his flaring cape and the young prince, son of King Odysseus, strode out to meet his host: "Menelaus, royal son of Atreus, captain of armies, let me go back to my own country now. The heart inside me longs for home at last."

The lord of the warcry reassured the prince, "I'd never detain you here too long, Telemachus, not if your heart is set on going home. I'd find fault with another host, I'm sure, too warm to his guests, too pressing or too cold. Balance is best in all things. It's bad either way, spurring the stranger home who wants to linger, holding the one who longs to leave—you know, 'Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!' But wait till I load your chariot down with gifts— fine ones, too, you'll see with your own eyes— and tell the maids to serve a meal at hall. We have god's plenty here. It's honor and glory to us, a help to you as well, if you dine in style first, then leave to see the world. And if you're keen for the grand tour of all Hellas, right to the depths of Argos, I'll escort you myself, harness the horses, guide you through the towns. And no host will turn us away with empty hands, each will give us at least one gift to prize— a handsome tripod, cauldron forged in bronze, a brace of mules or a solid golden cup."

Firmly resolved, Telemachus replied, "Menelaus, royal Atrides, captain of armies, I must go back to my own home at once. When I started out I left no one behind to guard my own possessions. God forbid, searching for my great father, I lose my life or lose some priceless treasure from my house!"

As soon as the lord of the warcry heard that, he told his wife and serving-women to lay out a meal in the hall at once. They'd stores aplenty there. Eteoneus, son of Boethous, came to join them— fresh from bed, he lived close by the palace. The warlord Menelaus told him to build a fire and broil some meat. He quickly did his bidding. Down Atrides walked to a storeroom filled with scent, and not alone: Helen and Megapenthes went along. Reaching the spot where all the heirlooms lay, Menelaus chose a generous two-handled cup; he told his son Megapenthes to take a mixing-bowl, solid silver, while Helen lingered beside the chests, and there they were, brocaded, beautiful robes her own hands had woven. Queenly Helen, radiance of women, lifted one from the lot, the largest, loveliest robe, and richly worked and like a star it glistened, deep beneath the others. Then all three went up and on through the halls until they found Telemachus. The red-haired king spoke out: "Oh my boy, may Zeus the Thunderer, Hera's lord,

grant you the journey home your heart desires! Of all the treasures lying heaped in my palace you shall have the finest, most esteemed. Look, I'll give you this mixing-bowl, forged to perfection— it's solid silver finished off with a lip of gold. Hephaestus made it himself. And a royal friend, Phaedimus, king of Sidon, lavished it on me when his palace welcomed me on passage home. How pleased I'd be if you took it as a gift!"

And the warlord placed the two-eared cup in his hands while stalwart Megapenthes carried in the glittering silver bowl and set it down before him. Helen, her cheeks flushed with beauty, moved beside him, holding the robe in her arms, and offered, warmly, "Here, dear boy, I too have a gift to give you, a keepsake of Helen—I wove it with my hands— for your own bride to wear when the blissful day of marriage dawns ... Until then, let it rest in your mother's room. And may you return in joy—my parting wish— to your own grand house, your native land at last."

With that

she laid the robe in his arms, and he received it gladly. Prince Pisistratus, taking the gifts, stowed them deep in the chariot cradle, viewed them all with wonder. The red-haired warlord led them back to his house and the guests took seats on low and high-backed chairs. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so they might rinse their hands, then pulled a gleaming table to their side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. Ready Eteoneus carved and passed the meat, the son of illustrious Menelaus poured their wine. They reached out for the good things that lay at hand and once they'd put aside desire for food and drink,

Prince Telemachus and the gallant son of Nestor yoked their team, mounted the blazoned car and drove through the gates and echoing colonnade. The red-haired King Menelaus followed both boys out, his right hand holding a golden cup of honeyed wine so the two might pour libations forth at parting. Just in front of the straining team he strode, lifting his cup and pledging both his guests: "Farewell, my princes! Give my warm greetings to Nestor, the great commander, always kind to me as a father, long ago when we young men of Achaea fought at Troy."

And tactful Telemachus replied at once, "Surely, my royal host, we'll tell him all, as soon as we reach old Nestor—all you say. I wish I were just as sure I'd find Odysseus waiting there at home when I reach Ithaca. I'd tell him I come from you, treated with so much kindness at your hands, loaded down with all these priceless gifts!"

At his last words a bird flew past on the right, an eagle clutching a huge white goose in its talons, plucked from the household yards. And all rushed after, shouting, men and women, and swooping toward the chariot now the bird veered off to the right again before the horses. All looked up, overjoyed—people's spirits lifted. Nestor's son Pisistratus spoke out first: "Look there! King Menelaus, captain of armies, what, did the god send down that sign for you or the two of us?'

The warlord fell to thinking— how to read the omen rightly, how to reply? ... But long-robed Helen stepped in well before him: "Listen to me and I will be your prophet, sure as the gods have flashed it in my mind and it will come to pass, I know it will.

Just as the eagle swooped down from the crags where it was born and bred, just as it snatched that goose fattened up for the kill inside the house, so, after many trials and roving long and hard, Odysseus will descend on his house and take revenge— unless he's home already, sowing seeds of ruin for that whole crowd of suitors!"

"Oh if only,"

pensive Telemachus burst out in thanks to Helen, "Zeus the thundering lord of Hera makes it so— even at home I'll pray to you as a deathless goddess!"

He cracked the lash and the horses broke quickly, careering through the city out into open country, shaking the yoke across their shoulders all day long.

The sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark as they reached Phera, pulling up to Diodes' halls, the son of Ortilochus, son of the Alpheus River. He gave them a royal welcome; there they slept the night.

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more they yoked their pair again, mounted the blazoned car and out through the gates and echoing colonnade they whipped the team to a run and on they flew, holding nothing back, approaching Pylos soon, the craggy citadel. That was when Telemachus turned to Pisistratus, saying, "Son of Nestor, won't you do as I ask you, see it through? We're friends for all our days now, so we claim, thanks to our fathers' friendship. We're the same age as well and this tour of ours has made us more like brothers. Prince, don't drive me past my vessel, drop me there. Your father's old, in love with his hospitality; I fear he'll hold me, chafing in his palace— I must hurry home!"

The son of Nestor pondered ... how to do it properly, see it through?

Pausing a moment, then this way seemed best. Swerving his team, he drove down to the ship tied up on shore and loaded into her stern the splendid gifts, the robes and gold Menelaus gave, and sped his friend with a flight of winging words: "Climb aboard now—fast! Muster all your men before I get home and break the news to father. With that man's overbearing spirit—I know it, know it all too well—he'll never let you go, he'll come down here and summon you himself. He won't return without you, believe me; in any case he'll fly into a rage."

With that warning he whipped his sleek horses back to Pylos city and reached his house in no time. Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates: "Stow our gear, my comrades, deep in the holds and board at once—we must be on our way!"

His shipmates snapped to orders, swung aboard and sat to the oars in ranks. But just as Telemachus prepared to launch, praying, sacrificing to Pallas by the stern, a man from a far-off country came toward him now, a fugitive out of Argos: he had killed a man ... He was a prophet, sprung of Melampus' line of seers, Melampus who lived in Pylos, mother of flocks, some years ago, rich among his Pylians, at home in his great high house until he was made to go abroad to foreign parts, fleeing his native land and hot-blooded Neleus— most imperious man alive—who'd commandeered his vast estate and held it down by force for one entire year. That year Melampus, bound by cruel chains in the halls of Phylacus, suffered agonies—all for Neleus' daughter Pero, that and the mad spell a Fury, murderous spirit, cast upon his mind. But the seer worked free of death

and drove the lusty, bellowing cattle out of Phylace,

back to Pylos. There he avenged himself on Neleus

for the shameful thing the king had done to him,

and escorted Pero home as his brother's bride.

But he himself went off to a distant country,

Argos, land of stallions—his destined home

where he would live and rule the Argive nation.

Here he married a wife and built a high-roofed house

and sired Antiphates and Mantius, two staunch sons.

Antiphates fathered Oicles, gallant heart,

Oicles fathered Amphiaraus, driver of armies,

whom storming Zeus and Apollo loved intensely,

showering him with every form of kindness.

But he never reached the threshold of old age,

he died at Thebes—undone by a bribe his wife accepted—

leaving behind his two sons, Alcmaeon and Amphilochus.

On his side Mantius sired Polyphides and Clitus both

but Dawn of the golden throne whisked Clitus away,

overwhelmed by his beauty,

so the boy would live among the deathless gods.

Yet Apollo made magnanimous Polyphides a prophet—

after Amphiaraus' death—the greatest seer on earth.

But a feud with his father drove him off to Hyperesia

where he made his home and prophesied to the world .

This prophet's son it was—Theoclymenus his name— who approached Telemachus now and found him pouring wine to a god and saying prayers beside his ship. "Friend," he said in a winging supplication, "since I find you burning offerings here, I beg you by these rites and the god you pray to, then by your own life and the lives of all the men who travel with you—tell me truly, don't hold back, who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?"

"Of course, stranger," the forthright prince responded, "I will tell you everything, clearly as I can.

Ithaca is my country. Odysseus is my father— there was a man, or was he all a dream? ... but he's surely died a wretched death by now. Yet here I've come with my crew and black ship, out for news of my father, lost and gone so long."

And the godlike seer Theoclymenus replied, "Just like you, I too have left my land— I because I killed a man of my own tribe. But he has many brothers and kin in Argos, stallion-land, who rule the plains in force. Fleeing death at their hands, a dismal fate, I am a fugitive now,

doomed to wander across this mortal world.

So take me aboard, hear a fugitive's prayer:

don't let them kill me—they're after me, well I know!"

"So desperate!" thoughtful Telemachus exclaimed. "How could I drive you from my ship? Come sail with us, we'll tend you at home, with all we can provide."

And he took the prophet's honed bronze spear, laid it down full-length on the rolling deck, swung aboard the deep-sea craft himself, assuming the pilot's seat reserved astern and put the seer beside him. Cables cast off, Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates: "All lay hands to tackle!" They sprang to orders, hoisting the pinewood mast, they stepped it firm in its block amidships, lashed it fast with stays and with braided rawhide halyards hauled the white sail high. Now bright-eyed Athena sent them a stiff following wind blustering out of a clear sky, gusting on so the ship might run its course through the salt sea at top speed— and past the Springs she raced and the Chalcis' rushing stream as the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark and on she pressed for Pheae, driven on by a wind from Zeus and flew past lovely Elis, where Epeans rule in power,

and then Telemachus veered for the Jagged Islands,

wondering all the way—

would he sweep clear of death or be cut down?

The king and loyal swineherd,just that night, were supping with other fleldhands in the lodge. Once they'd put aside desire for food and drink, Odysseus spoke up, eager to test the swineherd, see if he'd stretch out his warm welcome now, invite him to stay on in the farmstead here or send him off to town. "Listen, Eumaeus, all you comrades here—at the crack of dawn I mean to go to town and do my begging, not be a drain on you and all your men. But advise me well, give me a trusty guide to see me there. And then I'm on my own to roam the streets—I must, I have no choice— hoping to find a handout, just a crust or cupful. I'd really like to go to the house of King Odysseus and give my news to his cautious queen, Penelope. Why, I'd even mix with those overweening suitors— would they spare me a plateful? Look at all they have! I'd do good work for them, promptly, anything they want. Let me tell you, listen closely, catch my drift ... Thanks to Hermes the guide, who gives all work of our hands the grace and fame that it deserves, no one alive can match me at household chores: building a good fire, splitting kindling neatly, carving, roasting meat and pouring rounds of wine ... anything menials do to serve their noble masters."

"God's sake, my friend!" you broke in now, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, deeply troubled. "What's got into your head, what crazy plan? You must be hell-bent on destruction, on the spot, if you're keen to mingle with that mob of suitors— their pride and violence hit the iron skies! They're a far cry from you,

the men who do their bidding. Young bucks, all rigged out in their fine robes and shirts, hair sleeked down with oil, faces always beaming, the ones who slave for them! The tables polished, sagging under the bread and meat and wine. No, stay here. No one finds you a burden, surely not I, not any comrade here. You wait till Odysseus' dear son comes back— that boy will deck you out in a cloak and shirt and send you off, wherever your heart desires!"

"If only, Eumaeus," the wayworn exile said, "you were as dear to Father Zeus as you are to me! You who stopped my pain, my endless, homesick roving. Tramping about the world—there's nothing worse for a man. But the fact is that men put up with misery to stuff their cursed bellies. But seeing you hold me here, urging me now to wait for him, the prince who's on his way, tell me about the mother of King Odysseus, please, the father he left as well—on the threshold of old age— when he sailed off to war. Are they still alive, perhaps, still looking into the light of day? Or dead by now, and down in Death's long house?"

"Friend,"

the swineherd, foreman of men, assured his guest,

"I'll tell you the whole story, point by point.

Laertes is still alive, but night and day

he prays to Zeus, waiting there in his house,

for the life breath to slip away and leave his body.

His heart's so racked for his son, lost and gone these years,

for his wife so fine, so wise—her death is the worst blow

he's had to suffer—it made him old before his time.

She died of grief for her boy, her glorious boy,

it wore her down, a wretched way to go.

I pray that no one I love dies such a death,

no island neighbor of mine who treats me kindly!

While she was still alive, heartsick as she was, it always moved me to ask about her, learn the news.

She'd reared me herself, and right beside her daughter,

Ctimene, graceful girl with her long light gown,

the youngest one she'd borne ...

Just the two of us, growing up together,

the woman tending me almost like her child,

till we both reached the lovely flush of youth

and then her parents gave her away in marriage, yes,

to a Samian man, and a haul of gifts they got.

But her mother decked me out in cloak and shirt,

good clothing she wrapped about me—gave me sandals,

sent me here, this farm. She loved me from the heart.

Oh how I miss her kindness now! The happy gods

speed the work that I labor at, that gives me

food and drink to spare for the ones I value.

But from Queen Penelope I never get a thing,

never a winning word, no friendly gesture,

not since this, this plague has hit the house—

these high and mighty suitors. Servants miss it,

terribly, gossiping back and forth with the mistress,

gathering scraps of news, a snack and a cup or two,

then taking home to the fields some little gift.

It never fails to cheer a servant's heart."

"Imagine that," his canny master said, "you must have been just a little fellow, Eumaeus, when you were swept so far from home and parents. Come, tell me the whole story, truly too. Was your city sacked?— some city filled with people and wide streets where your father and your mother made their home? Or were you all alone, herding your sheep and cattle, when pirates kidnapped, shipped and sold you off to this man's house, who paid a healthy price?"

"My friend," the swineherd answered, foreman of men, "you really want my story? So many questions—well, listen in quiet, then, and take your ease, sit back

and drink your wine. The nights are endless now.

We've plenty of time to sleep or savor a long tale.

No need, you know, to turn in before the hour.

Even too much sleep can be a bore.

But anyone else who feels the urge

can go to bed and then, at the crack of dawn,

break bread, turn out and tend our master's pigs.

We two will keep to the shelter here, eat and drink

and take some joy in each other's heartbreaking sorrows,

sharing each other's memories. Over the years, you know,

a man finds solace even in old sorrows, true, a man

who's weathered many blows and wandered many miles.

My own story? This will answer all your questions .

There's an island, Syrie—you may have heard of it— off above Ortygia, where the sun wheels around. Not so packed with people, still a good place, though, fine for sheep and cattle, rich in wine and wheat. Hunger never attacks the land, no sickness either, that always stalks the lives of us poor men. No, as each generation grows old on the island, down Apollo comes with his silver bow, with Artemis, and they shoot them all to death with gentle arrows. Two cities there are, that split the land in half, and over them both my father ruled in force— Ormenus' son Ctesius, a man like a deathless god.

One day

a band of Phoenicians landed there. The famous sea-dogs,

sharp bargainers too, the holds of their black ship

brimful with a hoard of flashy baubles. Now,

my father kept a Phoenician woman in his house,

beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things,

and her rascal countrymen lusted to seduce her, yes,

and lost no time—she was washing clothes when one of them

waylaid her beside their ship, in a long deep embrace

that can break a woman's will, even the best alive.

And then he asked her questions .

her name, who was she, where did she come from?

She waved at once to my father's high-roofed house— 'But I'm proud to hail from Sidon paved in bronze,' she said, 'and Arybas was my father, a man who rolled in wealth. I was heading home from the fields when Taphian pirates snatched me away, and they shipped and sold me here to this man's house. He paid a good stiff price!'

The sailor, her secret lover, lured her on: 'Well then, why don't you sail back home with us?— see your own high house, your father and mother there. They're still alive, and people say they're rich!'

'Now there's a tempting offer,' she said in haste, 'if only you sailors here would swear an oath you'll land me safe at home without a scratch.'

Those were her terms, and once they vowed to keep them, swore their oaths they'd never do her harm, the woman hatched a plan: 'Now mum's the word! Let none of your shipmates say a thing to me, meeting me on the street or at the springs. Someone might go running off to the house and tell the old king—he'd think the worst, clap me in cruel chains and find a way to kill you. So keep it a secret, down deep, get on with buying your home cargo, quickly. But once your holds are loaded up with goods, then fast as you can you send the word to me over there at the palace. I'll bring you all the gold I can lay my hands on, and something else I'll give you in the bargain, fare for passage home ...

I'm nurse to my master's son in the palace now— such a precious toddler, scampering round outside, always at my heels. I'll bring him aboard as well. Wherever you sell him off, whatever foreign parts, he'll fetch you quite a price!'

Bargain struck, back the woman went to our lofty halls

and the rovers stayed on with us one whole year, bartering, piling up big hoards in their hollow ship, and once their holds were loaded full for sailing they sent a messenger, fast, to alert the woman. This crafty bandit came to my father's house, dangling a golden choker linked with amber beads, and while the maids at hall and my noble mother kept on fondling it—dazzled, feasting their eyes and making bids—he gave a quiet nod to my nurse, he gave her the nod and slunk back to his ship. Grabbing my hand, she swept me through the house and there in the porch she came on cups and tables left by the latest feasters, father's men of council just gone off to the meeting grounds for full debate— and quick as a flash she snatched up three goblets, tucked them into her bosom, whisked them off and I tagged along, lost in all my innocence! The sun sank, the roads of the world grew dark and both on the run, we reached the bay at once where the swift Phoenician ship lay set to sail. Handing us up on board, the crewmen launched out on the foaming lanes and Zeus sent wind astern. Six whole days we sailed, six nights, nonstop, and then, when the god brought on the seventh day, Artemis showering arrows came and shot the woman— headfirst into the bilge she splashed like a diving tern and the crewmen heaved her body over, a nice treat for the seals and fish, but left me all alone, cowering, sick at heart ...

Until, at last, the wind and current bore us on to Ithaca, here where Laertes bought me with his wealth. And so I first laid eyes on this good land."

And royal King Odysseus answered warmly, "Eumaeus, so much misery! You've moved my heart, deeply, with your long tale—such pain, such sorrow. True, but look at the good fortune Zeus sends you,

hand-in-hand with the bad. After all your toil

you reached the house of a decent, kindly man

who gives you all you need in meat and drink—

he's seen to that, I'd say—

it's a fine life you lead! Better than mine ...

I've been drifting through cities up and down the earth

and now I've landed here."

So guest and host confided through the night until they slept, a little at least, not long. Dawn soon rose and took her golden throne.

That hour

Telemachus and his shipmates raised the coasts of home, they struck sail and lowered the mast, smartly, rowed her into a mooring under oars. Out went the bow-stones, cables fast astern, the crew themselves swung out in the breaking surf, they got a meal together and mixed some ruddy wine. And once they'd put aside desire for food and drink, clear-headed Telemachus gave the men commands: "Pull our black ship round to the city now— I'm off to my herdsmen and my farms. By nightfall, once I've seen to my holdings, I'll be down in town. In the morning I'll give you wages for the voyage, a handsome feast of meat and hearty wine."

The seer Theoclymenus broke in quickly, "Where shall I go, dear boy? Of all the lords in rocky Ithaca, whose house shall I head for now? Or do I go straight to your mother's house and yours?"

"Surely in better times," discreet Telemachus replied, "I would invite you home. Our hospitality never fails, but now, I fear, it could only serve you poorly. I'll be away, and mother would never see you. She rarely appears these days, what with those suitors milling in the hall; she keeps to her upper story, weaving at her loom.

But I'll mention someone else you might just visit: Eurymachus, wise Polybus' fine, upstanding son. He's the man of the hour! Our island people look on him like a god—the prince of suitors, hottest to wed my mother, seize my father's powers. But god knows—Zeus up there in his bright Olympus— whether or not before that wedding day arrives he'll bring the day of death on all their heads!"

At his last words a bird flew past on the right, a hawk, Apollo's wind-swift herald—tight in his claws a struggling dove, and he ripped its feathers out and they drifted down to earth between the ship and the young prince himself ... The prophet called him aside, clear of his men, and grasped his hand, exclaiming, "Look, Telemachus, the will of god just winged that bird on your right! Why, the moment I saw it, here before my eyes, I knew it was a sign. No line more kingly than yours in all of Ithaca—yours will reign forever!"

"If only, friend," alert Telemachus answered, "all you say comes true! You'd soon know my affection, know my gifts. Any man you meet would call you blest."

He turned to a trusted friend and said, "Piraeus, son of Clytius, you are the one who's done my bidding, more than all other friends who sailed with me to Pylos. Please, take this guest of mine to your own house, treat him kindly, host him with all good will till I can come myself."

"Of course, Telemachus," Piraeus the gallant spearman offered warmly: "Stay up-country just as long as you like. I'll tend the man, he'll never lack a lodging."

Piraeus boarded ship and told the crew to embark at once and cast off cables quickly—

they swung aboard and sat to the oars in ranks.

Telemachus fastened rawhide sandals on his feet

and took from the decks his rugged bronze-tipped spear.

The men cast off, pushed out and pulled for town

as Telemachus ordered, King Odysseus' son.

The prince strode out briskly,

legs speeding him on till he reached the farm

where his great droves of pigs crowded their pens

and the loyal swineherd often slept beside them,

always the man to serve his masters well.

Book XVI

Father and Son

As dawn came into the lodge, the king and loyal swineherd set out breakfast, once they had raked the fire up and got the herdsmen off with droves of pigs. And now Telemachus ...

the howling dogs went nuzzling up around him, not a growl as he approached. From inside Odysseus noticed the pack's quiet welcome, noticed the light tread of footsteps too and turned to Eumaeus quickly, winged a word: "Eumaeus, here comes a friend of yours, I'd say. Someone you know, at least. The pack's not barking, must be fawning around him. I can hear his footfall."

The words were still on his lips when his own son stood in the doorway, there. The swineherd started up,

amazed, he dropped the bowls with a clatter—he'd been busy

mixing ruddy wine. Straight to the prince he rushed

and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes,

both hands, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

As a father, brimming with love, welcomes home

his darling only son in a warm embrace—

what pain he's borne for him and him alone!—

home now, in the tenth year from far abroad,

so the loyal swineherd hugged the beaming prince,

he clung for dear life, covering him with kisses, yes,

like one escaped from death. Eumaeus wept and sobbed,

his words flew from the heart: "You're home, Telemachus,

sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I'd see you again,

once you'd shipped to Pylos! Quick, dear boy, come in,

let me look at you, look to my heart's content—

under my own roof, the rover home at last.

You rarely visit the farm and men these days,

always keeping to town, as if it cheered you

to see them there, that infernal crowd of suitors!"

"Have it your way," thoughtful Telemachus replied. "Dear old man, it's all for you that I've come, to see you for myself and learn the news— whether mother still holds out in the halls or some other man has married her at last, and Odysseus' bed, I suppose, is lying empty, blanketed now with filthy cobwebs."

"Surely,"

the foreman of men responded, "she's still waiting there in your halls, poor woman, suffering so, her life an endless hardship . wasting away the nights, weeping away the days."

With that

he took the bronze spear from the boy, and Telemachus, crossing the stone doorsill, went inside the lodge. As he approached, his father, Odysseus, rose to yield his seat, but the son on his part waved him back: "Stay where you are, stranger.

I know we can find another seat somewhere, here on our farm, and here's the man to fetch it."

So Odysseus, moving back, sat down once more, and now for the prince the swineherd strewed a bundle of fresh green brushwood, topped it off with sheepskin and there the true son of Odysseus took his place. Eumaeus set before them platters of roast meat, left from the meal he'd had the day before; he promptly served them bread, heaped in baskets, mixed their hearty wine in a wooden bowl and then sat down himself to face the king. They reached for the good things that lay at hand, and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink Telemachus asked his loyal serving-man at last, "Old friend, where does this stranger come from? Why did the sailors land him here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? I hardly think he came this way on foot."

You answered him, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, "Here, my boy, I'll tell you the whole true story. He hails from Crete's broad land, he's proud to say, but he claims he's drifted round through countless towns of men, roaming the earth ... so a god's spun out his fate. He just now broke away from some Thesprotian ship and came to my farm. I'll put him in your hands, you tend to him as you like. He counts on you, he says, for care and shelter."

"Shelter? Oh Eumaeus," Telemachus replied, "that word of yours, it cuts me to the quick! How can I lend the stranger refuge in my house? I'm young myself. I can hardly trust my hands to fight off any man who rises up against me. Then my mother's wavering, always torn two ways: whether to stay with me and care for the household, true to her husband's bed, the people's voice as well,

or leave at long last with the best man in Achaea

who courts her in the halls, who offers her the most.

But our new guest, since he's arrived at your house,

I'll give him a shirt and cloak to wear, good clothing,

give him a two-edged sword and sandals for his feet

and send him off, wherever his heart desires.

Or if you'd rather, keep him here at the farmstead,

tend to him here, and I'll send up the clothes

and full rations to keep the man in food;

he'll be no drain on you and all your men.

But I can't let him go down and join the suitors.

They're far too abusive, reckless, know no limits:

they'll make a mockery of him—that would break my heart.

It's hard for a man to win his way against a mob,

even a man of iron. They are much too strong."

"Friend"—the long-enduring Odysseus stepped in— "surely it's right for me to say a word at this point. My heart, by god, is torn to pieces hearing this, both of you telling how these reckless suitors, there in your own house, against your will, plot your ruin—a fine young prince like you. Tell me, though, do you let yourself be so abused or do people round about, stirred up by the prompting of some god, despise you? Or are your brothers at fault? Brothers a man can trust to fight beside him, true, no matter what deadly blood-feud rages on. Would I were young as you, to match my spirit now, or I were the son of great Odysseus, or the king himself returned from all his roving—there's still room for hope! Then let some foreigner lop my head off if I failed to march right into Odysseus' royal halls and kill them all. And what if I went down, crushed by their numbers—I, fighting alone? I'd rather die, cut down in my own house than have to look on at their outrage day by day. Guests treated to blows, men dragging the serving-women through the noble house, exploiting them all, no shame,

and the gushing wine swilled, the food squandered—

gorging for gorging's sake—

and the courting game goes on, no end in sight!"

"You're right, my friend," sober Telemachus agreed. "Now let me tell you the whole story, first to last. It's not that all our people have turned against me, keen for a showdown. Nor have I any brothers at fault, brothers a man can trust to fight beside him, true, no matter what deadly blood-feud rages on ... Zeus made our line a line of only sons. Arcesius had only one son, Laertes, and Laertes had only one son, Odysseus, and I am Odysseus' only son. He fathered me, he left me behind at home, and from me he got no joy. So now our house is plagued by swarms of enemies. All the nobles who rule the islands round about, Dulichion, and Same, and wooded Zacynthus too, and all who lord it in rocky Ithaca as well— down to the last man they court my mother, they lay waste my house! And mother ... she neither rejects a marriage she despises nor can she bear to bring the courting to an end— while they continue to bleed my household white. Soon—you wait—they'll grind me down as well! But all lies in the lap of the great gods.

Eumaeus,

good old friend, go, quickly, to wise Penelope. Tell her I'm home from Pylos safe and sound. I'll stay on right here. But you come back as soon as you've told the news to her alone. No other Achaean must hear— all too many plot to take my life."

"I know,"

you assured your prince, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd. "I see your point—there's sense in this old head. One thing more, and make your orders clear.

On the same trip do I go and give the news to King Laertes too? For many years, poor man, heartsick for his son, he'd always keep an eye on the farm and take his meals with the hired hands whenever he felt the urge to. Now, from the day you sailed away to Pylos, not a sip or a bite he's touched, they say, not as he did before, and his eyes are shut to all the farmyard labors. Huddled over, groaning in grief and tears, he wastes away—the man's all skin and bones."

"So much the worse," Telemachus answered firmly. "Leave him alone; though it hurts us now, we must. If men could have all they want, free for the taking, I'd take first my father's journey home. So, you go and give the message, then come back, no roaming over the fields to find Laertes. Tell my mother to send her housekeeper, fast as she can, in secret— she can give the poor old man the news."

That roused Eumaeus. The swineherd grasped his sandals, strapped them onto his feet and made for town. His exit did not escape Athena's notice ... Approaching, closer, now she appeared a woman, beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things. Just at the shelter's door she stopped, visible to Odysseus but Telemachus could not see her, sense her there— the gods don't show themselves to every man alive. Odysseus saw her, so did the dogs; no barking now, they whimpered, cringing away in terror through the yard. She gave a sign with her brows, Odysseus caught it, out of the lodge he went and past the high stockade and stood before the goddess. Athena urged him on: "Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner, now is the time, now tell your son the truth. Hold nothing back, so the two of you can plot

the suitors' doom and then set out for town. I myself won't lag behind you long— I'm blazing for a battle!"

Athena stroked him with her golden wand. First she made the cloak and shirt on his body fresh and clean, then made him taller, supple, young, his ruddy tan came back, the cut of his jawline firmed and the dark beard clustered black around his chin. Her work complete, she went her way once more and Odysseus returned to the lodge. His own son gazed at him, wonderstruck, terrified too, turning his eyes away, suddenly—

this must be some god— and he let fly with a burst of exclamations: "Friend, you're a new man—not what I saw before! Your clothes, they've changed, even your skin has changed— surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies! Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings, gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart— spare us, please, I beg you!"

"No, I am not a god," the long-enduring, great Odysseus returned. "Why confuse me with one who never dies? No, I am your father— the Odysseus you wept for all your days, you bore a world of pain, the cruel abuse of men."

And with those words Odysseus kissed his son and the tears streamed down his cheeks and wet the ground, though before he'd always reined his emotions back. But still not convinced that it was his father, Telemachus broke out, wild with disbelief, "No, you're not Odysseus! Not my father! Just some spirit spellbinding me now— to make me ache with sorrow all the more. Impossible for a mortal to work such marvels, not with his own devices, not unless some god

comes down in person, eager to make that mortal young or old—like that! Why, just now you were old, and wrapped in rags, but now, look, you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!"

"Telemachus," Odysseus, man of exploits, urged his son, "it's wrong to marvel, carried away in wonder so at sight of your father here before your eyes. No other Odysseus will ever return to you. That man and I are one, the man you see ... here after many hardships, endless wanderings, after twenty years I have come home to native ground at last. My changing so? Athena's work, the Fighter's Queen— she has that power, she makes me look as she likes, now like a beggar, the next moment a young man, decked out in handsome clothes about my body. It's light work for the gods who rule the skies to exalt a mortal man or bring him low."

At that

Odysseus sat down again, and Telemachus threw his arms around his great father, sobbing uncontrollably as the deep desire for tears welled up in both. They cried out, shrilling cries, pulsing sharper than birds of prey—eagles, vultures with hooked claws— when farmers plunder their nest of young too young to fly. Both men so filled with compassion, eyes streaming tears, that now the sunlight would have set upon their cries if Telemachus had not asked his father, all at once, "What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here?— Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are? I hardly think you came back home on foot!"

So long an exile, great Odysseus replied, "Surely, my son, I'll tell you the whole story now. Phaeacians brought me here, the famous sailors who ferry home all men who reach their shores. They sailed me across the sea in their swift ship,

they set me down in Ithaca, sound asleep, and gave me glittering gifts—bronze and hoards of gold and robes. All lie stowed in a cave, thanks to the gods' help, and Athena's inspiration spurred me here, now, so we could plan the slaughter of our foes. Come, give me the full tally of these suitors— I must see their numbers, gauge their strength. Then I'll deploy this old tactician's wits, decide if the two of us can take them on, alone, without allies,

or we should hunt reserves to back us up."

"Father,"

clear-headed Telemachus countered quickly,

"all my life I've heard of your great fame—

a brave man in war and a deep mind in counsel—

but what you say dumbfounds me, staggers imagination!

How on earth could two men fight so many and so strong?

These suitors are not just ten or twenty, they're far more—

you count them up for yourself now, take a moment ...

From Dulichion, fifty-two of them, picked young men,

six servants in their troop; from Same, twenty-four,

from Zacynthus, twenty Achaeans, nobles all,

and the twelve best lords from Ithaca itself.

Medon the herald's with them, a gifted bard,

and two henchmen, skilled to carve their meat.

If we pit ourselves against all these in the house,

I fear the revenge you come back home to take

will recoil on our heads—a bitter, deadly blow.

Think: can you come up with a friend-in-arms?

Some man to fight beside us, some brave heart?"

"Let me tell you," the old soldier said, "bear it in mind now, listen to me closely. Think: will Athena flanked by Father Zeus do for the two of us?

Or shall I rack my brains for another champion?" Telemachus answered shrewdly, full of poise,

"Two great champions, those you name, it's true.

Off in the clouds they sit

and they lord it over gods and mortal men."

"Trust me," his seasoned father reassured him, "they won't hold off long from the cries and clash of battle, not when we and the suitors put our fighting strength to proof in my own halls! But now, with daybreak, home you go and mix with that overbearing crowd. The swineherd will lead me into the city later, looking old and broken, a beggar once again. If they abuse me in the palace, steel yourself, no matter what outrage I must suffer, even if they drag me through our house by the heels and throw me out or pelt me with things they hurl— you just look on, endure it. Prompt them to quit their wild reckless ways, try to win them over with friendly words. Those men will never listen, now the day of doom is hovering at their heads. One more thing. Take it to heart, I urge you. When Athena, Queen of Tactics, tells me it is time, I'll give you a nod, and when you catch that signal round up all the deadly weapons kept in the hall, stow them away upstairs in a storeroom's deep recess— all the arms and armor—and when the suitors miss them and ask you questions, put them off with a winning story: 'I stowed them away, clear of the smoke. A far cry from the arms Odysseus left when he went to Troy, fire-damaged equipment, black with reeking fumes. And a god reminded me of something darker too. When you're in your cups a quarrel might break out, you'd wound each other, shame your feasting here and cast a pall on your courting. Iron has powers to draw a man to ruin.'

Just you leave a pair of swords for the two of us, a pair of spears and a pair of oxhide bucklers right at hand so we can break for the weapons, seize them! Then Athena,

Zeus in his wisdom—they will daze the suitors' wits. Now one last thing. Bear it in mind. You must. If you are my own true son, born of my blood, let no one hear that Odysseus has come home. Don't let Laertes know, not Eumaeus either, none in the household, not Penelope herself. You and I alone will assess the women's mood and we might test a few of the serving-men as well: where are the ones who still respect us both, who hold us in awe? And who shirk their duties?— slighting you because you are so young."

"Soon enough, father," his gallant son replied, "you'll sense the courage inside me, that I know— I'm hardly a flighty, weak-willed boy these days. But I think your last plan would gain us nothing. Reconsider, I urge you.

You'll waste time, roaming around our holdings, probing the fieldhands man by man, while the suitors sit at ease in our house, devouring all our goods— those brazen rascals never spare a scrap! But I do advise you to sound the women out: who are disloyal to you, who are guiltless? The men—I say no to testing them farm by farm. That's work for later, if you have really seen a sign from Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder."

Now as father and son conspired, shaping plans, the ship that brought the prince and shipmates back from Pylos was just approaching Ithaca, home port. As soon as they put in to the harbor's deep bay they hauled the black vessel up onto dry land and eager deckhands bore away their gear and rushed the priceless gifts to Clytius' house. But they sent a herald on to Odysseus' halls at once to give the news to thoughtful, cautious Penelope that Telemachus was home—just up-country now, but he'd told his mates to sail across to port—

so the noble queen would not be seized with fright and break down in tears. And now those two men met, herald and swineherd, both out on the same errand, to give the queen the news. But once they reached the house of the royal king the herald strode up, into the serving-women's midst, and burst out, "Your beloved son, my queen, is home at last!" Eumaeus though, bending close to Penelope, whispered every word that her dear son entrusted him to say. Message told in full, he left the halls and precincts, heading for his pigs.

But the news shook the suitors, dashed their spirits. Out of the halls they crowded, past the high-walled court and there before the gates they sat in council. Polybus' son Eurymachus opened up among them: "Friends, what a fine piece of work he's carried off! Telemachus—what insolence—and we thought his little jaunt would come to grief! Up now, launch a black ship, the best we can find—muster a crew of oarsmen, row the news to our friends in ambush, fast, bring them back at once."

And just then— he'd not quite finished when Amphinomus, wheeling round in his seat, saw their vessel moored in the deep harbor, their comrades striking sail and hoisting oars. He broke into heady laughter, called his friends: "No need for a message now. They're home, look there! Some god gave them the news, or they saw the prince's ship go sailing past and failed to overtake her."

Rising, all trooped down to the water's edge as the crew hauled the vessel up onto dry land and the hot-blooded hands bore off their gear. Then in a pack they went to the meeting grounds, suffering no one else, young or old, to sit among them. Eupithes' son Antinous rose and harangued them all:

"What a blow! See how the gods have saved this boy

from bloody death? And our lookouts all day long,

stationed atop the windy heights, kept watch,

shift on shift; and once the sun went down

we'd never sleep the night ashore, never,

always aboard our swift ship, cruising till dawn,

patrolling to catch Telemachus, kill him on the spot,

and all the while some spirit whisked him home!

So here at home we ll plot his certain death:

he must never slip through our hands again,

that boy—while he still lives,

I swear we'll never bring our venture off.

The clever little schemer, he does have his skills,

and the crowds no longer show us favor, not at all.

So act! before he can gather his people in assembly.

He'll never give in an inch, I know, he'll rise

and rage away, shouting out to them all how we,

we schemed his sudden death but never caught him.

Hearing of our foul play, they'll hardly sing our praises.

Why, they might do us damage, run us off our lands,

drive us abroad to hunt for strangers' shores.

Strike first, I say, and kill him!—

clear of town, in the fields or on the road.

Then we'll seize his estates and worldly goods,

carve them up between us, share and share alike.

But as for his palace, let his mother keep it,

she and the man she weds.

There's my plan. If you find it offensive, if you want him living on—in full command of his patrimony— gather here no more then, living the life of kings, consuming all his wealth. Each from his own house must try to win her, showering her with gifts- Then she can marry the one who offers most, the man marked out by fate to be her husband."

That brought them all to a hushed, stunned silence till Amphinomus rose to have his say among them—

the noted son of Nisus, King Aretias' grandson, the chief who led the suitors from Dulichion, land of grass and grains, and the man who pleased Penelope the most, thanks to his timely words and good clear sense. Concerned for their welfare now, he stood and argued: "Friends, I've no desire to kill Telemachus, not I— it's a terrible thing to shed the blood of kings. Wait, sound out the will of the gods—that first. If the decrees of mighty Zeus commend the work, I'll kill the prince myself and spur on all the rest. If the gods are against it, then I say hold back!"

So Amphinomus urged, and won them over. They rose at once, returned to Odysseus' palace, entered and took their seats on burnished chairs.

But now an inspiration took the discreet Penelope to face her suitors, brutal, reckless men. The queen had heard it all ... how they plotted inside the house to kill her son. The herald Medon told her—he'd overheard their schemes. And so, flanked by her ladies, she descended to the hall. That luster of women, once she reached her suitors, drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks, paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof and wheeling on Antinous, cried out against him: "You, Antinous! Violent, vicious, scheming— you, they say, are the best man your age in Ithaca, best for eloquence, counsel. You're nothing of the sort! Madman, why do you weave destruction for Telemachus?— show no pity to those who need it?—those over whom almighty Zeus stands guard. It's wrong, unholy, yes, weaving death for those who deserve your mercy! Don't you know how your father fled here once? A fugitive, terrified of the people, up in arms against him because he'd joined some Taphian pirates out to attack Thesprotians, sworn allies of ours.

The mobs were set to destroy him, rip his life out, devour his vast wealth to their heart's content, but Odysseus held them back, he kept their fury down. And this is the man whose house you waste, scot-free, whose wife you court, whose son you mean to kill— you make my life an agony! Stop, I tell you, stop all this, and make the rest stop too!"

But Polybus' son Eurymachus tried to calm her: "Wise Penelope, daughter of Icarius, courage! Disabuse yourself of all these worries now. That man is not alive— he never will be, he never can be born— who'll lift a hand against Telemachus, your son, not while I walk the land and I can see the light. I tell you this—so help me, it will all come true— in an instant that man's blood will spurt around my spear! My spear, since time and again Odysseus dandled me on his knees, the great raider of cities fed me roasted meat and held the red wine to my lips. So to me your son is the dearest man alive, and I urge the boy to have no fear of death, not from the suitors at least.

What comes from the gods—there's no escaping that."

Encouraging, all the way, but all the while plotting the prince's murder in his mind . The queen, going up to her lofty well-lit room, fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband, till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep.

Returning just at dusk to Odysseus and his son, the loyal swineherd found they'd killed a yearling pig and standing over it now were busy fixing supper. But Athena had approached Laertes' son Odysseus, tapped him with her wand and made him old again. She dressed him in filthy rags too, for fear Eumaeus, recognizing his master face-to-face, might hurry

back to shrewd Penelope, blurting out the news and never hide the secret in his heart.

Telemachus was the first to greet the swineherd: "Welcome home, my friend! What's the talk in town? Are the swaggering suitors back from ambush yet— or still waiting to catch me coming home?"

You answered the prince, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, "I had no time to go roaming all through town, digging round for that. My heart raced me on to get my message told and rush back here. But I met up with a fast runner there, sent by your crew, a herald, first to tell your mother all the news. And this I know, I saw with my own eyes— I was just above the city, heading home, clambering over Hermes' Ridge, when I caught sight of a trim ship pulling into the harbor, loaded down with a crowd aboard her, shields and two-edged spears. I think they're the men you're after—I'm not sure."

At that the young prince Telemachus smiled, glancing toward his father, avoiding Eumaeus' eyes.

And now,

with the roasting done, the meal set out, they ate well and no one's hunger lacked a proper share of supper. When they'd put aside desire for food and drink, they remembered bed and took the gift of sleep.

Book XVII

Stranger at the Gates

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more

Telemachus strapped his rawhide sandals to his feet

and the young prince, the son of King Odysseus,

picked up the rugged spear that fit his grip

and striking out for the city, told his swineherd,

"I'm off to town, old friend, to present myself to mother.

She'll never stop her bitter tears and mourning,

well I know, till she sees me face-to-face.

And for you I have some orders—

take this luckless stranger to town, so he can beg

his supper there, and whoever wants can give the man

some crumbs and a cup to drink. How can Iput up with

every passerby? My mind's weighed down with troubles.

If the stranger resents it, all the worse for him.

I like to tell the truth and tell it straight."

"My friend,

subtle Odysseus broke in, "I've no desire, myself,

to linger here. Better that beggars cadge their meals

in town than in the fields. Some willing soul

will see to my needs. I'm hardly fit, at my age,

to keep to a farm and jump to a foreman's every order.

Go on then. This man will take me, as you've told him,

once I'm warm from the fire and the sun's good and strong.

Look at the clothing on my back—all rags and tatters.

I'm afraid the frost at dawn could do me in,

and town, you say, is a long hard way from here."

At that Telemachus strode down through the farm in quick, firm strides, brooding death for the suitors. And once he reached his well-constructed palace, propping his spear against a sturdy pillar and crossing the stone threshold, in he went.

His old nurse was the first to see him, Eurycleia, just spreading fleeces over the carved, inlaid chairs. Tears sprang to her eyes, she rushed straight to the prince as the other maids of great Odysseus flocked around him, hugged him warmly, kissed his head and shoulders.

Now down from her chamber came discreet Penelope, looking for all the world like Artemis or golden Aphrodite— bursting into tears as she flung her arms around her darling son and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes and sobbed, "You're home, Telemachus!"—words flew from her heart— "sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I'd see you again, once you shipped to Pylos—against my will, so secret, out for news of your dear father. Quick tell me, did you catch sight of the man—meet him—what?"

"Please, mother," steady Telemachus replied, "don't move me to tears, don't stir the heart inside me. I've just escaped from death. Sudden death. No. Bathe now, put on some fresh clothes,

go up to your own room with your serving-women,

pray, and promise the gods a generous sacrifice

to bring success, if Zeus will ever grant us

the hour of our revenge. I myself am off

to the meeting grounds to summon up a guest

who came with me from abroad when I sailed home.

I sent him on ahead with my trusted crew.

I told Piraeus to take him to his house,

treat him well, host him with all good will

till I could come myself."

Words to the mark that left his mother silent . She bathed now, put on some fresh clothes, prayed, and promised the gods a generous sacrifice to bring success, if Zeus would ever grant the hour of their revenge.

Spear in hand, Telemachus strode on through the hall and out, and a pair of sleek hounds went trotting at his heels. And Athena lavished a marvelous splendor on the prince so the people all gazed in wonder as he came forward. The swaggering suitors clustered, milling round him, welcome words on their lips, and murder in their hearts. But he gave them a wide berth as they came crowding in and there where Mentor sat, Antiphus, Halitherses too— his father's loyal friends from the early days— he took his seat as they pressed him with their questions. And just then Piraeus the gallant spearman approached, leading the stranger through the town and out onto the meeting grounds. Telemachus, not hanging back, went right up to greet Theoclymenus, his guest, but Piraeus spoke out first: "Quickly now, Telemachus, send some women to my house to retrieve the gifts that Menelaus gave you."

"Wait, Piraeus," wary Telemachus cautioned, "we've no idea how all of this will go.

If the brazen suitors cut me down in the palace— off guard—and carve apart my father's whole estate, I'd rather you yourself, or one of his friends here, keep those gifts and get some pleasure from them. But if I can bring down slaughter on that crew, you send the gifts to my house—we'll share the joy."

Their plans made, he led the wayworn stranger home and once they reached the well-constructed palace, spreading out their cloaks on a chair or bench, into the burnished tubs they climbed and bathed. When women had washed them, rubbed them down with oil and drawn warm fleece and shirts around their shoulders, out of the baths they stepped and sat on high-backed chairs. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so they might rinse their hands, then pulled a gleaming table to their side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. Penelope sat across from her son, beside a pillar, leaning back on a low chair and winding finespun yarn. They reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they'd put aside desire for food and drink, the queen, for all her composure, said at last, "Telemachus, I'm going back to my room upstairs and lie down on my bed .

that bed of pain my tears have streaked, year in, year out, from the day Odysseus sailed away to Troy with Atreus' two sons.

But you, you never had the heart— before those insolent suitors crowd back to the house— to tell me clearly about your father's journey home, if you've heard any news."

"Of course, mother," thoughtful Telemachus reassured her quickly, "I will tell you the whole true story now.

We sailed to Pylos, to Nestor, the great king,

and he received me there in his lofty palace,

treated me well and warmly, yes, as a father treats

a long-lost son just home from voyaging, years abroad:

such care he showered on me, he and his noble sons.

But of strong, enduring Odysseus, dead or alive,

he's heard no news, he said, from any man on earth.

He sent me on to the famous spearman Atrides Menelaus,

on with a team of horses drawing a bolted chariot.

And there I saw her, Helen of Argos—all for her

Achaeans and Trojans suffered so much hardship,

thanks to the gods' decree ...

The lord of the warcry, Menelaus, asked at once

what pressing need had brought me to lovely Lacedaemon,

and when I told him the whole story, first to last,

the king burst out, 'How shameful! That's the bed

of a brave man of war they'd like to crawl inside,

those spineless, craven cowards!

Weak as the doe that beds down her fawns

in a mighty lion's den—her newborn sucklings—

then trails off to the mountain spurs and grassy bends

to graze her fill, but back the lion comes to his own lair

and the master deals both fawns a ghastly bloody death,

just what Odysseus will deal that mob—ghastly death.

Ah if only—Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo—

that man who years ago in the games at Lesbos

rose to Philomelides' challenge, wrestled him,

pinned him down with one tremendous throw

and the Argives roared with joy ...

if only that Odysseus sported with those suitors,

a blood wedding, a quick death would take the lot!

But about the things you've asked me, so intently,

I'll skew and sidestep nothing, not deceive you, ever.

Of all he told me—the Old Man of the Sea who never lies—

I'll hide or hold back nothing, not a single word.

He said he'd seen Odysseus on an island,

ground down in misery, off in a goddess' house,

the nymph Calypso, who holds him there by force. He has no way to voyage home to his own native land, no trim ships in reach, no crew to ply the oars and send him scudding over the sea's broad back.'

So Menelaus, the famous spearman, told me. My mission accomplished, back I came at once, and the gods sent me a stiff following wind that sped me home to the native land I love."

His reassurance stirred the queen to her depths and the godlike seer Theoclymenus added firmly, "Noble lady, wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, Menelaus can have no perfect revelations; mark my words—I will make you a prophecy, quite precise, and 1ll hold nothing back. I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods, by this table of hospitality here, my host, by Odysseus' hearth where I have come for help— I swear Odysseus is on native soil, here and now! Poised or on the prowl, learning of these rank crimes he's sowing seeds of ruin for all your suitors. So clear, so true, that bird-sign I saw as I sat on the benched ship and sounded out the future to the prince!"

"If only, my friend," reserved Penelope exclaimed, "everything you say would come to pass! You'd soon know my affection, know my gifts. Any man you meet would call you blest."

And so the three confided in the halls while all the suitors, before Odysseus' palace, amused themselves with discus and long throwing spears, out on the leveled grounds, free and easy as always, full of swagger. When the dinner-hour approached and sheep came home from pastures near and far, driven in by familiar drovers, Medon called them all, their favorite herald, always present at their meals: "My young lords, now you've played your games to your hearts' content, come back to the halls so we can fix your supper. Nothing's better than dining well on time!"

They came at his summons, rising from the games and now, bustling into the well-constructed palace, flinging down their cloaks on a chair or bench, they butchered hulking sheep and fatted goats, full-grown hogs and a young cow from the herd, preparing for their feast.

At the same time the king and his loyal swineherd geared to leave the country for the town. Eumaeus, foreman of men, set things in motion: "Friend, I know you're keen on going down to town today, just as my master bid, though I'd rather you stay here to guard the farm. But I prize the boy, I fear he'll blame me later— a dressing-down from your master's hard to bear. So off we go now. The shank of the day is past. You'll find it colder with nightfall coming on."

"I know, I see your point," the crafty man replied. "There's sense in this old head. So let's be off. And from now on, you lead me all the way. Just give me a stick to lean on, if you have one ready-cut. You say the road is treacherous, full of slips and slides."

With that

he flung his beggar's sack across his shoulders— torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope. Eumaeus gave him a staff that met his needs. Then the two moved out, leaving behind them dogs and herdsmen to stay and guard the farm. And so the servant led his master toward the city, looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar

hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags .

Down over the rugged road they went till hard by town they reached the stone-rimmed fountain running clear where the city people came and drew their water. Ithacus built it once, with Neritus and Polyctor. Round it a stand of poplar thrived on the dank soil, all in a nestling ring, and down from a rock-ledge overhead the cold water splashed, and crowning the fountain rose an altar-stone erected to the nymphs, where every traveler paused and left an offering. Here Dolius' son, Melanthius, crossed their path, herding his goats with a pair of drovers' help, the pick of his flocks to make the suitors' meal. As soon as he saw them there he broke into a flood of brutal, foul abuse that made Odysseus' blood boil. "Look!"—he sneered—"one scum nosing another scum along, dirt finds dirt by the will of god—it never fails! Stinking pig-boy, where do you take your filthy swine, this sickening beggar who licks the pots at feasts? Hanging round the doorposts, rubbing his back, scavenging after scraps, no hero's swords and cauldrons, not for him. Hand him over to me—I'll teach him to work a farm, muck out my stalls, pitch feed to the young goats; whey to drink will put some muscle on his hams! Oh no, he's learned his lazy ways too well, he's got no itch to stick to good hard work, he'd rather go scrounging round the countryside, begging for crusts to stuff his greedy gut! Let me tell you—so help me it's the truth— if he sets foot in King Odysseus' royal palace, salvos of footstools flung at his head by all the lords will crack his ribs as he runs the line of fire through the house!"

Wild, reckless taunts—and just as he passed Odysseus the idiot lurched out with a heel and kicked his hip, but he couldn't knock the beggar off the path,

he stood his ground so staunchly. Odysseus was torn ...

should he wheel with his staff and beat the scoundrel senseless?—

or hoist him by the midriff, split his skull on the rocks?

He steeled himself instead, his mind in full control.

But Eumaeus glared at the goatherd, cursed him to his face,

then lifted up his hands and prayed his heart out:

"O nymphs of the fountain, daughters of Zeus—

if Odysseus ever burned you the long thighs

of lambs or kids, covered with rich fat,

now bring my prayer to pass!

Let that man come back—some god guide him now!

He'd toss to the winds the flashy show you make,

Melanthius, so cocksure—always strutting round the town

while worthless fieldhands leave your flocks a shambles!"

"Listen to him! the goatherd shouted back. "All bark and no bite from the vicious mutt! One fine day I'll ship him out in a black lugger, miles from Ithaca—sell him off for a good stiff price! Just let Apollo shoot Telemachus down with his silver bow, today in the halls, or the suitors snuff his life out— as sure as I know the day of the king's return is blotted out, the king is worlds away!"

With his parting shot he left them trudging on and went and reached the royal house in no time. Slipping in, he took his seat among the suitors, facing Eurymachus, who favored him the most. The carvers set before him his plate of meat, a staid housekeeper brought the man his bread.

And now at last the king and loyal swineherd, drawing near the palace, halted just outside as the lyre's rippling music drifted round them— Phemius, striking up a song for assembled guests— and the master seized his servant's hand, exclaiming, "Friend, what a noble house! Odysseus' house, it must be! No mistaking it—you could tell it among a townful, look.

One building linked to the next, and the courtyard wall is finished off with a fine coping, the double doors are battle-proof—no man could break them down! I can tell a crowd is feasting there in force— smell the savor of roasts ... the ringing lyre, listen, the lyre that god has made the friend of feasts."

"An easy guess," you said, Eumaeus, swineherd, "for a man as keen as you at every turn. Put heads together. What do we do next? Either you're the first one into the palace— mix with the suitors, leave me where I am. Or if you like, stay put, and I'll go first myself. Don't linger long. Someone might spot you here outside, knock you down or pelt you. Mark my words. Take care."

The man who'd borne long years abroad replied, "Well I know. Remember? There's sense in this old head. You go in, you first, while I stay here behind. Stones and blows and I are hardly strangers. My heart is steeled by now, I've had my share of pain in the waves and wars. Add this to the total. Bring the trial on. But there's no way to hide the belly's hungers— what a curse, what mischief it brews in all our lives! Just for hunger we rig and ride our long benched ships on the barren salt sea, speeding death to enemies."

Now, as they talked on, a dog that lay there lifted up his muzzle, pricked his ears . It was Argos, long-enduring Odysseus' dog he trained as a puppy once, but little joy he got since all too soon he shipped to sacred Troy. In the old days young hunters loved to set him coursing after the wild goats and deer and hares. But now with his master gone he lay there, castaway, on piles of dung from mules and cattle, heaps collecting out before the gates till Odysseus' serving-men

could cart it off to manure the king's estates.

Infested with ticks, half-dead from neglect,

here lay the hound, old Argos.

But the moment he sensed Odysseus standing by

he thumped his tail, nuzzling low, and his ears dropped,

though he had no strength to drag himself an inch

toward his master. Odysseus glanced to the side

and flicked away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus,

diverting his friend in a hasty, offhand way:

"Strange, Eumaeus, look, a dog like this,

lying here on a dung-hill .

what handsome lines! But I can't say for sure

if he had the running speed to match his looks

or he was only the sort that gentry spoil at table,

show-dogs masters pamper for their points."

You told the stranger, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, "Here—it's all too true—here's the dog of a man who died in foreign parts. But if he had now the form and flair he had in his glory days— as Odysseus left him, sailing off to Troy— you'd be amazed to see such speed, such strength. No quarry he chased in the deepest, darkest woods could ever slip this hound. A champion tracker too! Ah, but he's run out of luck now, poor fellow . his master's dead and gone, so far from home, and the heartless women tend him not at all. Slaves, with their lords no longer there to crack the whip, lose all zest to perform their duties well. Zeus, the Old Thunderer, robs a man of half his virtue the day the yoke clamps down around his neck."

With that he entered the well-constructed palace, strode through the halls and joined the proud suitors. But the dark shadow of death closed down on Argos' eyes the instant he saw Odysseus, twenty years away.

Now Prince Telemachus, first by far to note the swineherd coming down the hall, nodded briskly, called and waved him on. Eumaeus, glancing about, picked up a handy stool where the carver always sat, slicing meat for the suitors feasting through the house. He took and put it beside the prince's table, facing him, straddled it himself as a steward set a plate of meat before the man and served him bread from trays.

Right behind him came Odysseus, into his own house, looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags. Just in the doorway, just at the ashwood threshold, there he settled down .

leaning against the cypress post a master joiner planed smooth and hung with a plumb line years ago. Telemachus motioned the swineherd over now, and choosing a whole loaf from a fine wicker tray and as much meat as his outstretched hands could hold, he said, "Now take these to the stranger, tell him too to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all. Bashfulness, for a man in need, is no great friend."

And Eumaeus did his bidding, went straight up to the guest and winged a greeting: "Here, stranger, Prince Telemachus sends you these, and tells you too to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all. Bashfulness for a beggar, he says, is no great friend."

"Powerful Zeus!" the crafty king responded, "grant that your prince be blest among mankind— and all his heart's desires come to pass!"

Taking the food in both hands, setting it down, spread out on his filthy sack before his feet, the beggar fell to his meal as the singer raised a song throughout the house. Once he'd supped and the stirring bard had closed, the suitors broke into uproar down along the hall.

And now Athena came to the side of Laertes' royal son and urged him, "Go now, gather crusts from all the suitors, test them, so we can tell the innocent from the guilty." But not even so would Athena save one man from death. Still, off he went, begging from each in turn, circling left to right, reaching out his hand like a beggar from the day that he was born. They pitied him, gave him scraps, were puzzled too, asking each other, "Who is this?" "Where's he from?" Till the goatherd Melanthius shouted out in their midst, "Listen to me, you lords who court our noble queen— I'll tell you about the stranger. I've seen him before. I know for a fact the swineherd led him in, though I have no idea who the fellow is or where he thinks he comes from."

At that

Antinous wheeled on Eumaeus, lashing out at him: "Your highness, swineherd—why drag this to town? Haven't we got our share of vagabonds to deal with, disgusting beggars who lick the feasters' plates? Isn't it quite enough, these swarming crowds consuming your master's bounty— must you invite this rascal in the bargain?"

"Antinous,

highborn as you are," you told the man, Eumaeus,

"that was a mean low speech!

Now who'd go out, who on his own hook—

not I—and ask a stranger in from nowhere

unless he had some skills to serve the house?

A prophet, a healer who cures disease, a worker in wood

or even a god-inspired bard whose singing warms the heart—

they're the ones asked in around the world. A beggar?

Who'd invite a beggar to bleed his household white?

You, you of all the suitors are always roughest

on the servants of our king, on me most of all.

Not that I care, no, so long as his queen,

his wise queen, is still alive in the palace,

Prince Telemachus too."

"Stop, Eumaeus," poised Telemachus broke in quickly now, "don't waste so much breath on Antinous here. It's just his habit to bait a man with abuse and spur the rest as well."

He wheeled on the suitor, letting loose: "How kind you are to me, Antinous, kind as a father to his son! Encouraging me to send this stranger packing from my house with a harsh command! I'd never do it. God forbid. Take and give to the beggar. I don't grudge it— I'd even urge you on. No scruples now, never fear your gifts will upset my mother or any servant in King Odysseus' royal house. But no such qualm could enter that head of yours, bent on feeding your own face, not feeding strangers!"

Antinous countered the young prince in kind: "So high and mighty, Telemachus—such unbridled rage! If all the suitors gave him the sort of gift I'll give, the house would be rid of him for three whole months!" With that from under his table be seized the stool that propped his smooth feet as he reveled on— just lifting it into view .

But as for the rest, all gave to the beggar, filled his sack with handouts, bread and meat. And Odysseus seemed at the point of getting back to his doorsill, done with testing suitors, home free himself when he stopped beside Antinous, begging face-to-face: "Give me a morsel, friend. You're hardly the worst Achaean here, it seems. The noblest one, in fact. You look like a king to me! So you should give a bigger crust than the rest and I will sing your praises all across the earth. I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired;

rolling in wealth, I'd often give to a vagabond like myself,

whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door.

And crowds of servants I had, and lots of all it takes

to live the life of ease, to make men call you rich.

But Zeus ruined it all—god's will, no doubt—

when he shipped me off with a roving band of pirates

bound for Egypt, a long hard sail, to wreck my life.

There in the Nile delta I moored our ships of war.

God knows I ordered my trusty crews to stand by,

just where they were, and guard the anchored fleet

and I sent a patrol to scout things out from higher ground.

But swept away by their own reckless fury, the crew went berserk—

they promptly began to plunder the lush Egyptian farms,

dragged off the women and children, killed the men.

Outcries reached the city in no time—stirred by shouts

the entire town came streaming down at the break of day,

filling the river plain with chariots, ranks of infantry

and the gleam of bronze. Zeus who loves the lightning

flung down murderous panic on all my men-at-arms—

no one dared to stand his ground and fight,

disaster ringed us round from every quarter.

Droves of my men they hacked down with swords,

led off the rest alive, to labor for them as slaves.

Myself? They passed me on to a stranger come their way,

to ship me to Cyprus—Iasus' son Dmetor it was,

who ruled Cyprus then with an iron fist.

And from there I sailed to Ithaca,

just as you see me now, ground down by pain and sorrow—"

"Good god almighty!" Antinous cut the beggar short. "What spirit brought this pest to plague our feast? Back off! Into the open, clear of my table, or you, you'll soon land in an Egypt, Cyprus, to break your heart! What a brazen, shameless beggar! Scrounging food from each man in turn, and look at their handouts, reckless, never a qualm, no holding back, not when making free with the next man's goods— each one's got plenty here."

"Pity, pity," the wry Odysseus countered, drawing away. "No sense in your head to match your handsome looks. You'd grudge your servant a pinch of salt from your own larder, you who lounge at the next man's board but lack the heart to tear a crust of bread and hand it on to me, though there's god's plenty here."

Boiling over

Antinous gave him a scathing look and let fly, "Now you won't get out of the hall unscarred, I swear, not after such a filthy string of insults!"

With that

he seized the stool and hurled it—

Square in the back it struck Odysseus, just under the right shoulder but he stood up against it—steady as a rock, unstaggered by Antinous' blow—just shook his head, silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work. Back he went to the doorsill, crouched, and setting down his sack about to burst, he faced the suitors, saying, "Hear me out, you lords who court the noble queen, I must say what the heart inside me urges. There's nothing to groan about, no hurt, when a man takes a blow as he fights to save his own possessions, cattle or shining flocks. But Antinous struck me all because of my good-for-nothing belly—that, that curse that makes such pain for us poor men. But if beggars have their gods and Furies too, let Antinous meet his death before he meets his bride!"

"Enough, stranger!" Antinous volleyed back. "Sit there and eat in peace—or go get lost! Or else, for the way you talk, these young men will hale you up and down the halls by your hands or feet until you're skinned alive!"

Naked threats— but the rest were outraged, even those brash suitors. One would say to another, "Look, Antinous, that was a crime, to strike the luckless beggar!"

"Your fate is sealed if he's some god from the blue."

"And the gods do take on the look of strangers dropping in from abroad—"

"Disguised in every way as they roam and haunt our cities, watching over us—"

"All our foul play, all our fair play too!"

So they warned, but Antinous paid no heed. And the anguish welled up in Telemachus' breast for the blow his father took, yet he let no tears go rolling down his face—just shook his head, silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work.

But then, when cautious Queen Penelope heard how Antinous struck the stranger, there in the halls, she cried out, with her serving-women round her, "May Apollo the Archer strike you just as hard!" And her housekeeper Eurynome added quickly, "If only our prayers were granted— then not one of the lot would live to see Dawn climb her throne tomorrow!"

"Dear old woman," alert Penelope replied, "they're all hateful, plotting their vicious plots. But Antinous is the worst of all—he's black death itself. Here's this luckless stranger, wandering down the halls and begging scraps—hard-pressed by need— and the rest all give the man his fill of food, but that one gives him a footstool hurled at his right shoulder, hits his back!"

While she exclaimed among her household women, sitting there in her room, Odysseus bent to supper. Penelope called the swineherd in and gave instructions: "Go, good Eumaeus, tell the stranger to come at once. I'd like to give him a warm welcome, ask the man

if he's heard some news about my gallant husband or seen him in the flesh .

He seems like one who's roved around the world."

"My queen," you answered, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, "if only the lords would hold their peace a moment! Such stories he tells—he'd charm you to your depths. Three nights, three days I kept him in my shelter; Iwas the first the fellow stumbled onto, fleeing from some ship. But not even so could he bring his tale of troubles to an end. You know how you can stare at a bard in wonder— trained by the gods to sing and hold men spellbound— how you can long to sit there, listening, all your life when the man begins to sing. So he charmed my heart, I tell you, huddling there beside me at my fire. He and Odysseus' father go way back, he says, sworn friends, and the stranger hails from Crete where the stock of old King Minos still lives on, and from Crete he made his way, racked by hardship, tumbling on like a rolling stone until he turned up here. He swears he's heard of Odysseus—just in reach, in rich Thesprotian country—still alive, laden with treasure, heading home at last!"

"Go,"

the cautious queen responded, "call him here

so he can tell me his own tale face-to-face.

Our friends can sit at the gates or down the halls

and play their games, debauched to their hearts' content.

Why not? Their own stores, their bread and seasoned wine,

lie intact at home; food for their serving-men alone.

But they, they infest our palace day and night,

they butcher our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats,

feasting themselves sick, swilling our glowing wine

as if there's no tomorrow—all of it, squandered.

No, there is no man like Odysseus in command

to drive this curse from the house. Dear god,

if only Odysseus came back home to native soil now,

he and his son would avenge the outrage of these men—like that!

At her last words Telemachus shook with a lusty sneeze and the sudden outburst echoed up and down the halls. The queen was seized with laughter, calling out to Eumaeus winged words: "Quickly, go! Bring me this stranger now, face-to-face! You hear how my son sealed all I said with a sneeze? So let death come down with grim finality on these suitors— one and all—not a single man escape his sudden doom! And another thing. Mark my words, I tell you. If I'm convinced that all he says is true, I'll dress him in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes."

Off the swineherd went, following her instructions, made his way to the stranger's side and winged a word: "Old friend—our queen, wise Penelope, summons you, the prince's mother! The spirit moves her now, heartsick as she is,

to ask a question or two about her husband-

And if she's convinced that all you say is true,

she'll dress you in shirt and cloak. That's what you need,

that most of all now. Bread you can always beg

around the country, fill your belly well—

they'll give you food, whoever has a mind to."

"Gladly, Eumaeus," the patient man replied, "I'll tell her the whole truth, and nothing but, Icarius' daughter, your wise queen Penelope. I know all about that man ... it's been my lot to suffer what he's suffered- But I fear the mob's abuse, those rough young bucks, their pride and violence hit the iron skies! Just now that scoundrel—as I went down the halls, harming no one—up and dealt me a jolting blow, and who would raise a hand to save me? Telemachus? Anyone else? No one. So tell Penelope now, anxious as she may be, to wait in the halls until the sun goes down. Then she can ask me

all she likes about her husband's journey home. But let her give me a seat close by the fire. The clothes on my back are tatters. Well you know— you are the first I begged for care and shelter."

Back the swineherd went, following his instructions. Penelope, just as he crossed her threshold, broke out, "Didn't you bring him? What's in the vagrant's mind? Fear of someone? Embarrassed by something else, here in the house? Is the fellow bashful? A bashful man will make a sorry beggar."

You answered your queen, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, "He talks to the point—he thinks as the next man would who wants to dodge their blows, that brutal crew. He tells you to wait here till the sun goes down. It's better for you, my queen. Then you can talk with the man in private, hear the stranger's news."

"Nobody's fool, that stranger," wise Penelope said, "he sees how things could go. Surely no men on earth can match that gang for reckless, deadly schemes."

So she agreed, and now, mission accomplished, back the loyal swineherd went to mix with the suitors. Moving next to the prince, he whispered a parting word, their heads close together so no one else could hear. "Dear boy, I must be off, to see to the pigs and the whole farm—your living, mine as well. You're the one to tend to all things here. Look out for your own skin first, do take care, you mustn't come to grief. Crowds of your own countrymen plot your death— let Zeus wipe out the lot before they kill us all!"

"Right you are, old friend," the canny prince replied. "Now off you go, once you've had your supper. But come back bright and early, bring some good sound boars for slaughter. Yes, I'll tend to all things here, I and the deathless gods."

And the swineherd sat down again on his polished stool and once he'd supped and drunk to his heart's content, back he went to his pigs, leaving the royal precincts still filled with feasters, all indulging now in the joys of dance and song. The day was over. Dusk was falling fast.

Book XVIII

The Beggar-King of Ithaca

Now along came this tramp, this public nuisance

who used to scrounge a living round the streets of Ithaca—

notorious for his belly, a ravenous, bottomless pit

for food and drink, but he had no pith, no brawn,

despite the looming hulk that met your eyes.

Arnaeus was his name,

so his worthy mother called him at birth,

but all the young men called him Irus for short

because he'd hustle messages at any beck and call.

Well he came by to rout the king from his own house

and met Odysseus now with a rough, abusive burst:

"Get off the porch, you old goat, before I haul you

off by the leg! Can't you see them give me the wink,

all of them here, to drag you out—and so I would,

but I've got some pangs of conscience. Up with you, man, or before you know it, we'll be trading blows!"

A killing look, and the wily old soldier countered, "Out of your mind? What damage have I done you?What have I said? I don't grudge you anything, not if the next man up and gives you plenty. This doorsill is big enough for the both of us— you've got no call to grudge me what's not yours. You're another vagrant, just like me, I'd say, and it lies with the gods to make us rich or poor. So, keep your fists to yourself, don't press your luck, don't rile me, or old as I am, I'll bloody your lip, splatter your chest and buy myself some peace and quiet for tomorrow. I doubt you'll ever come lumbering back again to the halls of Laertes' royal son Odysseus."

"Look who's talking!" the beggar rumbled in anger. "How this pot-bellied pig runs off at the mouth— like an old crone at her oven! Well 7've got a knock-out blow in store for him— I'll batter the tramp with both fists, bash every tooth from his jaws, I'll litter the ground with teeth like a rogue sow's, punished for rooting corn! Belt up—so the lords can see us fight it out. How can you beat a champion half your age?"

Tongue-lashing each other, tempers flaring, there on the polished sill before the lofty doors. And Antinous, that grand prince, hearing them wrangle, broke into gloating laughter, calling to the suitors, "Friends, nothing like this has come our way before— what sport some god has brought the palace now! The stranger and Irus, look, they'd battle it out together, fists flying. Come, let's pit them against each other—fast!"

All leapt from their seats with whoops of laughter, clustering round the pair of ragged beggars there as Eupithes' son Antinous planned the contest. "Quiet, my fine friends. Here's what I propose. These goat sausages sizzling here in the fire— we packed them with fat and blood to have for supper. Now, whoever wins this bout and proves the stronger, let that man step up and take his pick of the lot! What's more, from this day on he feasts among us— no other beggar will we allow inside to cadge his meals from us!

They all cheered but Odysseus, foxy veteran, plotted on ... "Friends, how can an old man, worn down with pain, stand up to a young buck? It's just this belly of mine, this trouble-maker, tempts me to take a licking. So first, all of you swear me a binding oath: come, not one of you steps in for Irus here, strikes me a foul blow to pull him through and lays me in the dust."

And at that they all mouthed the oath that he required, and once they vowed they'd never interfere, Prince Telemachus drove the matter home: "Stranger, if your spine and fighting pride prompt you to go against this fellow now, have no fear of any suitor in the pack— whoever fouls you will have to face a crowd. Count on me, your host. And two lords back me up, Antinous and Eurymachus—both are men of sense."

They all shouted approval of the prince as Odysseus belted up, roping his rags around his loins, baring his big rippling thighs—his boxer's broad shoulders, his massive chest and burly arms on full display as Athena stood beside him, fleshing out the limbs of the great commander . Despite their swagger, the suitors were amazed,

gaping at one another, trading forecasts: "Irus will soon be ironed out for good!"

"He's in for the beating he begged for all along."

"Look at the ham on that old gaffer—"

"Just under his rags!"

Each outcry jolted Irus to the core—too late. The servants trussed his clothes up, dragged him on, the flesh on his body quaking now with terror. Antinous rounded on him, flinging insults: "You, you clumsy ox, you're better off dead or never born at all, if you cringe at him, paralyzed with fear of an old, broken hulk, ground down by the pains that hound his steps. Mark my word—so help me I'll make it good— if that old relic whips you and wins the day, I'll toss you into a black ship and sail you off to Echetus, the mainland king who wrecks all men alive! He'll lop your nose and ears with his ruthless blade, he'll rip your privates out by the roots, he will, and serve them up to his dogs to bolt down raw!"

That threat shook his knees with a stronger fit but they hauled him into the ring. Both men put up their fists— with the seasoned fighter Odysseus deeply torn now ... should he knock him senseless, leave him dead where he dropped or just stretch him out on the ground with a light jab? As he mulled things over, that way seemed the best: a glancing blow, the suitors would not detect him. The two men squared off—

and Irus hurled a fist at Odysseus' right shoulder as he came through with a hook below the ear, pounding Irus' neck, smashing the bones inside—

Suddenly red blood

came spurting out of his mouth, and headlong down he pitched in the dust, howling, teeth locked in a grin, feet beating the ground—

And the princely suitors, flinging their hands in the air, died laughing. Grabbing him by the leg, Odysseus hauled him through the porch, across the yard to the outer gate, heaped him against the courtyard wall, sitting slumped, stuck his stick in his hand and gave him a parting shot: "Now hold your post—play the scarecrow to all the pigs and dogs! But no more lording it over strangers, no more playing the beggar-king for you, you loathsome fool, or you'll bring down something worse around your neck!"

He threw his beggar's sack across his shoulders— torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope— then back he went to the sill and took his seat. The suitors ambled back as well, laughing jauntily, toasting the beggar warmly now, those proud young blades, one man egging the other on: "Stranger, friend, may Zeus and the other deathless gods fill up your sack with blessings!"

"All your heart desires!"

"You've knocked him out of action,

that insatiable tramp—"

"That parasite on the land!"

"Ship him off to Echetus, fast—the mainland king who wrecks all men alive!"

Welcome words and a lucky omen too—Odysseus' heart leapt up. Antinous laid before him a generous goat sausage, bubbling fat and blood. Amphinomus took two loaves from the wicker tray and set them down beside him, drank his health in a golden cup and said, "Cheers, old friend, old father, saddled now as you are with so much trouble—

here's to your luck, great days from this day on!"

And the one who knew the world replied at length, "Amphinomus, you seem like a man of good sense to me. Just like your father—at least I've heard his praises, Nisus of Dulichion, a righteous man, and rich. You're his son, they say, you seem well-spoken, too. So I will tell you something. Listen. Listen closely. Of all that breathes and crawls across the earth, our mother earth breeds nothing feebler than a man. So long as the gods grant him power, spring in his knees, he thinks he will never suffer affliction down the years. But then, when the happy gods bring on the long hard times, bear them he must, against his will, and steel his heart. Our lives, our mood and mind as we pass across the earth, turn as the days turn ...

as the father of men and gods makes each day dawn. I too seemed destined to be a man of fortune once, and a wild wicked swath I cut, indulged my lust for violence, staking all on my father and my brothers.

Look at me now. And so, I say, let no man ever be lawless all his life, just take in peace what gifts the gods will send.

True,

but here I see you suitors plotting your reckless work, carving away at the wealth, affronting the loyal wife of a man who won't be gone from kin and country long. I say he's right at hand—and may some power save you, spirit you home before you meet him face-to-face the moment he returns to native ground! Once under his own roof, he and your friends, believe you me, won't part till blood has flowed."

With that

he poured out honeyed wine to the gods and drank deeply, then restored the cup to the young prince's hands. Amphinomus made his way back through the hall, heart sick with anguish, shaking his head, fraught with grave forebodings .

but not even so could he escape his fate. Even then Athena had bound him fast to death at the hands of Prince Telemachus and his spear. Now back he went to the seat that he'd left empty.

But now the goddess Athena with her glinting eyes inspired Penelope, Icarius' daughter, wary, poised, to display herself to her suitors, fan their hearts, inflame them more, and make her even more esteemed by her husband and her son than she had been before. Forcing a laugh, she called her maid: "Eurynome, my spirit longs—though it never did till now— to appear before my suitors, loathe them as I do. I'd say a word to my son too, for his own good, not to mix so much with that pernicious crowd, so glib with their friendly talk but plotting wicked plots they'll hatch tomorrow."

"Well said, my child," the old woman answered, "all to the point. Go to the boy and warn him now, hold nothing back. But first you should bathe yourself, give a gloss to your face. Don't go down like that— your eyes dimmed, your cheeks streaked with tears. It makes things worse, this grieving on and on. Your son's now come of age—your fondest prayer to the deathless gods, to see him wear a beard."

"Eurynome," discreet Penelope objected, "don't try to coax me, care for me as you do, to bathe myself, refresh my face with oils. Whatever glow I had died long ago ... the gods of Olympus snuffed it out that day my husband sailed away in the hollow ships. But please, have Autonoe and Hippodamia come and support me in the hall. I'll never brave those men alone. I'd be too embarrassed."

Now as the old nurse bustled through the house to give the women orders, call them to the queen, the bright-eyed goddess thought of one more thing. She drifted a sound slumber over Icarius' daughter, back she sank and slept, her limbs fell limp and still, reclining there on her couch, all the while Athena, luminous goddess, lavished immortal gifts on her to make her suitors lose themselves in wonder . The divine unguent first. She cleansed her cheeks, her brow and fine eyes with ambrosia smooth as the oils the goddess Love applies, donning her crown of flowers whenever she joins the Graces' captivating dances. She made her taller, fuller in form to all men's eyes, her skin whiter than ivory freshly carved, and now, Athena's mission accomplished, off the bright one went as bare-armed maids came in from their own quarters, chattering all the way, and sleep released the queen. She woke, touched her cheek with a hand, and mused, "Ah, what a marvelous gentle sleep, enfolding me in the midst of all my anguish! Now if only blessed Artemis sent me a death as gentle, now, this instant—no more wasting away my life, my heart broken in longing for my husband . He had every strength,

rising over his countrymen, head and shoulders."

Then, leaving her well-lit chamber, she descended, not alone: two of her women followed close behind. That radiant woman, once she reached her suitors, drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks, paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof, with one of her loyal handmaids stationed either side. The suitors' knees went slack, their hearts dissolved in lust— all of them lifted prayers to lie beside her, share her bed. But turning toward her son, she warned, "Telemachus, your sense of balance is not what it used to be. When you were a boy you had much better judgment. Now that you've grown and reached your young prime, and any stranger, seeing how tall and handsome you are,

would think you the son of some great man of wealth— now your sense of fairness seems to fail you. Consider the dreadful thing just done in our halls— how you let the stranger be so abused! Why, suppose our guest, sitting here at peace, here in our own house,

were hauled and badly hurt by such cruel treatment? Youd be shamed, disgraced in all men's eyes!"

"Mother ..." Telemachus paused, then answered. "I cannot fault your anger at all this. My heart takes note of everything, feels it, too, both the good and the bad—the boy you knew is gone. But how can I plan my world in a sane, thoughtful way? These men drive me mad, hedging me round, right and left, plotting their lethal plots, and no one takes my side. Still, this battle between the stranger and Irus hardly went as the suitors might have hoped: the stranger beat him down! If only—Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo— these gallants, now, this moment, here in our house, were battered senseless, heads lolling, knees unstrung, some sprawled in the courtyard, some sprawled outside! Slumped like Irus down at the front gates now, whipped, and his head rolling like some drunk. He can't stand up on his feet and stagger home, whatever home he's got—the man's demolished."

So Penelope and her son exchanged their hopes as Eurymachus stepped in to praise the queen. "Ah, daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, if all the princes in Ionian Argos saw you now! What a troop of suitors would banquet in your halls, tomorrow at sunrise! You surpass all women in build and beauty, refined and steady mind."

"Oh no, Eurymachus," wise Penelope demurred, "whatever form and feature I had, what praise I'd won, the deathless gods destroyed that day the Achaeans sailed away to Troy, my husband in their ships, Odysseus—if he could return to tend my life the renown I had would only grow in glory. Now my life is torment .

look at the griefs some god has loosed against me!

I'll never forget the day he left this land of ours;

he caught my right hand by the wrist and said, gently,

'Dear woman, I doubt that every Achaean under arms

will make it home from Troy, all safe and sound.

The Trojans, they say, are fine soldiers too,

hurling javelins, shooting flights of arrows,

charioteers who can turn the tide—like that!—

when the great leveler, War, brings on some deadlock.

So I cannot tell if the gods will sail me home again

or I'll go down out there, on the fields of Troy,

but all things here must rest in your control.

Watch over my father and mother in the palace,

just as now, or perhaps a little more,

when I am far from home.

But once you see the beard on the boy's cheek,

you wed the man you like, and leave your house behind.'

So my husband advised me then. Now it all comes true ...

a night will come when a hateful marriage falls my lot—

this cursed life of mine! Zeus has torn away my joy.

But there's something else that mortifies me now.

Your way is a far cry from the time-honored way

of suitors locked in rivalry, striving to win

some noble woman, a wealthy man's daughter.

They bring in their own calves and lambs

to feast the friends of the bride-to-be, yes,

and shower her with gleaming gifts as well.

They don't devour the woman's goods scot-free."

Staunch Odysseus glowed with joy to hear all this— his wife's trickery luring gifts from her suitors now, enchanting their hearts with suave seductive words but all the while with something else in mind.

"Gifts?"

Eupithes' son Antinous took her point at once. "Daughter of Icarius, sensible Penelope, whatever gifts your suitors would like to bring, accept them. How ungracious to turn those gifts away! We won't go back to our own estates, or anywhere else, till you have wed the man you find the best."

So he proposed, and all the rest agreed. Each suitor sent a page to go and get a gift. Antinous' man brought in a grand, resplendent robe, stiff with embroidery, clasped with twelve gold brooches, long pins that clipped into sheathing loops with ease. Eurymachus' man brought in a necklace richly wrought, gilded, strung with amber and glowing like the sun. Eurydamas' two men came with a pair of earrings, mulberry clusters dangling in triple drops with a glint to catch the heart. From the halls of lord Pisander, Polyctor's son, a servant brought a choker, a fine, gleaming treasure. And so each suitor in turn laid on a handsome gift. Then the noble queen withdrew to her upper room, her file of waiting ladies close behind her, bearing the gorgeous presents in their arms.

Now the suitors turned to dance and song, to the lovely beat and sway, waiting for dusk to come upon them there . and the dark night came upon them, lost in pleasure. They rushed to set up three braziers along the walls to give them light, piled them high with kindling, sere, well-seasoned, just split with an ax, and mixed in chips to keep the torches flaring.

The maids of Odysseus, steady man, took turns to keep the fires up, but the king himself, dear to the gods and cunning to the core, gave them orders brusquely: "Maids of Odysseus, your master gone so long—quick now, off you go to the room where your queen and mistress waits. Sit with her there and try to lift her spirits, combing wool in your hands or spinning yarn. But I will trim the torches for all her suitors, even if they would like to revel on till Morning mounts her throne. They'll never wear me down. I have a name for lasting out the worst."

At that

the women burst into laughter, glancing back and forth.

Flushed with beauty, Melantho mocked him shamelessly—

Dolius was her father but Penelope brought her up;

she treated her like her own child and gave her toys

to cheer her heart. But despite that, her heart

felt nothing for all her mistress' anguish now.

She was Eurymachus' lover, always slept with him.

She was the one who mocked her king and taunted,

"Cock of the walk, did someone beat your brains out?

Why not go bed down at the blacksmith's cozy forge?

Or a public place where tramps collect? Why here—

blithering on, nonstop,

bold as brass in the face of all these lords?

No fear in your heart? Wine's got to your wits?—

or do you always play the fool and babble nonsense?

Lost your head, have you, because you drubbed that hobo Irus?

You wait—a better man than Irus will take you on,

he'll box both sides of your skull with heavy fists

and cart you out the palace gushing blood!"

" You wait,

you bitch"—the hardened veteran flashed a killing look. "I'll go straight to the prince with your foul talk. The prince will chop you to pieces here and now!"

His fury sent the women fluttering off, scattering down the hall with panic shaking every limb— they knew he spoke the truth. But he took up his post by the flaring braziers, tending the fires closely, looking after them all, though the heart inside him stirred with other things, ranging ahead, now, to all that must be done ...

But Athena had no mind to let the brazen suitors hold back now from their heart-rending insults— she meant to make the anguish cut still deeper into the core of Laertes' son Odysseus. Polybus' son Eurymachus launched in first, baiting the king to give his friends a laugh: "Listen to me, you lords who court our noble queen! I simply have to say what's on my mind. Look, surely the gods have fetched this beggar here to Odysseus' house. At least our torchlight seems to come from the sheen of the man's own head— there's not a hair on his bald pate, not a wisp!"

Then he wheeled on Odysseus, raider of cities: "Stranger, how would you like to work for me if I took you on—I'd give you decent wages— picking the stones to lay a tight dry wall or planting tall trees on the edge of my estate? I'd give you rations to last you year-round, clothes for your body, sandals for your feet. Oh no, you've learned your lazy ways too well, you've got no itch to stick to good hard work, you'd rather go scrounging round the countryside, begging for crusts to stuff your greedy gut!"

"Ah, Eurymachus," Odysseus, master of many exploits, answered firmly, "if only the two of us could go man-to-man in the labors of the field .

In the late spring, when the long days come round, out in the meadow, I swinging a well-curved scythe and you swinging yours—we'd test our strength for work, fasting right till dusk with lots of hay to mow. Or give us a team of oxen to drive, purebreds, hulking, ruddy beasts, both lusty with fodder, paired for age and pulling-power that never flags— with four acres to work, the loam churning under the plow— you'd see what a straight unbroken furrow I could cut you then. Or if Zeus would bring some battle on—out of the blue, this very day—and give me a shield and two spears and a bronze helmet to fit this soldier's temples, then you'd see me fight where front ranks clash— no more mocking this belly of mine, not then. Enough. You're sick with pride, you brutal fool. No doubt you count yourself a great, powerful man because you sport with a puny crowd, ill-bred to boot. If only Odysseus came back home and stood right here, in a flash you'd find those doors—broad as they are— too cramped for your race to safety through the porch!"

That made Eurymachus' fury seethe and burst— he gave the beggar a dark look and let fly, "You, you odious—I'll make you pay for your ugly rant! Bold as brass in the face of all these lords? No fear in your heart? Wine's got to your wits?— or do you always play the fool and babble nonsense? Lost your head, have you, because you drubbed that hobo Irus?"

As he shouted out he seized a stool, but Odysseus, fearing the blow, crouched at Amphinomus' knees as Eurymachus hurled and hit the wine-steward, clipping his right hand— his cup dropped, clattered along the floor and flat on his back he went, groaning in the dust. The suitors broke into uproar through the shadowed halls, glancing at one another, trading angry outcries: "Would to god this drifter had dropped dead—"

"Anywhere else before he landed here!"

"Then he'd never have loosed such pandemonium."

"Now we're squabbling over beggars!

"No more joy

in the sumptuous feast ..."

"Now riot rules the day!"

But now Prince Telemachus dressed them down: "Fools, you're out of your minds! No hiding it, food and wine have gone to your heads. Some god has got your blood up. Come, now you've eaten well go home to bed—when the spirit moves, that is. I, for one, I'll drive no guest away."

So he declared. And they all bit their lips, amazed the prince could speak with so much daring. At last Amphinomus rose to take the floor, the noted son of Nisus, King Aretias' grandson. "Fair enough, my friends; when a man speaks well we have no grounds for wrangling, no cause for abuse. Hands off the stranger! And any other servant in King Odysseus' palace. Come, steward, pour first drops for the god in every cup; let's make libations, then go home to bed. The stranger? Leave him here in Odysseus' halls and have his host Telemachus, tend him well— it's the prince's royal house the man has reached."

So he said. His proposal pleased them all. And gallant Mulius, a herald of Dulichion, a friend-in-arms of lord Amphinomus too, mixed the men a bowl and, hovering closely, poured full rounds for all. They tipped cups to the blissful gods and then, libations made, they drank the heady wine to their hearts' content and went their ways to bed, each suitor to his house.

Book XIX

Penelope and

Her Guest

That left the great Odysseus waiting in his hall as Athena helped him plot the slaughter of the suitors. He turned at once to Telemachus, brisk with orders: "Now we must stow the weapons out of reach, my boy, all the arms and armor—and when the suitors miss them and ask you questions, put them off with a winning story: 'I stowed them away, clear of the smoke. A far cry from the arms Odysseus left when he went to Troy, fire-damaged equipment, black with reeking fumes. And a god reminded me of something darker too. When you're in your cups a quarrel might break out, you'd wound each other, shame your feasting here and cast a pall on your courting. Iron has powers to draw a man to ruin.' "

Telemachus did his father's will at once, calling out to his old nurse Eurycleia: "Quick, dear one, close the women up in their own quarters, till I can stow my father's weapons in the storeroom. Splendid gear, lying about, neglected, black with soot since father sailed away. I was only a boy then. Now I must safeguard them from the smoke."

"High time, child," the loving nurse replied. "If only you'd bother to tend your whole house and safeguard all your treasures. Tell me, who's to fetch and carry the torch for you? You won't let out the maids who'd light your way."

"Our friend here will," Telemachus answered coolly. "I won't put up with a man who shirks his work, not if he takes his ration from my stores, even if he's miles away from home."

That silenced the old nurse. She barred the doors that led from the long hall— and up they sprang, Odysseus and his princely son, and began to carry off the helmets, studded shields and pointed spears, and Pallas Athena strode before them, lifting a golden lamp that cast a dazzling radiance round about. "Father," Telemachus suddenly burst out to Odysseus, "oh what a marvel fills my eyes! Look, look there— all the sides of the hall, the handsome crossbeams, pinewood rafters, the tall columns towering— all glow in my eyes like flaming fire! Surely a god is here— one of those who rule the vaulting skies!"

"Quiet," his father, the old soldier, warned him. "Get a grip on yourself. No more questions now. It's just the way of the gods who rule Olympus. Off you go to bed. I'll stay here behind to test the women, test your mother too.

She in her grief will ask me everything I know."

Under the flaring torchlight, through the hall Telemachus made his way to his own bedroom now, where he always went when welcome sleep came on him. There he lay tonight as well, till Dawn's first light. That left the great king still waiting in his hall as Athena helped him plot the slaughter of the suitors ...

Now down from her chamber came reserved Penelope, looking for all the world like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. Close to the fire her women drew her favorite chair with its whorls of silver and ivory, inlaid rings. The craftsman who made it years ago, Icmalius, added a footrest under the seat itself, mortised into the frame, and over it all was draped a heavy fleece. Here Penelope took her place, discreet, observant. The women, arms bared, pressing in from their quarters, cleared away the tables, the heaped remains of the feast and the cups from which the raucous lords had drunk. Raking embers from the braziers onto the ground, they piled them high again with seasoned wood, providing light and warmth.

And yet again Melantho lashed out at Odysseus: "You still here?— you pest, slinking around the house all night, leering up at the women?

Get out, you tramp—be glad of the food you got— or we'll sling a torch at you, rout you out at once!"

A killing glance, and the old trooper countered, "What's possessed you, woman? Why lay into me? Such abuse! Just because I'm filthy, because I wear such rags, roving round the country, living hand-to-mouth. But it's fate that drives me on: that's the lot of beggars, homeless drifters. I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired;

rolling in wealth, I'd often give to a vagabond like myself,

whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door.

And crowds of servants I had, and lots of all it takes

to live the life of ease, to make men call you rich.

But Zeus ruined it all—god's will, no doubt.

So beware, woman, or one day you may lose it all,

all your glitter that puts your work-mates in the shade.

Or your mistress may just fly in a rage and dress you down

or Odysseus may return—there's still room for hope!

Or if he's dead as you think and never coming home,

well there's his son, Telemachus ...

like father, like son—thanks to god Apollo.

No women's wildness here in the house escapes

the prince's eye. He's come of age at last."

So he warned, and alert Penelope heard him, wheeled on the maid and tongue-lashed her smartly: "Make no mistake, you brazen, shameless bitch, none of your ugly work escapes me either— you will pay for it with your life, you will! How well you knew—you heard from my own lips— that I meant to probe this stranger in our house and ask about my husband ... my heart breaks for him."

She turned to her housekeeper Eurynome and said, "Now bring us a chair and spread it soft with fleece, so our guest can sit and tell me his whole story and hear me out as well. I'd like to ask him questions, point by point."

Eurynome bustled off to fetch a polished chair and set it down and spread it soft with fleece. Here Odysseus sat, the man of many trials, as cautious Penelope began the conversation: "Stranger, let me start our questioning myself ... Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?"

"My good woman," Odysseus, master of craft, replied, "no man on the face of the earth could find fault with you. Your fame, believe me, has reached the vaulting skies. Fame like a flawless king's who dreads the gods, who governs a kingdom vast, proud and strong— who upholds justice, true, and the black earth bears wheat and barley, trees bow down with fruit and the sheep drop lambs and never fail and the sea teems with fish—thanks to his decent, upright rule, and under his sovereign sway the people flourish. So then, here in your house, ask me anything else but don't, please, search out my birth, my land, or you'll fill my heart to overflowing even more as I bring back the past ... I am a man who's had his share of sorrows. It's wrong for me, in someone else's house, to sit here moaning and groaning, sobbing so— it makes things worse, this grieving on and on. One of your maids, or you yourself, might scold me, think it's just the wine that had doused my wits and made me drown in tears."

"No, no, stranger," wise Penelope demurred, "whatever form and feature I had, what praise I'd won, the deathless gods destroyed that day the Achaeans sailed away to Troy, my husband in their ships, Odysseus—if he could return to tend my life the renown I had would only grow in glory. Now my life is torment .

look at the griefs some god has loosed against me! All the nobles who rule the islands round about, Dulichion, Same, and wooded Zacynthus too, and all who lord it in sunny Ithaca itself— they court me against my will, they lay waste my house. So I pay no heed to strangers, suppliants at my door, not even heralds out on their public errands here— I yearn for Odysseus, always, my heart pines away. They rush the marriage on, and I spin out my wiles. A god from the blue it was inspired me first

to set up a great loom in our royal halls

and I began to weave, and the weaving finespun,

the yarns endless, and I would lead them on: 'Young men,

my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more,

go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until

I can finish off this web ...

so my weaving won't all fray and come to nothing.

This is a shroud for old lord Laertes, for that day

when the deadly fate that lays us out at last will take him down.

I dread the shame my countrywomen would heap upon me,

yes, if a man of such wealth should lie in state

without a shroud for cover.'

My very words, and despite their pride and passion they believed me. So by day I'd weave at my great and growing web— by night, by the light of torches set beside me, I would unravel all I'd done. Three whole years I deceived them blind, seduced them with this scheme. Then, when the wheeling seasons brought the fourth year on and the months waned and the long days came round once more, then, thanks to my maids—the shameless, reckless creatures— the suitors caught me in the act, denounced me harshly. So I finished it off. Against my will. They forced me. And now I cannot escape a marriage, nor can I contrive a deft way out. My parents urge me to tie the knot and my son is galled as they squander his estate— he sees it all. He's a grown man by now, equipped to tend to his own royal house and tend it well: Zeus grants my son that honor ... But for all that—now tell me who you are. Where do you come from? You've hardly sprung from a rock or oak like some old man of legend."

The master improviser answered, slowly, "My lady ... wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, will your questions about my family never end? All right then. Here's my story. Even though it plunges me into deeper grief than I feel now.

But that's the way of the world, when one has been so far from home, so long away as I, roving over many cities of men, enduring many hardships.

Still,

my story will tell you all you need to know.

There is a land called Crete ... ringed by the wine-dark sea with rolling whitecaps— handsome country, fertile, thronged with people well past counting—boasting ninety cities, language mixing with language side-by-side. First come the Achaeans, then the native Cretans, hardy, gallant in action, then Cydonian clansmen, Dorians living in three tribes, and proud Pelasgians last. Central to all their cities is magnificent Cnossos, the site where Minos ruled and each ninth year conferred with almighty Zeus himself. Minos, father of my father, Deucalion, that bold heart. Besides myself Deucalion sired Prince Idomeneus, who set sail for Troy in his beaked ships of war, escorting Atreus' sons. My own name is Aethon. I am the younger-born; my older brother's a better man than I am. Now, it was there in Cnossos that I saw him . Odysseus—and we traded gifts of friendship. A heavy gale had landed him on our coast, driven him way off course, rounding Malea's cape when he was bound for Troy. He anchored in Amnisus, hard by the goddess' cave of childbirth and labor, that rough harbor—barely riding out the storm. He came into town at once, asking for Idomeneus, claiming to be my brother's close, respected friend. Too late. Ten or eleven days had already passed since he set sail for Troy in his beaked ships. So I took Odysseus back to my own house, gave him a hero's welcome, treated him in style— stores in our palace made for princely entertainment. As for his comrades, all who'd shipped with him,

I dipped into public stock to give them barley, ruddy wine and fine cattle for slaughter, beef to their hearts' content. A dozen days they stayed with me there, those brave Achaeans, penned up by a North Wind so stiff that a man, even on dry land, could never keep his feet— some angry spirit raised that blast, I'd say. Then on the thirteenth day the wind died down and they set sail for Troy."

Falsehoods all, but he gave his falsehoods all the ring of truth. As she listened on, her tears flowed and soaked her cheeks as the heavy snow melts down from the high mountain ridges, snow the West Wind piles there and the warm East Wind thaws and the snow, melting, swells the rivers to overflow their banks— so she dissolved in tears, streaming down her lovely cheeks, weeping for him, her husband, sitting there beside her. Odysseus' heart went out to his grief-stricken wife but under his lids his eyes remained stock-still— they might have been horn or iron— his guile fought back his tears. And she, once she'd had her fill of grief and weeping, turned again to her guest with this reply: "Now, stranger, I think I'll test you, just to see if there in your house, with all his friends-in-arms, you actually entertained my husband as you say. Come, tell me what sort of clothing he wore, what cut of man was he? What of the men who followed in his train?"

"Ah good woman," Odysseus, the great master of subtlety, returned, "how hard it is to speak, after so much time apart ... why, some twenty years have passed since he left my house and put my land behind him. Even so, imagine the man as I portray him— I can see him now.

King Odysseus ... he was wearing a heavy woolen cape, sea-purple,

in double folds, with a golden brooch to clasp it, twin sheaths for the pins, on the face a work of art: a hound clenching a dappled fawn in its front paws, slashing it as it writhed. All marveled to see it, solid gold as it was, the hound slashing, throttling the fawn in its death-throes, hoofs flailing to break free. I noticed his glossy tunic too, clinging to his skin like the thin glistening skin of a dried onion, silky, soft, the glint of the sun itself. Women galore would gaze on it with relish. And this too. Bear it in mind, won't you? I've no idea if Odysseus wore these things at home or a comrade gave him them as he boarded ship, or a host perhaps—the man was loved by many. There were few Achaeans to equal him . and I? I gave him a bronze sword myself, a lined cloak, elegant, deep red, and a fringed shirt as well, and I saw him off in his long benched ship of war in lordly style.

Something else. He kept a herald beside him, a man a little older than himself. I'll try to describe him to you, best I can. Round-shouldered he was, swarthy, curly-haired. His name? Eurybates. And Odysseus prized him most of all his men. Their minds worked as one."

His words renewed her deep desire to weep, recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered. But as soon as she'd had her fill of tears and grief, Penelope turned again to her guest and said, "Now, stranger, much as I pitied you before, now in my house you'll be my special friend, my honored guest. I am the one, myself, who gave him the very clothes that you describe. I brought them up from the storeroom, folded them nea fastened the golden brooch to adorn my husband, Odysseus—never again will I embrace him, striding home to his own native land.

A black day it was

when he took ship to see that cursed city ... Destroy, I call it—I hate to say its name!"

"Ah my queen," the man of craft assured her, "noble wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, ravage no more your lovely face with tears or consume your heart with grieving for your husband. Not that I'd blame you, ever. Any woman will mourn the bridegroom she has lost, lain with in love and borne his children too. Even though he was no Odysseus—a man like a god, they say. But dry your tears and take my words to heart. I will tell you the whole truth and hide nothing: I have heard Odysseus now, at last, is on his way, he's just in reach, in rich Thesprotian country— the man is still alive

and he's bringing home a royal hoard of treasure, gifts he won from the people of those parts. His crew? He's lost his crew and hollow ship on the wine-dark waters off Thrinacia Island. Zeus and Helios raged, dead set against Odysseus for his men-at-arms had killed the cattle of the Sun, so down to the last hand they drowned in crashing seas. But not Odysseus, clinging tight to his ship's keel— the breakers flung him out onto dry land, on Scheria, the land of Phaeacians, close kin to the gods themselves, and with all their hearts they prized him like a god, showered the man with gifts, and they'd have gladly sailed him home unscathed. In fact Odysseus would have been here beside you long ago, but he thought it the better, shrewder course to recoup his fortunes roving through the world. At sly profit-turning there's not a man alive to touch Odysseus. He's got no rival there. So I learned from Phidon, king of Thesprotia, who swore to me as he poured libations in his house, 'The ship's hauled down and the shipmates set to sail,

to take Odysseus home to native land.'

But I ...

he shipped me off before. A Thesprotian cutter chanced to be heading for Dulichion rich in wheat. But he showed me all the treasure Odysseus had amassed, enough to last a man and ten generations of his heirs— so great the wealth stored up for him in the king's vaults! But Odysseus, he made clear, was off at Dodona then to hear the will of Zeus that rustles forth from the god's tall leafy oak: how should he return, after all the years away, to his own beloved Ithaca, openly or in secret?

And so the man is safe, as you can see, and he's coming home, soon, he's close, close at hand— he won't be severed long from kin and country, no, not now. I give you my solemn, binding oath. I swear by Zeus, the first, the greatest god— by Odysseus' hearth, where I have come for help: all will come to pass, I swear, exactly as I say. True, this very month—just as the old moon dies and the new moon rises into life—Odysseus will return!"

"If only, my friend," reserved Penelope exclaimed, "everything you say would come to pass! You'd soon know my affection, know my gifts. Any man you meet would call you blest. But my heart can sense the way it all will go. Odysseus, I tell you, is never coming back, nor will you ever gain your passage home, for we have no masters in our house like him at welcoming in or sending off an honored guest. Odysseus. There was a man, or was he all a dream? But come, women, wash the stranger and make his bed, with bedding, blankets and lustrous spreads to keep him warm till Dawn comes up and takes her golden throne. Then, tomorrow at daybreak, bathe him well and rub him down with oil, so he can sit beside

Telemachus in the hall, enjoy his breakfast there.

And anyone who offends our guest beyond endurance—

he defeats himself; he's doomed to failure here,

no matter how raucously he raves and blusters on.

For how can you know, my friend, if I surpass

all women in thoughtfulness and shrewd good sense,

if I'd allow you to take your meals at hall

so weatherbeaten, clad in rags and tatters?

Our lives are much too brief ...

If a man is cruel by nature, cruel in action,

the mortal world will call down curses on his head

while he is alive, and all will mock his memory after death.

But then if a man is kind by nature, kind in action,

his guests will carry his fame across the earth

and people all will praise him from the heart."

"Wait, my queen," the crafty man objected, "noble wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus— blankets and glossy spreads? They're not my style. Not from the day I launched out in my long-oared ship and the snowy peaks of Crete went fading far astern. I'll lie as I've done through sleepless nights before. Many a night I've spent on rugged beds afield, waiting for Dawn to mount her lovely throne. Nor do I pine for any footbaths either. Of all the women who serve your household here, not one will touch my feet. Unless, perhaps, there is some old retainer, the soul of trust, someone who's borne as much as I have borne . I wouldn't mind if she would touch my feet."

"Dear friend, the discreet Penelope replied, "never has any man so thoughtful—of all the guests in my palace come from foreign parts—been as welcome as you ... so sensible, so apt, is every word you say. I have just such an old woman, seasoned, wise, who carefully tended my unlucky husband, reared him, took him into her arms the day his mother bore him—

frail as the woman is, she'll wash your feet. Up with you now, my good old Eurycleia, come and wash your master's ... equal in years. Odysseus must have feet and hands like his by now— hardship can age a person overnight."

At that name the old retainer buried her face in both hands, burst into warm tears and wailed out in grief, "Oh my child, how helpless I am to help you now! How Zeus despised you, more than all other men, god-fearing man that you were ... Never did any mortal burn the Old Thunderer such rich thighbones—offerings charred and choice— never as many as you did, praying always to reach a ripe old age and raise a son to glory. Now, you alone he's robbed of your home-coming day! Just so, the women must have mocked my king, far away, when he'd stopped at some fine house— just as all these bitches, stranger, mock you here. And because you shrink from their taunts, their wicked barbs, you will not let them wash you. The work is mine— Icarius' daughter, wise Penelope, bids me now and I am all too glad. Iwill wash your feet, both for my own dear queen and for yourself— your sorrows wring my heart ... and why? Listen to me closely, mark my words. Many a wayworn guest has landed here but never, I swear, has one so struck my eyes— your build, your voice, your feet—you're like Odysseus ... to the life!"

"Old woman," wily Odysseus countered, "that's what they all say who've seen us both. We bear a striking resemblance to each other, as you have had the wit to say yourself."

The old woman took up a burnished basin she used for washing feet and poured in bowls of fresh cold water before she stirred in hot.

Odysseus, sitting full in the firelight, suddenly swerved round to the dark, gripped by a quick misgiving— soon as she touched him she might spot the scar! The truth would all come out.

Bending closer she started to bathe her master ... then, in a flash, she knew the scar—

that old wound made years ago by a boar's white tusk when Odysseus went to Parnassus, out to see Autolycus and his sons. The man was his mother's noble father, one who excelled the world at thievery, that and subtle, shifty oaths. Hermes gave him the gift, overjoyed by the thighs of lambs and kids he burned in the god's honor— Hermes the ready partner in his crimes. Now, Autolycus once visited Ithaca's fertile land, to find his daughter's son had just been born. Eurycleia set him down on the old man's knees as he finished dinner, urging him, "Autolycus, you must find a name for your daughter's darling son. The baby comes as the answer to her prayers."

"You,

my daughter, and you, my son-in-law," Autolycus returned,

"give the boy the name I tell you now. Just as I

have come from afar, creating pain for many—

men and women across the good green earth—

so let his name be Odysseus...

the Son of Pain, a name he'll earn in full.

And when he has come of age and pays his visit

to Parnassus—the great estate of his mother's line

where all my treasures lie—I will give him enough

to cheer his heart, then speed him home to you."

And so,

in time, Odysseus went to collect the splendid gifts. Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus warmed him in with eager handclasps, hearty words of welcome. His mother's mother, Amphithea, hugged the boy and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes.

Autolycus told his well-bred sons to prepare a princely feast. They followed orders gladly, herded an ox inside at once, five years old, skinned it and split the carcass into quarters, deftly cut it in pieces, skewered these on spits, roasted all to a turn and served the portions out. So all day long till the sun went down they feasted, consuming equal shares to their hearts' content. Then when the sun had set and night came on they turned to bed and took the gift of sleep.

As soon

as young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more

they all moved out for the hunt, hounds in the lead,

Autolycus' sons and Prince Odysseus in their ranks.

Climbing Parnassus' ridges, thick with timber",

they quickly reached the mountain's windy folds

and just as the sun began to strike the plowlands,

rising out of the deep calm flow of the Ocean River,

the beaters came to a wooded glen, the hounds broke,

hot on a trail, and right behind the pack they came,

Autolycus' sons—Odysseus out in front now,

pressing the dogs, brandishing high his spear

with its long shadow waving. Then and there

a great boar lay in wait, in a thicket lair so dense

that the sodden gusty winds could never pierce it,

nor could the sun's sharp rays invade its depths

nor a downpour drench it through and through,

so dense, so dark, and piled with fallen leaves.

Here, as the hunters closed in for the kill,

crowding the hounds, the tramp of men and dogs

came drumming round the boar—he crashed from his lair,

his razor back bristling, his eyes flashing fire

and charging up to the hunt he stopped, at bay—

and Odysseus rushed him first,

shaking his long spear in a sturdy hand,

wild to strike but the boar struck faster,

lunging in on the slant, a tusk thrusting up

over the boy's knee, gouging a deep strip of flesh

but it never hit the bone—

Odysseus thrust and struck, stabbing the beast's right shoulder—

a glint of bronze— the point ripped clean through, and down in the dust he dropped, grunting out his breath as his life winged away. The sons of Autolycus, working over Odysseus, skillfully binding up his open wound— the gallant, godlike prince— chanted an old spell that stanched the blood and quickly bore him home to their father's palace. There, in no time, Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus healed him well and, showering him with splendid gifts, sped Odysseus back to his native land, to Ithaca, a young man filled with joy. His happy parents, his father and noble mother, welcomed him home and asked him of all his exploits, blow-by-blow: how did he get that wound? He told his tale with style, how the white tusk of a wild boar had gashed his leg, hunting on Parnassus with Autolycus and his sons ...

That scar—

as the old nurse cradled his leg and her hands passed down

she felt it, knew it, suddenly let his foot fall—

down it dropped in the basin—the bronze clanged,

tipping over, spilling water across the floor.

Joy and torment gripped her heart at once,

tears rushed to her eyes—voice choked in her throat

she reached for Odysseus' chin and whispered quickly,

"Yes, yes! you are Odysseus—oh dear boy—

I couldn't know you before ...

not till I touched the body of my king!"

She glanced at Penelope, keen to signal her that here was her own dear husband, here and now, but she could not catch the glance, she took no heed, Athena turned her attention elsewhere. But Odysseus— his right hand shot out, clutching the nurse's throat, with his left he hugged her to himself and muttered,

"Nurse, you want to kill me? You suckled me yourself at your own breast—and now I'm home, at last, after bearing twenty years of brutal hardship, home, on native ground. But now you know, now that a god has flashed it in your mind, quiet! not a word to anyone in the house. Or else, I warn you—and I mean business too— if a god beats down these brazen suitors at my hands, I will not spare you—my old nurse that you are— when I kill the other women in my house."

"Child," shrewd old Eurycleia protested, "what nonsense you let slip through your teeth! You know me—I'm stubborn, never give an inch— I'll keep still as solid rock or iron. One more thing. Take it to heart, I tell you. If a god beats down these brazen suitors at your hands, I'll report in full on the women in your house: who are disloyal to you, who are guiltless."

"Nurse," the cool tactician Odysseus said, "why bother to count them off? A waste of breath. I'll observe them, judge each one myself. Just be quiet. Keep your tales to yourself. Leave the rest to the gods."

Hushed so, the old nurse went padding along the halls to fetch more water—her basin had all spilled— and once she'd bathed and rubbed him down with oil, Odysseus drew his chair up near the fire again, trying to keep warm,

but he hid his scar beneath his beggar's rags

as cautious Penelope resumed their conversation:

"My friend, I have only one more question for you,

something slight, now the hour draws on for welcome sleep—

for those who can yield to sweet repose, that is,

heartsick as they are. As for myself, though,

some god has sent me pain that knows no bounds.

All day long I indulge myself in sighs and tears

as I see to my tasks, direct the household women.

When night foils and the world lies lost in sleep,

I take to my bed, my heart throbbing, about to break,

anxieties swarming, piercing—I may go mad with grief.

Like Pandareus' daughter, the nightingale in the green woods

lifting her lovely song at the first warm rush of spring,

perched in the treetops' rustling leaves and pouring forth

her music shifting, trilling and sinking, rippling high to burst

in grief for Itylus, her beloved boy, King Zethus' son

whom she in innocence once cut down with bronze .

so my wavering heart goes shuttling, back and forth:

Do I stay beside my son and keep all things secure—

my lands, my serving-women, the grand high-roofed house—

true to my husband's bed, the people's voice as well?

Or do I follow, at last, the best man who courts me

here in the halls, who gives the greatest gifts?

My son—when he was a boy and lighthearted—

urged me not to marry and leave my husband's house.

But now he has grown and reached his young prime,

he begs me to leave our palace, travel home.

Telemachus, so obsessed with his own estate,

the wealth my princely suitors bleed away.

But please,

read this dream for me, won't you? Listen closely ...

I keep twenty geese in the house, from the water trough

they come and peck their wheat—I love to watch them all.

But down from a mountain swooped this great hook-beaked eagle,

yes, and he snapped their necks and killed them one and all

and they lay in heaps throughout the halls while he,

back to the clear blue sky he soared at once.

But Iwept and wailed—only a dream, of course—

and our well-groomed ladies came and clustered round me,

sobbing, stricken: the eagle killed my geese. But down

he swooped again and settling onto a jutting rafter

called out in a human voice that dried my tears,

'Courage, daughter of famous King Icarius!

This is no dream but a happy waking vision,

real as day, that will come true for you. The geese were your suitors—I was once the eagle but now I am your husband, back again at last, about to launch a terrible fate against them all!' So he vowed, and the soothing sleep released me. I peered around and saw my geese in the house, pecking at their wheat, at the same trough where they always took their meal."

"Dear woman," quick Odysseus answered, "twist it however you like, your dream can only mean one thing. Odysseus told you himself—he'll make it come to pass. Destruction is clear for each and every suitor; not a soul escapes his death and doom."

"Ah my friend," seasoned Penelope dissented, "dreams are hard to unravel, wayward, drifting things— not all we glimpse in them will come to pass . Two gates there are for our evanescent dreams, one is made of ivory, the other made of horn. Those that pass through the ivory cleanly carved are will-o'-the-wisps, their message bears no fruit. The dreams that pass through the gates of polished horn are fraught with truth, for the dreamer who can see them. But I can't believe my strange dream has come that way, much as my son and I would love to have it so. One more thing I'll tell you—weigh it well. The day that dawns today, this cursed day, will cut me off from Odysseus' house. Now, I mean to announce a contest with those axes, the ones he would often line up here inside the hall, twelve in a straight unbroken row like blocks to shore a keel, then stand well back and whip an arrow through the lot. Now I will bring them on as a trial for my suitors. The hand that can string the bow with greatest ease, that shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes— he's the man I follow, yes, forsaking this house where I was once a bride, this gracious house

so filled with the best that life can offer— I shall always remember it, that I know ... even in my dreams."

"Oh my queen," Odysseus, man of exploits, urged her on, "royal wife of Laertes' son, Odysseus, now, don't put off this test in the halls a moment. Before that crew can handle the polished bow, string it taut and shoot through all those axes— Odysseus, man of exploits, will be home with you!"

"If only, my friend," the wise Penelope replied, "you were willing to sit beside me in the house, indulging me in the comfort of your presence, sleep would never drift across my eyes. But one can't go without his sleep forever. The immortals give each thing its proper place in our mortal lives throughout the good green earth. So now I'm going back to my room upstairs and lie down on my bed,

that bed of pain my tears have streaked, year in, year out, from the day Odysseus sailed away to see ... Destroy, I call it—I hate to say its name! There I'll rest, while you lie here in the hall, spreading your blankets somewhere on the floor, or the women will prepare a decent bed."

With that

the queen went up to her lofty well-lit room

and not alone: her women followed close behind.

Penelope, once they reached the upper story,

fell to weeping for Odysseus, her beloved husband,

till watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep.

Book XX

Portents Gather

Off in the entrance-hall the great king made his bed, spreading out on the ground the raw hide of an ox, heaping over it fleece from sheep the suitors butchered day and night, then Eurynome threw a blanket over him, once he'd nestled down. And there Odysseus lay ... plotting within himself the suitors' death— awake, alert, as the women slipped from the house, the maids who whored in the suitors' beds each night, tittering, linking arms and frisking as before. The master's anger rose inside his chest, torn in thought, debating, head and heart— should he up and rush them, kill them one and all or let them rut with their lovers one last time? The heart inside him growled low with rage,

as a bitch mounting over her weak, defenseless puppies

growls, facing a stranger, bristling for a showdown—

so he growled from his depths, hackles rising at their outrage.

But he struck his chest and curbed his fighting heart:

"Bear up, old heart! You've borne worse, far worse,

that day when the Cyclops, man-mountain, bolted

your hardy comrades down. But you held fast—

Nobody but your cunning pulled you through

the monster's cave you thought would be your death."

So he forced his spirit into submission, the rage in his breast reined back—unswerving, all endurance. But he himself kept tossing, turning, intent as a cook before some white-hot blazing fire who rolls his sizzling sausage back and forth, packed with fat and blood—keen to broil it quickly, tossing, turning it, this way, that way—so he cast about: how could he get these shameless suitors in his clutches, one man facing a mob? . when close to his side she came, Athena sweeping down from the sky in a woman's build and hovering at his head, the goddess spoke: "Why still awake? The unluckiest man alive! Here is your house, your wife at home, your son, as fine a boy as one could hope to have."

"True,"

the wily fighter replied, "how right you are, goddess, but still this worry haunts me, heart and soul— how can I get these shameless suitors in my clutches? Single-handed, braving an army always camped inside. There's another worry, that haunts me even more. What if I kill them—thanks to you and Zeus— how do I run from under their avengers? Show me the way, I ask you."

"Impossible man!" Athena bantered, the goddess' eyes ablaze. "Others are quick to trust a weaker comrade, some poor mortal, far less cunning than I. But I am a goddess, look, the very one who

guards you in all your trials to the last.

I tell you this straight out:

even if fifty bands of mortal fighters

closed around us, hot to kill us off in battle,

still you could drive away their herds and sleek flocks!

So, surrender to sleep at last. What a misery,

keeping watch through the night, wide awake—

you'll soon come up from under all your troubles."

With that she showered sleep across his eyes and back to Olympus went the lustrous goddess. As soon as sleep came on him, loosing his limbs, slipping the toils of anguish from his mind, his devoted wife awoke and, sitting up in her soft bed, returned to tears. When the queen had wept to her heart's content she prayed to the Huntress, Artemis, first of all: "Artemis—goddess, noble daughter of Zeus, if only you'd whip an arrow through my breast and tear my life out, now, at once! Or let some whirlwind pluck me up and sweep me away along those murky paths and fling me down where the Ocean River running round the world rolls back upon itself!

Quick

as the whirlwinds swept away Pandareus' daughters—

years ago, when the gods destroyed their parents,

leaving the young girls orphans in their house.

But radiant Aphrodite nursed them well

on cheese and luscious honey and heady wine,

and Hera gave them beauty and sound good sense,

more than all other women—virgin Artemis made them tall

and Athena honed their skills to fashion lovely work.

But then, when Aphrodite approached Olympus' peaks

to ask for the girls their crowning day as brides

from Zeus who loves the lightning—Zeus who knows all,

all that's fated, all not fated, for mortal man—

then the storm spirits snatched them away

and passed them on to the hateful Furies, yes, for all their loving care.

Just so

may the gods who rule Olympus blot me out!

Artemis with your glossy braids, come shoot me dead—

so I can plunge beneath this loathsome earth

with the image of Odysseus vivid in my mind.

Never let me warm the heart of a weaker man!

Even grief is bearable, true, when someone weeps

through the days, sobbing, heart convulsed with pain,

yet embraced by sleep all night—sweet oblivion, sleep

dissolving all, the good and the bad, once it seals our eyes—

but even my dreams torment me, sent by wicked spirits.

Again—just this night—someone lay beside me ...

like Odysseus to the life, when he embarked

with his men-at-arms. My heart raced with joy.

No dream, I thought, the waking truth at last!"

At those words Dawn rose on her golden throne in a sudden gleam of light. And great Odysseus caught the sound of his wife's cry and began to daydream—deep in his heart it seemed she stood beside him, knew him, now, at last . Gathering up the fleece and blankets where he'd slept, he laid them on a chair in the hall, he took the oxhide out and spread it down, lifted his hands and prayed to Zeus: "Father Zeus, if you really willed it so—to bring me home over land and sea-lanes, home to native ground after all the pain you brought me—show me a sign, a good omen voiced by someone awake indoors, another sign, outside, from Zeus himself!"

And Zeus in all his wisdom heard that prayer. He thundered at once, out of his clear blue heavens high above the clouds, and Odysseus' spirit lifted. Then from within the halls a woman grinding grain let fly a lucky word. Close at hand she was, where the good commander set the handmills once

and now twelve women in all performed their tasks,

grinding the wheat and barley, marrow of men's bones.

The rest were abed by now—they'd milled their stint—

this one alone, the frailest of all, kept working on.

Stopping her mill, she spoke an omen for her master:

"Zeus, Father! King of gods and men, now there

was a crack of thunder out of the starry sky—

and not a cloud in sight!

Sure it's a sign you're showing someone now.

So, poor as I am, grant me my prayer as well:

let this day be the last, the last these suitors

bolt their groaning feasts in King Odysseus' house!

These brutes who break my knees—heart-wrenching labor,

grinding their grain—now let them eat their last!"

A lucky omen, linked with Zeus's thunder. Odysseus' heart leapt up, the man convinced he'd grind the scoundrels' lives out in revenge.

By now

the other maids were gathering in Odysseus' royal palace, raking up on the hearth the fire still going strong. Telemachus climbed from bed and dressed at once, brisk as a young god—

over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword, he fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet, he seized his tough spear tipped with a bronze point and took his stand at the threshold, calling Eurycleia: "Dear nurse, how did you treat the stranger in our house? With bed and board? Or leave him to lie untended? That would be mother's way—sensible as she is— all impulse, doting over some worthless stranger, turning a good man out to face the worst."

"Please, child," his calm old nurse replied, "don't blame her—your mother s blameless this time. He sat and drank his wine till he'd had his fill. Food? He'd lost his hunger. But she asked him.

And when it was time to think of turning in, she told the maids to spread a decent bed, but he— so down-and-out, poor soul, so dogged by fate— said no to snuggling into a bed, between covers. No sir, the man lay down in the entrance-hall, on the raw hide of an ox and sheep's fleece, and we threw a blanket over him, so we did."

Hearing that,

Telemachus strode out through the palace, spear in hand, and a pair of sleek hounds went trotting at his heels. He made for the meeting grounds to join the island lords while Eurycleia the daughter of Ops, Pisenor's son, that best of women, gave the maids their orders: "Quick now, look alive, sweep out the house, wet down the floors!

You, those purple coverlets, fling them over the fancy chairs!

All those tables, sponge them down—scour the winebowls, burnished cups! The rest—now off you go to the spring and fetch some water, fast as your legs can run!

Our young gallants won't be long from the palace, they'll be bright and early—today's a public feast."

They hung on her words and ran to do her bidding. Full twenty scurried off to the spring's dark water, others bent to the housework, all good hands. Then in they trooped, the strutting serving-men, who split the firewood cleanly now as the women bustled in from the spring, the swineherd at their heels, driving three fat porkers, the best of all his herds. And leaving them to root in the broad courtyard, up he went to Odysseus, hailed him warmly: "Friend, do the suitors show you more respect or treat you like the dregs of the earth as always?"

"Good Eumaeus," the crafty man replied, "if only the gods would pay back their outrage! Wild and reckless young cubs, conniving here in another's house. They've got no sense of shame."

And now as the two confided in each other, the goatherd Melanthius sauntered toward them, herding his goats with a pair of drovers' help, the pick of his flocks to make the suitors' meal. Under the echoing porch he tethered these, then turned on Odysseus once again with cutting insults: "Still alive? Still hounding your betters, begging round the house? Why don't you cart yourself away? Get out! We'll never part, I swear, till we taste each other's fists. Riffraff, you and your begging make us sick! Get out— we're hardly the only banquet on the island."

No reply. The wily one just shook his head, silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work ...

Third to arrive was Philoetius, that good cowherd, prodding in for the crowd a heifer and fat goats. Boatmen had brought them over from the mainland, crews who ferry across all travelers too, whoever comes for passage. Under the echoing porch he tethered all heads well and then approached the swineherd, full of questions: "Who's this stranger, Eumaeus, just come to the house? What roots does the man claim—who are his people? Where are his blood kin? his father's fields? Poor beggar. But what a build—a royal king's! Ah, once the gods weave trouble into our lives they drive us across the earth, they drown us all in pain, even kings of the realm."

And with that thought he walked up to Odysseus, gave him his right hand and winged a greeting: "Cheers, old friend, old father, here's to your luck, great days from this day on—

saddled now as you are with so much trouble!

Father Zeus, no god's more deadly than you.

No mercy for men, you give them life yourself

then plunge them into misery, brutal hardship.

I broke into sweat, my friend, when I first saw you—

see, my eyes still brim with tears, remembering him,

Odysseus ... He must wear such rags, I know it,

knocking about, drifting through the world

if he's still alive and sees the light of day.

If he's dead already, lost in the House of Death,

my heart aches for Odysseus, my great lord and master.

He set me in charge of his herds, in Cephallenian country,

when I was just a youngster. How they've grown by now,

past counting! No mortal on earth could breed

a finer stock of oxen—broad in the brow,

they thrive like ears of corn. But just look,

these interlopers tell me to drive them in

for their own private feasts. Not a thought

for the young prince in the house, they never flinch—

no regard for the gods' wrath—in their mad rush

to carve up his goods, my master gone so long!

I'm tossed from horn to horn in my own mind .

What a traitor I'd be, with the prince alive,

if I'd run off to some other country, herds and all,

to a new set of strangers. Ah, but isn't it worse

to hold out here, tending the herds for upstarts,

not their owners—suffering all the pains of hell?

I could have fled, ages ago, to some great king

who'd give me shelter. It's unbearable here.

True, but I still dream of my old master,

unlucky man—if only he d drop in from the blue

and drive these suitors all in a rout throughout the halls!"

"Cowherd," the cool tactician Odysseus answered, "you're no coward, and nobody's fool, I'd say. Even I can see there's sense in that old head. So I tell you this on my solemn, binding oath: I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods—

by the table of hospitality waiting for us, by Odysseus' hearth where I have come for help, Odysseus will come home while you're still here. You'll see with your own eyes, if you have the heart, these suitors who lord it here cut down in blood."

"Stranger, if only," the cowherd cried aloud, "if only Zeus would make that oath come true— you'd see my power, my fighting arms in action!"

Eumaeus echoed his prayer to all the gods that their wise king would soon come home again.

Now as they spoke and urged each other on, and once more the suitors were plotting certain doom for the young prince—suddenly, banking high on the left an omen flew past, an eagle clutching a trembling dove. And Amphinomus rose in haste to warn them all, "My friends, we'll never carry off this plot to kill the prince. Let's concentrate on feasting."

His timely invitation pleased them all. The suitors ambled into Odysseus' royal house and flinging down their cloaks on a chair or bench, they butchered hulking sheep and fatted goats, full-grown hogs and a young cow from the herd. They roasted all the innards, served them round and filled the bowls with wine and mixed it well. Eumaeus passed out cups; Philoetius, trusty herdsman, brought on loaves of bread in ample wicker trays; Melanthius poured the wine. The whole company reached out for the good things that lay at hand.

Telemachus, maneuvering shrewdly, sat his father down on the stone threshold, just inside the timbered hall, and set a rickety stool and cramped table there. He gave him a share of innards, poured his wine

in a golden cup and added a bracing invitation: "Now sit right there. Drink your wine with the crowd. I'll defend you from all their taunts and blows, these young bucks. This is no public place, this is Odysseus' house— my father won it for me, so it's mine. You suitors, control yourselves. No insults now, no brawling, no, or it's war between us all."

So he declared. And they all bit their lips, amazed the prince could speak with so much daring. Only Eupithes' son Antinous ventured, "Fighting words, but do let's knuckle under— to our prince. Such abuse, such naked threats! But clearly Zeus has foiled us. Or long before we would have shut his mouth for him in the halls, fluent and flowing as he is."

So he mocked.

Telemachus paid no heed.

And now through the streets the heralds passed, leading the beasts marked out for sacrifice on Apollo's grand festal day, and the islanders with their long hair were filing into the god's shady grove—the distant deadly Archer.

Those in the palace, once they'd roasted the prime cuts, pulled them off the spits and, sharing out the portions, fell to the royal feast ...

The men who served them gave Odysseus his share, fair as the helping they received themselves. So Telemachus ordered, the king's own son.

But Athena had no mind to let the brazen suitors hold back now from their heart-rending insults— she meant to make the anguish cut still deeper into the core of Laertes' son Odysseus. There was one among them, a lawless boor—

Ctesippus was his name, he made his home in Same, a fellow so impressed with his own astounding wealth he courted the wife of Odysseus, gone for years. Now the man harangued his swaggering comrades: "Listen to me, my fine friends, here's what Isay! From the start our guest has had his fair share— it's only right, you know. How impolite it would be, how wrong to scant whatever guest Telemachus welcomes to his house. Look here, I'll give him a proper guest-gift too, a prize he can hand the crone who bathes his feet or a tip for another slave who haunts the halls of our great king Odysseus!"

On that note, grabbing an oxhoof out of a basket where it lay, with a brawny hand he flung it straight at the king— but Odysseus ducked his head a little, dodging the blow, and seething just as the oxhoof hit the solid wall he clenched his teeth in a wry sardonic grin. Telemachus dressed Ctesippus down at once: "Ctesippus, you can thank your lucky stars you missed our guest—he ducked your blow, by god! Else I would have planted my sharp spear in your bowels— your father would have been busy with your funeral, not your wedding here. Enough. Don't let me see more offenses in my house, not from anyone! I'm alive to it all, now, the good and the bad—the boy you knew is gone. But I still must bear with this, this lovely sight . sheepflocks butchered, wine swilled, food squandered— how can a man fight off so many single-handed? But no more of your crimes against me, please! Unless you're bent on cutting me down, now, and I'd rather die, yes, better that by far than have to look on at your outrage day by day: guests treated to blows, men dragging the serving-women through our noble house, exploiting them all, no shame!"

Dead quiet. The suitors all fell silent, hushed. At last Damastor's son Agelaus rose and said, "Fair enough, my friends; when a man speaks well we have no grounds for wrangling, no cause for abuse. Hands off this stranger! Or any other servant in King Odysseus' palace. But now a word of friendly advice for Telemachus and his mother— here's hoping it proves congenial to them both. So long as your hearts still kept a spark alive that Odysseus would return—that great, deep man— who could blame you, playing the waiting game at home and holding off the suitors? The better course, it's true. What if Odysseus had returned, had made it home at last? But now it's clear as day—the man will come no more. So go, Telemachus, sit with your mother, coax her to wed the best man here, the one who offers most, so you can have and hold your father's estate, eating and drinking here, your mind at peace while mother plays the wife in another's house."

The young prince, keeping his poise, replied, "I swear by Zeus, Agelaus, by all my father suffered— dead, no doubt, or wandering far from Ithaca these days— I don't delay my mother's marriage, not a moment, I press her to wed the man who takes her heart. I'll shower her myself with boundless gifts. But I shrink from driving mother from our house, issuing harsh commands against her will. God forbid it ever comes to that!

So he vowed

and Athena set off uncontrollable laughter in the suitors, crazed them out of their minds—mad, hysterical laughter seemed to break from the jaws of strangers, not their own, and the meat they were eating oozed red with blood— tears flooded their eyes, hearts possessed by grief. The inspired seer Theoclymenus wailed out in their midst, "Poor men, what terror is this that overwhelms you so?

Night shrouds your heads, your faces, down to your knees— cries of mourning are bursting into fire—cheeks rivering tears— the walls and the handsome crossbeams dripping dank with blood! Ghosts, look, thronging the entrance, thronging the court, go trooping down to the realm of death and darkness! The sun is blotted out of the sky—look there— a lethal mist spreads all across the earth!"

At that

they all broke into peals of laughter aimed at the seer— Polybus' son Eurymachus braying first and foremost, "Our guest just in from abroad, the man is raving! Quick, my boys, hustle him out of the house, into the meeting grounds, the light of day— everything here he thinks is dark as night!"

"Eurymachus," the inspired prophet countered, "when I want your escort, I'll ask for it myself. I have eyes and ears, and both my feet, still, and a head that's fairly sound, nothing to be ashamed of. These will do to take me past those doors ...

Oh I can see it now— the disaster closing on you all! There's no escaping it, no way out—not for a single one of you suitors, wild reckless fools, plotting outrage here, the halls of Odysseus, great and strong as a god!"

With that he marched out of the sturdy house and went home to Piraeus, the host who warmed him in. Now all the suitors, trading their snide glances, started heckling Telemachus, made a mockery of his guests. One or another brash young gallant scoffed, "Telemachus, no one's more unlucky with his guests!"

"Look what your man dragged in—this mangy tramp scraping for bread and wine!"

"Not fit for good hard work,

the bag of bones—"

"A useless dead weight on the land!"

"And then this charlatan up and apes the prophet."

"Take it from me—you'll be better off by far— toss your friends in a slave-ship—"

"Pack them off to Sicily, fast—they'll fetch you one sweet price!"

So they jeered, but the prince paid no attention ... silent, eyes riveted on his father, always waiting the moment he'd lay hands on that outrageous mob.

And all the while Icarius' daughter, wise Penelope, had placed her carved chair within earshot, at the door, so she could catch each word they uttered in the hall. Laughing rowdily, men prepared their noonday meal, succulent, rich—they'd butchered quite a herd. But as for supper, what could be less enticing than what a goddess and a powerful man would spread before them soon? A groaning feast— for they'd been first to plot their vicious crimes.

Book XXI

Odysseus Strings

His Bow

The time had come. The goddess Athena with her blazing eyes

inspired Penelope, Icarius' daughter, wary, poised,

to set the bow and the gleaming iron axes out

before her suitors waiting in Odysseus' hall—

to test their skill and bring their slaughter on.

Up the steep stairs to her room she climbed

and grasped in a steady hand the curved key—

fine bronze, with ivory haft attached—

and then with her chamber-women made her way

to a hidden storeroom, far in the palace depths,

and there they lay, the royal master's treasures:

bronze, gold and a wealth of hard wrought iron

and there it lay as well ... his backsprung bow

with its quiver bristling arrows, shafts of pain.

Gifts from the old days, from a friend he'd met in Lacedaemon—Iphitus, Eurytus' gallant son.

Once in Messene the two struck up together,

in sly Ortilochus' house, that time Odysseus

went to collect a debt the whole realm owed him,

for Messenian raiders had lifted flocks from Ithaca,

three hundred head in their oarswept ships, the herdsmen too.

So his father and island elders sent Odysseus off,

a young boy on a mission,

a distant embassy made to right that wrong.

Iphitus went there hunting the stock that he had lost,

a dozen mares still nursing their hardy suckling mules.

The same mares that would prove his certain death

when he reached the son of Zeus, that iron heart,

Heracles—the past master of monstrous works—

who killed the man, a guest in his own house.

Brutal. Not a care for the wrathful eyes of god

or rites of hospitality he had spread before him,

no, he dined him, then he murdered him, commandeered

those hard-hoofed mares for the hero's own grange.

Still on the trail of these when he met Odysseus,

Iphitus gave him the bow his father, mighty Eurytus,

used to wield as a young man, but when he died

in his lofty house he left it to his son.

In turn, Odysseus gave his friend a sharp sword

and a rugged spear to mark the start of friendship,

treasured ties that bind. But before they got to know

the warmth of each other's board, the son of Zeus

had murdered Iphitus, Eurytus' magnificent son

who gave the prince the bow.

That great weapon— King Odysseus never took it abroad with him when he sailed off to war in his long black ships. He kept it stored away in his stately house, guarding the memory of a cherished friend, and only took that bow on hunts at home.

Now,

the lustrous queen soon reached the hidden vault and stopped at the oaken doorsill, work an expert sanded smooth and trued to the line some years ago, planting the doorjambs snugly, hanging shining doors. At once she loosed the thong from around its hook, inserted the key and aiming straight and true, shot back the bolts—and the rasping doors groaned as loud as a bull will bellow, champing grass at pasture. So as the key went home those handsome double doors rang out now and sprang wide before her. She stepped onto a plank where chests stood tall, brimming with clothing scented sweet with cedar. Reaching, tiptoe, lifting the bow down off its peg, still secure in the burnished case that held it, down she sank, laying the case across her knees, and dissolved in tears with a high thin wail as she drew her husband's weapon from its sheath . Then, having wept and sobbed to her heart's content, off she went to the hall to meet her proud admirers, cradling her husband's backsprung bow in her arms, its quiver bristling arrows, shafts of pain. Her women followed, bringing a chest that held the bronze and the iron axes, trophies won by the master. That radiant woman, once she reached her suitors, drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks, paused now where a column propped the sturdy roof, with one of her loyal handmaids stationed either side, and delivered an ultimatum to her suitors: "Listen to me, my overbearing friends! You who plague this palace night and day, drinking, eating us out of house and home with the lord and master absent, gone so long— the only excuse that you can offer is your zest to win me as your bride. So, to arms, my gallants! Here is the prize at issue, right before you, look— I set before you the great bow of King Odysseus now! The hand that can string this bow with greatest ease, that shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes— he is the man I follow, yes, forsaking this house where I was once a bride, this gracious house

so filled with the best that life can offer— I shall always remember it, that I know ... even in my dreams."

She turned to Eumaeus, ordered the good swineherd now to set the bow and the gleaming iron axes out before the suitors. He broke into tears as he received them, laid them down. The cowherd wept too, when he saw his master's bow. But Antinous wheeled on both and let them have it: "Yokels, fools—you can't tell night from day! You mawkish idiots, why are you sniveling here? You're stirring up your mistress! Isn't she drowned in grief already? She's lost her darling husband. Sit down. Eat in peace, or take your snuffling out of doors! But leave that bow right here— our crucial test that makes or breaks us all. No easy game, I wager, to string his polished bow. Not a soul in the crowd can match Odysseus— what a man he was ... I saw him once, remember him to this day, though I was young and foolish way back then."