The Odyssey 9781350284975, 9781472532480

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To ANDREW CRAWSHAW ἐξ ἐμεῦ, oἷα φίλοι ξεîνοι ξείνοισι διδοῦσι (Odyssey 1.313)

Maps

100 km 100 m

Map 1  Mainland Greece

100 km

THRACE

100 m

Ismaros

LEMNOS

Hellespont

Troy (Ilios)

TENEDOS

SKYROS

EU

LESBOS

PSYRA

BO

IA

C. Mimas

CHIOS

Geraistos

SYROS (Syrie?)

DELOS

R.Ia

rdan

os

RHODES

CRETE

DIA Amnisos Knossos Gortyn Phaistos

Map 2  The Aegean and Asia Minor

SICILY

CYPRUS CRETE

Paphos

200 km

LIBYA

200 m

Map 3  The Eastern Mediterranean

EGYPT Thebes (2)↓

R.Nile

Pharos

Sidon

PHOINICIA

Troy (Ilios)

Temese

Preface Traditore traduttore. All translation of literature (as opposed to, say, an instruction manual) is, if not quite treason, at least an inevitable compromise. The compromise may seem closer to treason when the original is poetry and the translation is prose. Matthew Arnold, whose influential lectures ‘On Translating Homer’ include his own wholly unsuccessful rendering of a passage of Homer into English hexameter verse, wrote in his essay on Milton: ‘The verse of the poets of Greece and Rome no translation can adequately reproduce. Prose cannot have the power of verse; verse translation may give whatever of charm is in the soul and talent of the translator himself, but never the specific charm of the verse and poet translated.’ The history of verse translation of Homer, including Pope (‘It is a pretty poem, Mr Pope,’ said Richard Bentley, ‘but you must not call it Homer’), largely bears out this judgement. Arnold suggested that Greekless readers (at the time estimating their numbers only in thousands!) would gain a sense of the ‘power and charm of the great poets of antiquity’ through the original poetry of Milton. A closer analogue in English poetry to the manner of Homer  – though it is over-distilled  – lies in Arnold’s own mini-epics, Balder Dead and, most particularly, Sohrab and Rustum. Poetry translated into poetry requires not much less a poet: and it is partly a matter of scale. Epigram needs translation into epigram (but beware Simonides). Lyric likewise demands lyric, though the literary world is white with the bones of those who attempted verse translations of Alkaios, Catullus, or Horace. Drama and epic are in a different category, in that in this age verse drama and very long narrative poems (the Odyssey has over 12,000 lines, the Iliad over 15,000) are cultural oddities, without a natural audience. The most widely used modern verse translations of Homer, those of Richmond Lattimore, have a craggy integrity and a distinctive ‘voice’, but they are not an easy read. Prose is now the natural medium for narrative, if it is to be read: and prose can have both power and charm. Translation of literature is, or should be, a labour of love. Any translator wishes to convey his or her pleasure in the work translated to as wide an audience as possible, and that has been my main aim in this translation: in the hope, that is, that my own response to Homer is not wholly different from that of others, I have written the sort of translation that I would like to read. Cardinal to this is fidelity, as far as I can manage it, to both matter and manner. I have tried to reproduce, as accurately as the English language will allow, all that Homer actually says: and also to convey something of the feel of the

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Odyssey, its style and manner. Part of the power of the Homeric epics (Iliad and Odyssey) lies in the fact that their voices are both immediate and alien. The immediate strikes through with immediate force, but that which is alien to our literary culture (especially the modes of speech – dense and twisty –, the insistent narrative sequencing, and the wealth of formulaic repetition) is also an essential part of the matter of the Odyssey and a component in its manner. Modern translations of Homer, especially the prose translations, have tended to pasteurise the enlivening germ of these alien elements, and soften the edge of difference between Homer’s world (and Homer’s modes of expression) and ours: perhaps the greatest ‘treason’ is to make the Odyssey sound as if it was written by an Anglophone novelist (or poet) of the late twentieth century. Manner is more elusive than matter, and a greater challenge to the translator. At times Homer reaches, in J.D. Denniston’s memorable phrase, a ‘hushed intensity’ of narrative: and then Homeric speech often crackles with what Virginia Woolf well described (in her essay ‘On not knowing Greek’) as the ‘sneering, out-of-doors manner’ of Greek exchanges – the Greeks took great delight in subtle, hard-hitting speech, and over a third of the Iliad and Odyssey is direct speech. An immediately noticeable ‘alien’ feature of the Homeric epics, the legacy of highly-skilled oral composition and inherent in the very fabric and texture of the poems, is the pervasive use of formulaic phrases, lines, or passages – recurrent combinations of noun and epithet for gods, people, and things (‘the bright-eyed goddess Athene’, ‘much-enduring godlike Odysseus’, ‘long-shadowed spear’); standard lines introducing speech or answer; repeated actions or situations, repeated descriptions of important, ritual, or semi-ritual processes (setting sail, sacrifice, preparation of food). I have retained in translation the full range and incidence of these ‘formulas’. They are essential to the manner and force of the Odyssey, and, I have no doubt, to our understanding and enjoyment of the poem. Their general effect is to shed a rich dignity over the Homeric world, investing the elements of that world with universal significance, and expressive of an order and stability in which all things have their proper excellence and beauty. As in the Iliad, this stands in moving contrast with the narrative action for much of the poem, until at last Odysseus regains and restores the stable and domestic world he had sought for twenty years. The text of the Odyssey is very far from unsophisticated, and where there is, or seems to be, a particular effect intended  – word-play, for example, assonance, or, most often, striking alliteration  – I have attempted to find an equivalent in English (e.g. 2.276, ‘Few follow father’s form’; 9.71, ‘the roaring wind ripped their rigging to rags’). Above all, I have borne in mind throughout, and tried to reflect as best I can, the obvious but essential fact

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that the Odyssey was composed to be recited and heard aloud. Much flows from this: the relatively short sentences, the lack of complex subordination, the direct and rapid narrative connections (‘and then . . . and then . . .’), the composition throughout in breath-sized units. ‘Men always praise most the song which comes freshest to their ears’ (1.351f.). It is the astonishing achievement of the Homeric epics, the earliest works of European literature, that they still speak freshly in the third millennium. * The question of names. In the ‘Note on Names’ introductory to my translation of the Iliad (Penguin, 1987) I wrote: The representation of Greek names in English poses a familiar problem. There is no universally accepted ‘system’, and practice has varied over the centuries with prevailing fashion and personal predilection, from the wholly Latin or latinising to ruthless transliteration. Few would now be happy with Jove, Minerva, Ulysses, or Ajax as means of referring to Greek gods and heroes whose names are Zeus, Athene, Odysseus, and Aias: and few can systematically stomach the printed barbarity of Thoukudides or Aiskhulos, or the unexpectedness of Platon. No practice is maintained with complete consistency, and that is just as well: those who rightly reject Ulysses and Ajax are unwilling to accept the ‘purist’ Priamos and Helene in place of the familiar Priam and Helen. In the end the question is an aesthetic one, depending on the balance struck between the proper desire to assert the Greekness of the Greek characters, and proper respect for the long tradition of English literature and literary reference.

In this translation too I have preferred to keep the majority of the Greek names unlatinised (so Eumaios, Kalypso, Achilleus, for example, rather than Eumaeus, Calypso, Achilles), making exceptions where the retention of the Greek form or the Greek spelling would involve a disturbing wrench  – so Helen, Crete, Penelope rather than Helene, Krete, Penelopeia. I am conscious though, that the mysterious goddess Kirke will be yet more mysterious to those familiar with her as Circe. * I owe several debts of deep gratitude. First, to Joanna Marchant and Angela Drage, who translated a scruffy and much-travelled manuscript into computer disc with practised and professional ease.

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Then to Jasper Griffin, Professor of Classical Literature at Oxford, who generously wrote the Introduction to this book. Jasper Griffin taught me at Oxford, and much of what I know about Homer has been learnt from him, either directly from his teaching those many years ago, or indirectly from his published books and articles. This translation is dedicated to Andrew Crawshaw, who gave us for six successive summers the use of his delightful house in the island of Andros. There much of this translation was written, amid the pleasant distractions of an Odyssean landscape of olives, oleanders, goats, and the sparkling sea. Martin Hammond

Acknowledgement I am grateful to Penguin Books for permission to use in this Preface a paragraph (on names) and a few other sentences from the Introduction to my translation of the Iliad published by Penguin in 1987.

Introduction The most important fact about the whole history of Western literature is its beginning. At the start there are the two very long poems, both traditionally ascribed to a poet called Homer, concerned with the great expedition of the Achaians (Greeks) against the city of Troy. The Homeric epics are an extraordinary phenomenon, in their scale, their quality, and their influence. Most peoples produce, in the early stages of their history, songs and poems about the great heroes of their past. In later generations taste changes, and readers turn away from these archaic works, condemning them to neglect and eventual disappearance. In the case of Rome, the Romans themselves could only deplore the loss of the early poetry that must have existed before the overwhelming impact of Greek poetry on Roman taste and Roman education. In our own literature, Shakespeare had never heard of Beowulf; the Song of Roland, in French, and the Song of the Nibelungen, in German, were equally lost to view, until eventually, in the romantic period, they were rediscovered by scholars. In momentous contrast, the Homeric epics have never ceased to be read and admired. Since the sixth century bc they have always been prescribed, somewhere, on the syllabus of schools. In classical Greece, and then in Rome, they were the most universally admired works of literature, and they were also widely taken as guides to human behaviour and to the interpretation of the gods and the world. After the fall of Rome they were fundamental to the education and the literature of Byzantium; and when the Renaissance stirred in Italy, the return of Homer to the West was one of its great ambitions and its chief achievements. Ever since, the two great epics have been literary and also moral presences, illustrating a possible world in which gods and men interacted, and high rank went with tragic stature and human dignity. Discussion of the Odyssey must start with its elder sister, the Iliad. The literature which we call ‘Western’ opens with a bang. The Iliad is a poem of enormous size (over 15,000 lines) and of supreme literary quality. It is also astonishingly sophisticated in conception. The poet of the Iliad decided to compose a poem which would tell of the events of only a few days in the tenth year of the siege of Troy, but which would include indirectly – by flash-backs, by predictions, and above all by implication – all the important events of the Troy story. The splendidly vivid incidents of the Judgment of Paris and the abduction of Helen, so frequently represented in later poetry and painting, are not

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narrated in the Iliad, but we find hints of them, especially in the Third and Fifth Books. The single combat between Paris and Menelaos, to settle which of them should have Helen, is presented in Book 3 in a way that suggests that this is their first encounter, despite the fact that we are supposedly in the tenth year of the war. We are to see in it the first confrontation of Trojan and Achaian, strongly contrasting human types; and in Book 4 we see the Trojans, who started the whole war by an offence against the god of hospitality, become guilty again, when the Trojan Pandaros breaks the truce and tries to shoot Menelaos in breach of it. At the end of the poem the doom of Troy has been pronounced and is known to be imminent, but the city is still standing. Even the hero Achilleus, whose death in battle has been predicted with increasing detail and accepted by the hero himself, is at the end of the Iliad under the shadow of death but still alive. The sack of Troy is twice predicted, by Hektor in Book 6 and by Priam in Book 22, but the poet denies himself the pleasure of describing the famous scenes that went with the sack of Troy: the Wooden Horse; the killing of the old king Priam at the altar; the sacrilegious dragging of the princess Kassandra away from the statue of Athene, and the anger of the goddess with the Achaians. In this way the Iliad is made to contain the whole story of the Trojan War, but by a method much more self-conscious and oblique than we might have expected in an archaic epic poem. The Iliad is also highly sophisticated in such matters as the depiction of characters and the handling of direct speech: the poem is very rich in speeches, and indeed in conversations. The handling of the gods, too, in their relations with men and with each other, is smooth and masterly, and certainly not without humour. We relish it when Zeus’ wife Hera sets out to seduce him, in Book 14, or when the lame craftsman god Hephaistos restores good humour on Olympos, at the end of Book 1, by bustling about pouring out the drink; a role normally reserved for young and glamorous servants such as Ganymedes and Hebe. The existence of the Iliad, with its distinction as poetry and its sophistication of conception and construction, was crucial for the next great poem, the Odyssey. Like the Iliad, it is a long epic poem (over 12,000 lines) dealing with events that form part of the Trojan cycle. It too is highly sophisticated in manner, handling gods and men and their dealings in a rather different spirit and atmosphere, but with an equally sure touch, and with a wealth of conversations and of direct speech. The Greeks accounted for these resemblances by saying that both great epics were the work of a single poet, Homer. They have painfully little to tell us about him. They could not even agree on such basic matters as his home town or his dates. He was generally imagined

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as a wandering minstrel who sang his marvellous songs for a living, and a passage in another early poem was taken to mean that he was blind. It was sometimes imagined that he composed the Iliad in his youth, so that it had the youthful qualities of being fiery and warlike, and the Odyssey at a more advanced age, whence its interest in moral questions of right and wrong, and in story-telling for its own sake. ‘But if we are speaking of old age,’ says one of the most perceptive of later Greek critics, ‘it is still the old age of a Homer!’ Most scholars nowadays incline to the view that the main authors of the two poems are two different people, but it is still possible to believe that there was only one. Modern scholarship regards Homer as a mythical figure, not a historical one. Nature abhors a vacuum; so does the human mind, especially in something dear to its heart, and it was intolerable to know nothing of the creator of the crown jewels of Greek literature. As the English poet Coleridge remarks, it is impossible to say anything about the man Homer, as distinct from the poems themselves: he is simply a figure of speech. What is true in the legend about him is that the poems represent the end of a tradition of sung verse, the work of illiterate travelling performers, who delighted their audiences with tales of heroic doings and sufferings in a heroic period long ago. In the British Isles we have something of the kind in the Border Ballads, which tell of fighting and cattle rustling between the Scots and the English, and the battles of the Percy and the Douglas; but they always remained on a much smaller scale and a much less sophisticated literary level than that attained by the Greek epic. In the 1930s oral epic of this kind still flourished in Yugoslavia, where it was studied by Milman Parry with benefit for the understanding of the genesis of the Homeric poems. A question which cannot be conclusively answered by such researches, or by any others, is whether the composer of our Iliad and our Odyssey was himself illiterate, dictating his poem to a scribe, or whether he used the new art of writing in the composition of his poems. Certain features of the Homeric style, most obviously the regular ‘formulaic’ epithets  – the harvestless sea; royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus; the bright-eyed goddess Athene; Zeus the high-thunderer, whose power is greatest of all – have part of their function in easing for the singer his task of improvising his verses within a strict tradition. They are also important for the stylistic level, and for the pace of the poem. We can infer that the Iliad in its present form came into existence by about 700 bc, and that the Odyssey came into existence shortly afterwards. Episodes from it begin to appear on painted pottery in the seventh century, notably the blinding of the Cyclops, and Odysseus tied to the mast, listening

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to the Sirens. There can be no doubt that the poet of the Odyssey was familiar with the Iliad, and that he started his own poem by taking it as given. That can be seen very clearly in the way the Odyssey continues the Trojan story from the precise point at which the Iliad stops. We find the Wooden Horse and the activities of Helen at the time of the Horse and the Sack of Troy (Book 4); the violent behaviour of some of the Achaians after the capture of the city, and the anger of the goddess Athene which brought many of them to grief on their way home (Book 3). We hear of the quarrel over the armour of Achilleus, and how Aias killed himself when it was not awarded to him (Book 11); of the death and funeral of Achilleus (Books 11 and 24); and of the tragic home-coming of king Agamemnon, lord of men, the conqueror of Troy, and his murder by his wife and her lover (Books 3, 4, 11, 24). All the gaps are carefully filled in, between the end of the Iliad and the starting point of the Odyssey. It is also clear that the Odyssey wants to satisfy the desire of its audience to meet again the great characters who had delighted them in the earlier epic. Odysseus’ son Telemachos is sent off to meet some of them. He visits the garrulous old man Nestor (Book 3), teller of wonderful stories, a person for whom the Iliad had a special affection, and he is entertained in Sparta by the greatest and most glamorous of those who survived among the central persons of the story: Menelaos and Helen herself, now recaptured and living in conjugal happiness with her husband (Books 4 and 15). The young man is enchanted. The goddess Athene has to come and give him a push, to get him moving from ‘Sparta where the women are handsome’; and when he tells his mother of his travels, he adds, ‘There I saw Argive Helen . . .’ (17.118). But some of the most magical Iliadic characters are now dead, and we cannot hope to see them again on earth. That is surely one reason why the poet sends Odysseus to the world of the dead. Only there can we meet again Agamemnon and Aias and Achilleus (Book 11; with a second glimpse of the dead heroes in Book 23). It is tempting to see the influence of the Iliad again in the absence of the hero from the opening books; Achilleus is kept off stage from the Second to the Ninth Book of the Iliad. But the poet of the Odyssey has chosen to complicate the structure of his poem. It starts in two separate places, with Telemachos on Ithaka and Odysseus on the island of Kalypso. Both need to be set in motion, and in the second half of the poem the two strands will need to be united. That is managed with great panache in Books 15 and 16. The Greeks had a number of cycles of myth, besides that of the Trojan War. There was the grim story of the Theban dynasty: Oidipous, who was fated to kill his father and to marry his mother; his sons, who fought for the crown and slew each other in single combat; his daughter Antigone,

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who defied the tyrant’s prohibition, buried her brother’s body, and died for her defiance. There was the story of Iason and the Argonauts, and their adventurous quest for the Golden Fleece. There was the tale of the monstrous Boar of Kalydon, and how Meleagros killed it, and how he slew his mother’s brothers and was cursed by her to his death. There were the heroic labours and fearful sufferings of Herakles (in Latin, Hercules), son of Zeus. All these stories left their traces in the Homeric epics, but the supreme story was that of the siege of Troy and its eventual destruction by the forces of the whole of Greece, commanded by king Agamemnon. In the fifth century bc it still dominates Attic tragedy. The Trojan story told of the great national victory over the Asiatic foreigner, and in the Homeric poems it was to be decisive in forming the Greeks’ view of themselves and of the world, down to the conquests of Alexander and long after. But it was by no means an unambiguous tale of triumph. The Iliad forced on the attention of its audience the women and children of Troy. We meet there Hektor’s mother, his wife, and his baby son: as a result of the Greek victory, they all face slavery or death. There is no question of the only good Trojan being a dead Trojan. We are far from the simplified world of the patriotic war movie, and equally far from that of The Lord of the Rings: works in which the enemy have no wives, no mothers, and no children, and in which, consequently, their destruction is morally unambiguous, and victory and domination need pay no moral price. Homer makes it clear that the enemy is just like us, and his death is terrible. That knowledge has often been denied or pushed out of sight, but it has never really been possible, in the West, to lose it completely. That is an important part of the legacy of Homer. The Odyssey, in its turn, sees the Trojan War from the point of the survivors and of the dead: sees it, in fact, as a round of disasters. ‘There all the greatest men were killed,’ says old Nestor to Telemachos in Book 3; ‘There lies Aias the warrior, there Achilleus, there Patroklos, and there lies my own dear son, so strong and fearless, Antilochos’ (3.108ff.). When Telemachos compliments king Menelaos on his wealth, the disillusioned hero replies, ‘But while I was wandering in those parts [Egypt] amassing much substance, a man killed my brother . . . through the treachery of his accursed wife. So I take no joy in being master of this wealth . . . I would gladly live on in my house with only a third of the wealth I now have, if only they were still alive, the men who then died in the broad land of Troy, far from the horse-pasture of Argos’ (4.90ff.). Tears are the response to this speech: the tears, tragic but also enjoyable, which pervade the Odyssey. Not least they are the nightly fare of the Queen of Ithaka, Odysseus’ lonely wife Penelope, who weeps for her lost husband and curses the name of Troy (‘that unspeakable name’).

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After the losses at Troy, and the dread anger of Achilleus which doomed so many brave men to lie unburied, the prey of dogs and birds; after the sack of Troy, when not all the Achaians had shown ‘proper sense or scruple’ (Nestor, 3.133), and some did not get home at all: after all that, some came home to a bad reception. That was the fate of king Agamemnon, cut down without mercy by his wife and her lover. We are reminded of that story repeatedly. The fighting man, away on campaign, is naturally anxious about events back home, and the stories of Agamemnon and Odysseus give shape to that anxiety in double form. Is his wife like Penelope, faithful but beset by intrusive lovers, shirkers who did not go to the war, so that she is driven to her wits’ end? Is she like Agamemnon’s wife Klytaimnestra, actually seduced by some dastardly non-combatant, and planning her husband’s murder, if he gets home alive? ‘I had thought that my homecoming would be a joy to my children and my household,’ says the ghost of Agamemnon to Odysseus, touchingly; ‘but she with the utter evil of her plans cast shame on herself and on all women to come, all of the female sex, even the virtuous’ (11.431ff.). That is what might have happened to Odysseus, too, at the end of the longest and most adventurous of all the Return stories. Both he and his son are well aware of the risk that Penelope may throw in her lot with one of the Suitors – perhaps the plausible Antinoös. Telemachos is repeatedly reminded of the duty to avenge a father, as Agamemnon’s son Orestes avenged him. The goddess Athene says to the callow prince, ‘You know what the heart of a woman is like: she no longer cares at all for her first husband and his children; she is interested only in her new man’ (paraphrase of 15.20ff.). Hackneyed words, expressing the misogyny which was always present in Greece. We feel that the goddess is articulating the young man’s own thoughts, but here they are given the lie by Penelope’s tenacious loyalty. The Odyssey contains much less of straightforward heroics than the Iliad. There is comparatively little fighting. It concentrates much more on psychology, on women, on the details of something close to ordinary life, and  – at the opposite extreme  – on tales of the wonderful and the supernatural. Aristotle pointed out that the poet prefers not to vouch himself for the truth of his one-eyed giants and enchantresses who can turn men into pigs. Such stories are put into the mouth of Odysseus; and if you don’t believe them, you must at least agree that sailors do tell such tales. And Odysseus, the hero who starts so many stories by saying ‘Now I’ll tell you the truth’, is repeatedly shown as lying. In his false tales, he is usually a Cretan; now, there was a proverb that said ‘Cretans are always liars’. The poet plays a little game with us here. Odysseus even, in Book 13, tries to tell false tales to Athene herself, who responds with amusement and affection (13.291ff.). We look to see what

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he will say to his faithful wife, as he recites his adventures to her, about his dalliance with Kalypso and Kirke (23.310ff.). The prudent hero omits Kirke altogether, and of Kalypso he says that ‘She never won my heart’ (23.337); not quite what we heard at the time, which was that he had ‘lost his pleasure’ in her (5.153). Not all stories are suitable for all hearers. Odysseus tells many lies; and when he goes through the story of his adventures for the hospitable Phaiacians, their king praises him in striking terms: ‘You have told your story like a professional singer, skilfully and according to the rules. If anyone else had told us such things, we should not have believed him …’ (paraphrase of 11.362ff.). An ambiguous compliment! And a sophisticated touch: we see the singer who is performing for us the tale of Odysseus, impersonating the hero himself as he performs for a grand mythical audience, and in that role being complimented for his resemblance to a singer. Again we surely have a game with layers of reference and self-allusion. The Odyssey is interested in singers, and it has a lot to tell us about them, and about the circumstances of their performances. Often the performer is interrupted: ‘No, not everybody is enjoying that song! Give us something else!’ (8.83ff., 8.521ff.). But when he succeeds, then the hearers are ‘held by the spell of his words in the shadowy hall’, long unable to speak even when the voice of the singer has fallen silent. That was the effect at which the singer aimed. We find an interest, too, in other comparatively humble people. The Iliad, by contrast, is much more exclusive. In the Odyssey there are good and bad servants, who must be rewarded and punished, in accordance with the overriding conception in the poem of poetic justice. The loyal swineherd Eumaios is lovingly depicted; the disloyal herdsman Melanthios and his insolent sister Melantho are shown in hateful colours. The poet is interested in beggars and their contrasting types (Book 18); he lets a character give advice as to the best places to beg – in the town, not in the country (17.18). The Iliad shows a world at war, the Odyssey a world at peace, and some of its tastes and interests look forward to pastoral poetry and to the novel, rather than back to the Berserker age of delight in battle. Among Odysseus’ sailors we meet and sympathise with the hapless Elpenor, ‘not over-brave in battle nor well equipped with brains’ (10.552), who drinks too much, climbs up to the roof to sleep in the cool, forgets where he is, falls off the roof and breaks his neck. In the next world his ghost meets the hero and begs for a simple memorial, a burial mound, and stuck into it ‘the oar which was mine when I was alive and rowing with my companions’ (11.75f.). Even the hero’s old dog, thrown out as useless in his master’s absence and dying on the dung-hill, is given a moment of touching pathos (17.290ff.); all the more so because Odysseus must conceal his feelings at the sight.

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The theme of loyalty versus disloyalty runs all through the Odyssey. The Suitors who want to marry Penelope have their eye on his inheritance, too. Odysseus, we are several times assured, was ‘as gentle as a father’ to his people, so that their refusal to help his son is shameful (2.40ff.); and specifically it was Odysseus who rescued the father of the wicked Antinoös from the justified anger of the community and saved his life – and yet the son plots the murder of his benefactor’s son Telemachos (16.424ff.). Odysseus’ sailors are disobedient (Book 10) and mutinous, their ring-leader being his own kinsman (10.423ff.). His maid-servants rouse his anger by sleeping with the Suitors (20.1–30). Even when the wicked Suitors are dead, their relatives try to make war on the hero and his son to avenge them, and it needs the intervention of Athene herself to establish peace (Book 24). In Odysseus’ wanderings, some of the most alarming adventures begin when the wanderers trust a promising first impression. Among the Laistrygonians, the sailors meet a nice girl drawing water at the well; she invites them home; but when her parents appear, they are cannibal giants, who kill most of the party and smash up their ships. Exploring in a wood, they find a charming lady working at her loom; she gives them refreshments, then suddenly taps them with her wand, transforms them into pigs, and herds them into the pig-sties (Book 10). Even in the stories Odysseus invents about himself, usually introduced ‘Now I’ll tell you all the truth’, the same themes of subordination and rebellion recur. He may be an illegitimate son of a wealthy man, protected by his father while he lived, but driven out by his legitimate half-brothers at the old man’s death, to live by piracy (14.199ff.); or he may be an assertive fellow (a Cretan, as usual) who refused to serve under the local king, insisted on leading his own contingent, and was victimised by the king; so he ambushed the king’s brother and killed him, and had to get out (13.256ff.). These stories are vignettes of life in a disturbed and violent world, in which pirates and slavers abound, and it is not a rude question to ask unexpected visitors, ‘Are you pirates, who risk your lives to bring ruin on other people?’ (3.69–74). As for the good servant Eumaios, he was by birth a prince, but his nurse-maid was treacherous, and she stole him away into slavery; and that was the life of Eumaios, ruined by misplaced trust (15.413ff.). In a world so full of betrayal, trust is the hardest thing. Both Telemachos and Odysseus have their suspicions of Penelope; Odysseus insists on ‘testing’ his aged father Laertes, when the Suitors are dead, and tells him one last false tale, which has the effect of almost killing the old man (24.302ff.). The habit of falsehood was so hard to break. And by a masterly invention, Penelope herself shows distrust, plays a trick on Odysseus, and proves herself to be a real character and the right wife for the guileful hero (Book 23).

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It is also central to the poem that the immediate family can be a focus of trust and affection. The family of Odysseus is a very close one. When he meets the ghost of his mother, he asks her, ‘How did you die? Was it an illness?’ ‘No,’ she replies, ‘It was no illness . . . It was longing for you, glorious Odysseus, for your wisdom and your gentle-hearted way, which took the sweetness of life from me’ (11.198ff.). As for Odysseus’ father, Eumaios tells Odysseus: ‘Laertes is alive still, but he prays constantly to Zeus for the life to be extinguished from his body there and then in his house. He mourns deeply for his lost son and for the wise wife of his marriage: her death was the greatest blow to him and made him an old man before his time. She died of grief for her glorious son – it was a wretched death, which I would not wish on any of my friends or kindly neighbours here’ (15.351ff.). The reunion of Odysseus with his son, his wife, and his father re-establishes the nuclear family, whose closeness is all the more vital in a world full of risk and betrayal. The Iliad contains women with speaking parts, and they are convincing: we do not detect the squeaky note of the female impersonator in Andromache, Hektor’s wife, or Hekabe, his mother. But these women are seen very much in just that role: as the wife and mother of the hero. The Odyssey goes a lot further. We meet a whole gallery of female types. There is Nausikaä, the young girl whose thoughts are first turning to the question of marriage, and who is touchingly shown trying to conceal that interest: ‘So she spoke: she was too shy to speak openly to her dear father of her own fruitful marriage, but he understood all’ (6.66f.). She drops a hint to Odysseus, too (6.273ff.), but the experienced hero knows how to side-step it, and her last moment with the glamorous stranger is charming with its unfulfilled erotic potential (8.454ff.). Next comes the nymph Kalypso, loving and unhappy, who wants to keep the hero forever, and who offers him immortality on her enchanted island. It is right to remember what a sacrifice Odysseus makes, in order to get back to his home and his old wife. The hero contrives to leave Kalypso without slighting her charms, always a difficult trick (Book 5); as with Nausikaä, the scene with her contains a lot of social comedy, with tact and courtesy high among the qualities need by the hero. They are in fact constantly stressed in the poem, which is among other things a guide to good manners. Kirke is again different, a femme fatale who knows all about men, and who is happy to spend a year of sensual pleasure with the hero, though his men are terrified of her, and whose response, when he announces his wish to leave, is a cool ‘Don’t stay in my house against your will . . .’ (10.489). Older yet is the bossy queen of the Phaiacians, who notoriously wears the trousers (6.303ff.); while at home there is the faithful wife Penelope, still beautiful after twenty years, preserving her chastity by tricks and

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schemes, and showing herself a worthy mate for the wily Odysseus. The story pattern was that she has been (as it were) checked in at the left luggage by her husband, and she must wait till he comes back to reclaim her. He duly reappears; Penelope is told by her faithful maid servant ‘Come and see! Odysseus has come home and killed the Suitors!’ (23.5ff.) She comes and sits opposite the hero, still spattered with gore from the killing: and – she refuses to recognise him. Telemachus is outraged. What more (we feel like asking) can Odysseus do? He has presented the ticket, and it has not worked. Then she plays her trump card: ‘Pull out the bed,’ she says to her maid. Odysseus, master of so many deceptions, is caught out by this one. ‘What! Who has moved that bed – which I toiled to make and carve and inlay, and which I made immovable!’ (paraphrase of 23.181ff.) The imperturbable conqueror of the Suitors breaks out into indignant emotion. And so Penelope recognises him at last: not just a great killer, or a plausible impostor, but the man who shares with her the most intimate secrets of the bedroom, and who knows that the moving of the marriage bed would be a symbol of change in the marriage itself. The scene allows her to impose her own shape on events, breaking out of the passivity to which the story pattern seemed to condemn her. In the Odyssey we are constantly aware of very basic themes. There were other Return stories; there was in fact a whole poem (now lost) with the title Returns; the return of Odysseus came to be the return, as the Trojan story came to be the story of war, siege, and heroic doing and suffering. That was achieved in part by attaching to him the widespread motif of the Warrior’s Return, at the last minute, to prevent his wife from marrying another man and his kingdom being lost. That story demanded that the hero come back alone; we cannot have him arrive with ship-loads of men at his back. So the hero, the commander of a regular contingent at Troy, must lose all his men; and that creates a problem. When the commander of an expedition is the sole survivor, it looks very bad, as the kinsmen of the Suitors angrily point out (24.425ff.); and as the poet himself shows himself to be nervously aware, insisting emphatically that the death of the sailors was all their own fault (1.5ff., etc.). It is not really true, if we track him down. All the ships but one are smashed up, and the men killed, by the Laistrygonians, in Book 10. As for Odysseus, he tells us that all the other ships were moored inside the harbour, which had a very narrow entrance, ‘but I alone moored my ship outside’ (10.95). Not, perhaps, the conduct of a responsible commander; it might not sound well at a court martial or a commission of enquiry; but it has to happen. The plot has doomed these sailors. There are adventures ahead for which we

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need our hero to have only one ship, not an Iliadic flotilla. We cannot have a whole line of ships sailing past the Rock of the Sirens, or threading Skylla and Charybdis: the effect would be an unbearable bathos. Sinbad-like, Odysseus goes on with his one ship. But in the end even that one must go. The men, those misguided mariners, first let Odysseus down by opening the leather bag that contained the winds, all except those he needed for his home-coming, and so blew him and themselves away from Ithaka, when they were so nearly home (10.38ff.). Their motive was envy: ‘He has got more treasure in there, while we have got nothing!’, but we note that Odysseus did not tell them what was in the bag. Once more the motifs of insubordination and distrust. The sailors finally seal their death warrant by slaughtering and eating the forbidden cattle of the Sun, not before being reduced to desperation by starvation. The ship is lost, and shipwrecked Odysseus struggles on alone. For the poet needs him to be alone with Kalypso, and to reach the land of the Phaiacians, who will finally deliver him home, not only alone, but naked, nameless, cold, half drowned, and reduced to keeping himself alive overnight by crawling into a pile of fallen leaves. The poet gazes at him with affection as he lies there asleep, and compares him to a brand which an isolated farmer keeps in overnight, deeply buried in the ashes, to preserve the seed of fire (5.488ff.). From that low point, the very verge of extinction, Odysseus must establish himself successively as a gentleman, a hero, and (finally) a king. The comparison of the hero to a spark recalls the tone of the striking description, at the heart of the Odyssey, of the hero when he finally gets onto the Phaiacian ship which will carry him home. Recalling the opening of the poem, the poet describes the ship sailing on, swift as a hawk, cleaving the waves: bearing a man like the gods in intelligence, who had suffered much as he made his way through the perils of war and sea; but who now was peacefully asleep, unmindful of his sufferings (13.79ff.). The echo of the opening lines of the poem clearly marks that the second half of the Odyssey is beginning. It is an indication of conscious structuring of the poem. The Odyssey has had the excellent idea of giving the returning hero a son, just grown up, who has hitherto been oppressed and intimidated in his own house by the Suitors. As long as he passively accepted their misdeeds, (‘Up to now I have been a child’), they tolerated him; but now he is aroused into action by Athene, and the Suitors immediately draw the conclusion: he must die. The return of Odysseus thus becomes even more urgent. We watch the young man mature, from the foot-squashed pessimist of Book 1 to the young warrior who is fit to stand beside his father in battle (Book 22). His growing up is speeded by his travels. He must learn to mix with his equals, his father’s old friends. At the first sight of Nestor, he is too shy to approach him and

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needs to be pushed by Athene (3.21ff.), but he is notably more confident with Menelaos (Books 4, 15), and on the return journey he has acquired the aplomb to avoid a second evening of reminiscences from old Nestor (15.193ff.). Manners and morals go very closely together, and as he learns polished behaviour Telemachos becomes a man. Odysseus is a hero, but a hero of a very different kind from the Achilleus of the earlier epic. He is not the hero of reckless dash, sacrificing everything in quest of honour, causing the death of his dearest friend through his stubbornness, and eventually accepting death as the price of vengeance. Odysseus is the hero of calculation, the survivor, the man who must accept humiliation in his own house, and tell his son to accept it, while he bides his time to act (16.274ff.); as he had to grit his teeth in the cave of the Cyclops, watch his companions being killed and eaten, and wait for his chance of revenge (9.299ff.). Achilleus is unthinkable in such situations. You simply cannot be Achilleus in the cave of a man-eating giant. At a moment of high significance for the whole poem, Odysseus and Achilleus meet in the lower world. ‘No man has been more blessed than you,’ says Odysseus to him; ‘in life you received extraordinary honour, and now you are a lord among the dead.’ ‘Don’t try to console me for death,’ comes the dark response. ‘I had rather be the lowest of the low on earth, than be king of all the dead’ (paraphrase of 11.478ff.). We hear the dusty answer of the Odyssey to the Iliad: so much for glory! The effect of intertextuality is surely intended. There is perhaps an answer to the Iliad, too, in the carefully explicit view of the gods and the working of the world. In the Iliad the gods opposed and indeed fought each other with energy and determination: gods are knocked flat on the battle field, and divine assemblies are often lively and sometimes rowdy. The doom of Troy is, in the long run and the final analysis, just: Troy started it. But that is not much comfort for the misery it means for Hektor’s wife, or the death of his baby son. The justice is of a kind we might call rough, like that of the real world; and the gods we see in action do not look altogether like convincing agents of justice, either. They are a set of splendid superhuman persons, each with ideas, passions, and commitments of a largely personal kind. The best we can say is that Zeus has both blessings and sufferings in jars in his house, and that he sees to it that no mortal gets only good things; we should think ourselves lucky if we do not get nothing but evils (Iliad 24.522ff.). In the Odyssey the first thing we see is Zeus explaining that mortals are very unjust in their criticism of the gods. ‘They say evils come from us, but really they are responsible themselves for sufferings beyond what they are allotted! Look at Aigisthos, who seduced Agamemnon’s wife and murdered

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him. We sent a divine messenger to tell him not to do it, but he went ahead; now he has had to pay for it with his death’ (paraphrase of 1.28ff.). Such a speech is not at all in the manner of the Iliad. There Zeus is far from caring what men think of his way of ruling the world. We have already heard (1.5ff.) that the destruction of Odysseus’ men was their fault, and in the rest of the poem it will be repeatedly emphasised that sinners are first warned, and then get their deserts. The sailors are heavily warned not to touch the cattle of the Sun (12.127ff.), and the Suitors are given several warnings, from the omen interpreted in Book 2 (2.161ff.), to the second sight of the uncanny seer Theoklymenos, who has a vision of the Suitors slain and the house splashed with blood, and who is laughed at for his pains (20.345ff.). The events of the Odyssey begin, we saw, in two separate places: Telemachos at home on Ithaka, and Odysseus on the island of Kalypso. First we deal with the arousing of Telemachos from passivity, his confrontations with the Suitors and the people of Ithaka, and his trip to the great heroes Nestor and Menelaos. The keynote here is realism. The personal intervention of Athene is of course exceptional, but generally events are not far from the level of actual life. Then we shift to Odysseus. He is living with a minor goddess, and he is offered immortality, but the psychology of the scene is very human. He reaches the land of the Phaiacians, an exotic people, who are closer than we to the gods, and whose ships are the stuff of a mariner’s fantasies. The hero shows his skill in dealing with the princess and with her father, and he carries off with panache the problem presented by an ill-bred young Phaiacian nobleman. Again, these are scenes close to the comedy of manners, with little about them that is specifically heroic. These Phaiacians are not, apparently, very different from us – except that their lives are easier and more decorative. At last, one third of the way through, Odysseus launches into the famous narrative of his adventures (Books 9 to 12). Here we are in a very different world. Ogres, witches, cannibals, six-headed monsters, Lotus-eaters with their consciousness-changing drug: these are typical of the population, and every kind of peril menaces the traveller. He actually has to visit the underworld, where he has moving and memorable encounters with the dead, but where the atmosphere is strikingly unspooky, and we are spared the sight of horrors and grislies. The second half of the poem is spent back on Ithaka, and father and son, united at last, plan with Athene the destruction of the Suitors. Undeniably, the pace slows. We grow used to the house of Odysseus, the good and bad servants, the appearances of Penelope, and the bad behaviour of the Suitors, who are greedy and aggressive but never offensive to Penelope: the poet will not permit scenes of violence to ladies, though things are different with the disloyal servant-women (22.430–73). Gradually tension mounts, as the

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contest of the Bow is mooted and set up; and at last the hero strikes. ‘You dogs! You thought I’d never come home . . .’ (22.35). At last the Bow is in action, and the Suitors bite the dust. The reunion with Penelope has already been described. The Odyssey can thus be described as though it fell into separate sections, but the poet has contrived his transitions with great deftness, and the poem certainly does not lack unity. Less intense than the Iliad, it is more allembracing, wider in its sympathies, fuller of interesting episodes. We feel for the hero as he struggles through his difficult existence, his eyes fixed on the yearned-for moment when he can stop being a hero and settle down to a ‘rich old age’, and to a painless, gentle death, ‘which will come away from the sea’, to an Odysseus ‘with his people prospering around him’ (11.134ff.). Jasper Griffin

Select Bibliography Text and commentaries The most widely-used text is that edited by T.W. Allen in the Oxford Classical Texts series, 2 vols. (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1917–19). A full-scale commentary on the whole poem, by A. Heubeck, A. Hoekstra, S.R. West, J.B. Hainsworth and J. Russo, is A Commentary on Homer’s Odyssey, published in three volumes by Clarendon Press (Oxford, 1988, 1990, 1992). The two-volume text and commentary by W.B. Stanford (London, Macmillan; 2nd edition, 1959) gives good value on a smaller scale. There are excellent editions (introduction, text and commentary) of individual Books in the Cambridge Greek and Latin Classics series (Cambridge University Press): Books 6–8 (A.F. Garvie, 1994); Books 17–18 (D. Steiner, 2010); Books 19–20 (R.B. Rutherford, 1992). A useful single-volume commentary is Homer’s Odyssey: A Commentary based on the English Translation of Richmond Lattimore by Peter Jones (London, Bristol Classical Press, 1988), which can quite easily be used with any other translation.

‘Companions’ Finkelberg, M. (ed.), The Homer Encyclopaedia. 3 vols. Oxford, Wiley-Blackwell, 2011. Foley, J.M. (ed.), A Companion to Ancient Epic. Oxford, Wiley-Blackwell, 2005. Fowler, R.L. (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Homer. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2004. Morris, I. and Powell, B. (eds), A New Companion to Homer. Leiden, E.J. Brill, 1997. Nelson, C. (ed.), Homer’s Odyssey: a critical handbook. Belmont, Wadsworth, 1969. Wace, A.J.B. and Stubbings, F.H. (eds), A Companion to Homer. London, Macmillan, 1962.

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General introductions Beye, C.R., The Iliad, The Odyssey, and the Epic Tradition. London, Macmillan, 1966. Camps, W.A., An Introduction to Homer. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1980. Graziosi, B. and Haubold, J., Homer. The Resonance of Epic. London, Duckworth, 2005. Griffin, J., Homer. The Odyssey. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1987. Powell, B.B., Homer. Oxford, Blackwell, 2004. Rutherford, R., Homer. Greece and Rome New Surveys in the Classics 41. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2013. Saïd, S., Homer and the Odyssey. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2011. Trypanis, C.A., The Homeric Epics. Warminster, Aris and Phillips, 1977.

Background Carpenter, R., Folk Tale, Fiction and Saga in the Homeric Epics. Berkeley, University of California Press, 1946. Chadwick, J., The Mycenaean World. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1976. Clarke, H.W., Homer’s Readers. A Historical Introduction to the Iliad and the Odyssey. Newark, University of Delaware Press, 1981. Finley, M.I., The World of Odysseus. 2nd edition. Harmondsworth, Penguin, 1979. Fränkel, H., Early Greek Poetry and Philosophy. Oxford, Basil Blackwell, 1975. Luce, J.V., Homer and the Heroic Age. London, Thames and Hudson, 1975. Page, D.L., Folktales in Homer’s Odyssey. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1973.

Composition and language Hainsworth, J.B., The Flexibility of the Homeric Formula. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1968. Kirk, G.S., The Songs of Homer. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1962 (abridged as Homer and the Epic, 1965). Kirk, G.S. (ed.), The Language and Background of Homer. Cambridge, Heffer; New York, Barnes and Noble, 1964. Kirk, G.S., Homer and the Oral Tradition. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1976. Lord, A.B., The Singer of Tales. Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1960. Page, D.L., The Homeric Odyssey. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1955.

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Parry, A., The Language of Achilles and Other Papers. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1989. Parry, M., The Making of Homeric Verse. The Collected Papers of Milman Parry. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1971.

Geography of the Odyssey Bittlestone, R., with Diggle, J. and Underhill, J., Odysseus Unbound: The Search for Homer’s Ithaca. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2005. Bradford, E., Ulysses Found. London, Hodder and Stoughton, 1964. Stanford, W.B. and Luce, J.V., The Quest for Ulysses. London, Phaidon Press, 1974.

General Auerbach, E., ‘Odysseus’ Scar’, in Mimesis. The Representation of Reality in Western Literature. Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1953. Austin, N., Archery at the Dark of the Moon. Poetic Problems in Homer’s Odyssey. Berkeley, University of California Press, 1975. Bowra, C.M., Heroic Poetry. 2nd edition. London, Macmillan, 1961. Clarke, H.W., The Art of the Odyssey. Englewood Cliffs, NJ, Prentice-Hall, 1967; reprinted with additions, London, Bristol Classical Press, 1989. Cohen, B., The Distaff Side: Representing the Female in Homer’s Odyssey. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1995. Doherty, L.E. (ed.), Homer’s Odyssey. Oxford Readings in Classical Studies. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2009. Emlyn-Jones, C., Hardwick, L., and Purkis, J. (eds), Homer. Readings and Images. London, Duckworth, 1992. Fenik, B., Studies in the Odyssey. Hermes Einzelschriften 30. Wiesbaden, Steiner, 1974. Griffin, J., Homer on Life and Death. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1980. Lane Fox, R., Travelling Heroes. Greeks and Their Myths in the Epic Age of Homer. London, Allen Lane, 2008. Lloyd-Jones, H., The Justice of Zeus. 2nd edition. Berkeley, University of California Press, 1983. McAuslan, I. and Walcot, P. (eds), Homer. Greece and Rome Studies 4. Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1998. Schein, S.L. (ed.), Reading the Odyssey. Selected Interpretative Essays. Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1996. (Especially the essays by Reinhardt and Hölscher.) Segal, C., Singers, Heroes and Gods in the Odyssey. Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press, 1995.

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Snell, B., The Discovery of the Mind. The Greek Origins of European Thought. Oxford, Blackwell, 1953. Thornton, A., People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey. London, Methuen, 1970. Wright, G.M. and Jones, P. (eds), Homer: German Scholarship in Translation. Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1997. (Especially the essays by Strasburger, Klingner and Burkert.)

Reception Graziosi, B., Inventing Homer. The Early Reception of Epic. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2002. Hall, E., The Return of Ulysses. A Cultural History of Homer’s Odyssey. London, I.B. Tauris, 2008. Stanford, W.B., The Ulysses Theme. 2nd edition. Oxford, Blackwell, 1963.

On translation Arnold, M., On Translating Homer: Three Lectures Given at Oxford (1861). Printed in Super, R.H. (ed.), On the Classical Tradition. Ann Arbor, University of Michigan Press, 1960; available online at: www.victorianprose.org. Hardwick, L., Translating Words, Translating Cultures. London, Duckworth, 2000. Lloyd-Jones, H., Greek in a Cold Climate, pp. 1–17. London, Duckworth, 1991. Mason, H.A., To Homer through Pope. London, Chatto and Windus, 1972. Steiner, G. (ed.), Homer in English. London, Penguin, 1996.

A Note on the Greek Text For this translation I have used the text of T.W. Allen in the Oxford Classical Texts series (2nd edition, 1917 and 1919). In a small number of places I have followed a variant reading, or taken a different view of the status of a line or pair of lines. I list here these few divergencies from the OCT text, in each case giving first the reading adopted for this translation. 1.320

ἀν’ ὀπαȋα, not ἀνοπαȋα

2.11

δύω κύνες ἀργοὶ, not κύνες πόδας ἀργοὶ

2.191

omitted

6.289

ὧδ’, not ὦκ’

8.299

ὅτ’, not ὅ τ’

9.326

ἀποξῦσαι, not ἀποξῦναι

9.483

omitted

11.498

εἰ γὰρ, not οὐ γὰρ

13.347–8

omitted

15.345

omitted

16.236

ὄφρ’ εἰδέω, not ὄφρα ἰδέω

16.463

αὖθ’[ι], not αὖτ’[ε]

17.429

νῆας, not νῆα

20.289

πατρὸς ἑοȋο, not θεσπεσίοισι

21.276

omitted

23.320

omitted

24.254

ἔοικεν, not ἔοικας

B O OK 1

The Gods, Athene and Telemachos

Muse, tell me of a man: a man of much resource, who was made to wander far and long, after he had sacked the sacred city of Troy. Many were the men whose lands he saw and came to know their thinking: many too the miseries at sea which he suffered in his heart, as he sought to win his own life and the safe return of his companions. But even so, for all his efforts, he could not save his companions. They perished through their own arrant folly – the fools, they ate the cattle of Hyperion the Sun, and he took away the day of their return. Start the story where you will, goddess, daughter of Zeus, and share it now with us. At that time all the others, all those who had escaped stark destruction, were in their homes, safe from war and sea. He alone was still yearning for his return to home and wife. The great nymph Kalypso, queen among goddesses, was keeping him in her hollow cave, eager to make him her husband. But when, as the years revolved, the time came which the gods had fated for his return home to Ithaka, even there he was not free from trials, even among his own people. And now all the gods felt pity for him, except Poseidon: he was ceaseless in his anger at godlike Odysseus before he reached his own land. But Poseidon had gone to visit the Ethiopians far away – the Ethiopians who are split in two divisions, remote from other men: some live by the setting sun, and others where it rises. There he had gone to receive a full sacrifice of bulls and rams and was seated at the feast taking his pleasure. But the other gods were gathered together in the house of Olympian Zeus, and the father of men and gods began to speak to them. His thought had turned to noble Aigisthos, killed by the son of Agamemnon, famous Orestes. With him in his mind he spoke to the immortals: ‘Oh, look how men are always blaming the gods! They say their troubles come from us. But it is they themselves, through their own arrant folly, who bring further misery on themselves beyond what we destine for them. So

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now it was beyond his destiny that Aigisthos took the wife of Agamemnon’s marriage, and killed the son of Atreus on his return. He knew it was his own stark destruction. We had told him before. We had sent Hermes the sharp-sighted, the slayer of Argos, telling him not to kill the man or woo his wife: there would be vengeance from Orestes for the son of Atreus, when Orestes reached manhood and felt the desire for his own country. That is what Hermes said, but his good advice did not sway Aigisthos’ mind. And now Aigisthos has paid it all in full.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene answered him: ‘Son of Kronos, our father, highest of the mighty – yes, there lies a man whose death was well deserved. So may others die who do such things! But it is the good Odysseus who grieves my heart – forlorn and far from friends, for long now he has been suffering misery on an island ringed by water, the very navel of the sea. It is a wooded island, and a goddess has her home there, the daughter of Atlas, that grim god who knows the depths of all the sea and holds the huge pillars which keep earth and sky apart. It is his daughter who keeps the poor man pining there, and always with her soft insidious words she tries to charm him, to make him forget Ithaka – but Odysseus is ready to die if only he could see the mere smoke of his country rising up from his own land. So does your heart, Olympian, even so have no concern for him? So did not Odysseus do your liking with the sacrifice he made you beside the Argives’ ships, in the broad land of Troy? So why, Zeus, are you so at odds and issue with Odysseus?’1 Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: ‘My child, what is this you have let slip the guard of your teeth? How for all this could I forget godlike Odysseus, the man who is beyond all other mortal men in power of mind, and beyond all others has offered sacrifices to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven? But Poseidon the encircler of the earth is stubborn in his anger for the Cyclops, whose eye Odysseus blinded – godlike Polyphemos, strongest of all the Cyclopes: he was born to the nymph Thoösa, daughter of Phorkys, lord of the harvestless sea, after she lay with Poseidon in her hollow cave. From that time on Poseidon the earthshaker has harried Odysseus: he will not kill him, but keeps him far away from his native land. But come, all of us here should think of a way to bring him home. Poseidon will drop his anger: he will not be able to fight alone against the will of the immortal gods.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene answered him: ‘Son of Kronos, our father, highest of the mighty – if this is now indeed the pleasure of the blessed

1 Word-play on the supposed etymology of the name Odysseus, as again in 19.407–9.

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gods, that resourceful Odysseus should return to his own home, then let us send Hermes the guide, the slayer of Argos, to go to the island of Ogygia and tell the lovely-haired nymph without delay of our infallible decree, that enduring Odysseus must start on his journey home. And I myself shall go to Ithaka, to urge on his son, and put courage in his heart to call the longhaired Achaians to assembly, and speak out to all the suitors, who every day are slaughtering his crowded sheep and shambling twist-horned cattle. And I shall send him to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to ask for any news he may hear of his dear father’s return, and to win good repute among men.’ So speaking she bound under her feet the beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, which carried her over water and limitless earth alike, fast as the wind’s blowing. She took up her strong spear, sharp-edged with pointed bronze, the huge, heavy, massive spear with which she brings low the ranks of men, the heroes who stir the mighty-fathered goddess into anger. She went darting down from the peaks of Olympos and alighted in the land of Ithaka, in the gateway of Odysseus’ house, at the entrance to the courtyard. She held the bronze spear in her hand, and had taken the form of a stranger, Mentes, the leader of the Taphians. She found the proud suitors there. They were in front of the doors delighting their hearts with games of backgammon, sitting on the skins of cattle which they had slaughtered for themselves. Heralds and servants were busy for them: some mixed wine and water in the bowls, some wiped the tables with porous sponges and set them out, and others carved great quantities of meat. Godlike Telemachos was far the first to see her. He was sitting among the suitors with pain in his heart, thinking thoughts of his noble father, how he might come from somewhere and send those suitors scattering up and down the house, take back his royal honour, and be lord of his own property. Such were his thoughts as he sat with the suitors: and then he saw Athene. He went straight to the gateway, his heart indignant that a stranger should stand long at the doors. He came up to her, and held her right hand, and took the bronze spear from her, and spoke to her with winged words: ‘Welcome, stranger: you will be be well received at our house. And then when you have had food you can tell us what your need is.’ So speaking he led her in, and Pallas Athene followed. Then when they were inside the high house, he carried her spear and stood it against a tall pillar, in a polished spear-stand, where there already stood many spears that belonged to enduring Odysseus. Then he led her to her seat in a chair, spreading a cloth for her to sit on – a beautiful, finely-worked chair, with a footstool underneath. For himself he drew up a decorated bench beside her, well away from the suitors, so that his guest should not be disturbed by the rumpus of this insolent company, and so lose her pleasure in the feast: and

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also he wanted to question her about his absent father. A maid brought water in a beautiful golden jug and poured it out over a silver basin, for them to wash their hands: and she set a polished table beside them. The honoured housekeeper brought bread and placed it before them, and served them many kinds of food, generous with her store. And the carver carried plates of various meats to place before them, and put golden cups beside them: and a herald went constantly to and fro to serve them wine. Then the proud suitors came in, and took their seats in order on the chairs and benches. The heralds poured water over their hands, the servingwomen piled bread in baskets beside them, and the young men filled the mixing-bowls to the brim with wine. Then the suitors put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, their thoughts turned to other concerns, to song and dancing: such are the ornaments of a feast. A herald placed his beautiful lyre in the hands of Phemios, who used to sing for the suitors because they made him sing. He then struck up on his lyre to sing a fine song, but Telemachos spoke to bright-eyed Athene, holding his head close to her, so the others should not hear: ‘Dear guest, will you perhaps take offence at what I say? These men here have the concerns you see, the lyre and song – easy enough for them, since they are consuming another man’s substance with no redress: a man whose white bones may now be rotting in the rain where they lie in some land or tossed in the waves of the sea. If only they were to see that man returned to Ithaka – then they would all be praying for speed of foot rather than more wealth in gold and clothing. But now, as I say, he has died a miserable death, and there is no comfort for us, even if some man from somewhere on earth does tell us that he will come home: the day of his return is gone. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. Who are you and where are you from? Where is your town and your parents? What sort of ship did you come on? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaka, and who did they say they were? – since I imagine you did not come here on foot! And tell me this truly too – I want to know. Is this your first time here, or are you rather a guest-friend from my father’s time? There were many before who used to come to our house, as he himself travelled much among men.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘So then I will tell you all that you ask in clear truth. I am Mentes, proud to claim wise Anchialos as my father, and I am king of the Taphians, skilled oarsmen. And so, as you see, I have come here now with my ship and my companions, on a voyage over the sparkling sea to foreign peoples. I am bound for Temese in search of copper, and I carry a cargo of gleaming iron. My ship is here, but outside the town, moored by the open country, in the harbour of Rheithron under wooded

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Neïon. We can claim ourselves family guest-friends from of old – you can go and ask the old man, the hero Laertes. They say he does not come to the town now, but leads a hard life out there on his farm, with an old woman as maid, who serves him his food and drink when weariness comes over his limbs with dragging his steps along the crown of his garden vineyard. So now I have come. They said that he was here at home – your father. But the gods must be blighting his journey. Because godlike Odysseus is not yet dead on the earth – no, he is alive still, and kept somewhere in the wide sea, on some island ringed by water where cruel men have him captive, wild men who must be keeping him there against his will. And now I will make you a prophecy, the way the immortal gods have put it in my mind and the way I think it will be, though I am no prophet or skilled augur. I tell you he will not now be long away from his native land, even if they are iron chains that keep him. He will work out a way of return, because he is a man of much resource. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth – grown boy that you are, are you Odysseus’ own son? Certainly your head and fine eyes are wonderfully like him – we saw ever so much of each other before he embarked for Troy, where the other leading Argives went too in their hollow ships. Since that time I have not seen Odysseus nor he me.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Friend, I will tell you what you ask in clear truth. Yes, my mother says that I am his son, but I do not know for myself – nobody yet knew his own birth. So now I wish I were the son of some fortunate man, reaching old age in enjoyment of his property. But as it is, the most ill-fated of mortal men is the man they say is my father – since that is what you ask me.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘Well, I tell you yours is a line the gods have not made inglorious for the future, seeing that Penelope gave birth to such a fine son as you. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. What sort of feast is this, what is this gathering here? What is your part in it? Banquet or wedding? This is no club meal for sure – they seem an insolent unmannered lot dining in your house. Any sensible man joining them would be angry to see all this gross behaviour.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Friend, since you ask me these things now and enquire closely – once I am sure this house was rich and strong, when that man was still at home. But now the gods have willed otherwise in their mischief. They have made him vanish from sight like no other man. If he had simply died I would not feel such grief – if he had been brought down among his companions in the land of Troy, or died in the arms of his family once the thread of war was spun. Then all the Achaians together would have made him a funeral mound, and he would have won great glory for his son as well thereafter. But now the storm-winds have

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snatched him away in obscurity. He is gone beyond sight, beyond knowledge: and my legacy is pain and tears. And now it is not only him I have to grieve and weep for, because now the gods have created other hateful troubles for me. All the leading men who have power in the islands, in Doulichion and Same and wooded Zakynthos, and all who are princes in rocky Ithaka, all these are suitors for my mother’s hand, and they are wasting our house. She can neither refuse the marriage she hates, nor bring it to an issue: and they are wasting away my substance with their eating. Soon enough they will tear me apart myself.’ Pallas Athene answered him in indignation: ‘Oh, you surely have a great need for the absent Odysseus, to lay his hands on these shameless suitors! If only he were to come now and take his stand at the entrance door of his house, with helmet and shield and pair of spears, the man he was when I first saw him in our house, drinking wine and at his ease. He was coming back from Ephyre, from visiting Ilos son of Mermeros. Odysseus had gone there in his fast ship in search of a lethal poison, for smearing on his bronzetipped arrows. Ilos did not give it him, for fear of the ever-living gods: but my own father did give it to him – he had an abounding love for him. If only Odysseus, the man he was then, could meet these suitors! They would all find a grim marriage and a quick death. But these things lie in the lap of the gods, whether he will return, or not, and take his vengeance in his own house. But I urge you to think of a way of driving the suitors out from the house. So come now, listen and heed well what I say. Tomorrow you should call the Achaian leaders to assembly, and make your statement to them all, with the gods your witnesses. Tell the suitors to disperse to their own property. For your mother, if her heart is set on marriage, let her go back to the house of her father, a man of great power: and her family will prepare the wedding and get ready all the many gifts that should go with a loved daughter. As for yourself, I shall give you sound advice for you to follow. Fit out the best ship you have with twenty oars, and set off to enquire about your longabsent father. Some mortal man may tell you of him, or you may hear some rumour sent by Zeus – and rumour brings most of the news that men hear. Go first to Pylos and question godlike Nestor, and then go on to Sparta, to fair-haired Menelaos – he was the last of the bronze-clad Achaians to come home. Now if you hear that your father is alive and will return, then you could bear your present troubles for another year. But if you hear that he has died and is no more, then travel back to your own dear native land, and pile a mound for him and pay him all the many funeral honours that are due, and give your mother to another husband. When you have completed this journey and done as I say, then you must consider in your mind and heart a way to kill the suitors in your house,

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whether by cunning or in open fight. You should not keep on with the ways of a child – you are past that age now. Or have you not heard of the glory that godlike Orestes won among all men, when he killed his father’s killer, treacherous Aigisthos, the man who murdered his famous father? So you too, my friend – and I can see that you are so fine and tall – you must be brave too, so that people will speak well of you, even in generations yet to be born. Well, I shall go back now to my fast ship and my companions, who must be restless with waiting for me. All this is your own task: heed well what I say.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Friend, all that you say is said in kindness, like a father to his son, and I shall never forget your words. But come now, stay longer, eager though you are to be on your way – so you can first bathe and enjoy your heart’s ease, and then go back to your ship with a gift to delight your heart. It will be something precious and beautiful, a treasure from me for you to store – such are the gifts of friendship which hosts and guests exchange.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene answered him: ‘Do not keep me any longer now, as I am keen to be on my way. As for the gift which your heart urges you to give me, give it on my way back here, for me to take home with me. Do indeed choose something beautiful – it will win you a return.’ So speaking bright-eyed Athene left him, and in the shape of a bird flew up through the roof-vent. And she put strength and courage in his heart, and brought him in mind yet more than ever of his father. He felt it in his heart and was full of wonder – he recognised that this was a god. And then straightaway he went to join the suitors, a man like the gods. There the famous bard was singing for them, and they sat in silence, listening. He sang of the homecoming of the Achaians, the painful return which Pallas Athene had laid on them from Troy. Now from upstairs the daughter of Ikarios, good Penelope, had heard his divine song. And she came down by the high staircase from her room – not alone, but two maids went with her. When Penelope, queen among women, had reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar that held the strong-built roof, holding her shining veil across her cheeks, and a loyal maid stood on either side of her. Then she broke in tears and spoke to the divine bard: ‘Phemios, you know many other ways to charm men’s ears  – deeds of men and gods that poets celebrate. Sing one of these to the suitors here, and they can drink their wine in silence as they listen. But stop this painful song, which always grieves the heart in my breast, because I more than any have been touched by lasting sorrow. Such is the husband I have lost and long for, whose dear head is always in my memory – a man whose fame has spread wide throughout Hellas and the heart of Argos.’

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Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Mother, why is it that you grudge the loyal bard his pleasing us as the mind takes him? The blame is not with bards: the blame must be with Zeus, who gives their fortune to all men who eat bread on earth, to each of them as he will. No cause for anger, then, if this man sings of the Danaans’ miserable fate. Men always praise most the song which comes freshest to their ears. So your heart and mind must bear to listen. Odysseus was not the only one to lose the day of his return in Troy: many other men died there also. No, go back to your room and see to your own work, the loom and the distaff, and tell your maids to set about their tasks. Talk will be the men’s concern, all of them, but mine above all: mine is the power in this house.’ She then turned back towards her room, full of wonder: she had laid to heart these words of authority from her son. She climbed with her maids to the upper floor, and then began weeping for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athene cast sweet sleep over her eyelids. Meanwhile the suitors broke out in clamour throughout the shadowy hall, all voicing at once their hopes to lie beside Penelope in her bed. Then Telemachos, good man of sense, began to speak to them: ‘You, my mother’s suitors, so full of outrage and insolence, listen! For now let us enjoy the feast, and no more shouting, since it is a fine thing to hear a bard such as this one is, with a voice like the gods. But in the morning let us all go and sit in the assembly-place, so I can give you my message outright and tell you bluntly to leave my house – find your meals elsewhere, eat your own possessions, take turns from house to house. But if this seems to you a better and a finer thing, to destroy one man’s substance with no redress, then eat away. And I shall call on the ever-living gods, in the hope that Zeus may grant that you are done by as you do – then you would be destroyed in this house, and no redress.’ So he spoke, and they all bit hard on their lips, amazed at Telemachos and his bold speech. Then Antinoös, son of Eupeithes, answered him: ‘Telemachos, the gods themselves must be teaching you now to talk big and make bold speeches. I hope the son of Kronos never makes you our king in sea-ringed Ithaka, though it is yours by birth from your father.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Antinoös, you may think what I say presumptuous, but if Zeus grants it, yes, I would gladly take up that right. Do you think this is the worst thing there is among men? No, it is no bad thing to be a king: wealth comes quickly for the house and greater honour for the man. But there are many other Achaian princes in sea-ringed Ithaka, young and old, and one of them is welcome to succeed, now that godlike Odysseus is dead. But I myself will be lord over my own house and the servants whom godlike Odysseus won for me in war.’

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Then Eurymachos, son of Polybos, answered him: ‘Telemachos, these things lie in the lap of the gods – which of the Achaians it is who will be king in sea-ringed Ithaka. But you I hope will certainly keep your own possessions and be lord in your house – may there never come the man to force his will against yours and dash you out of your possessions, as long as Ithaka has people in her. But now, my friend, I want to ask you about your guest. Where is this man from, what country does he claim his own, where is his family and his fathers’ land? Does he bring some news of your father on his way home, or is he come here pursuing some business of his own? Strange how he leapt up and was suddenly gone, and did not wait to be known – he was certainly no commoner, to judge by his looks.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Eurymachos, there is no home-coming for my father – that is gone. I no longer believe any news that comes in: I pay no attention to any prophecy, when my mother calls a prophet to the house and questions him. No, this man is a guest-friend from my father’s time. He is Mentes from Taphos, proud to claim wise Anchialos as his father, and he is king of the Taphians, skilled oarsmen.’ So spoke Telemachos, though in his heart he knew it was the immortal goddess. The suitors now turned to pleasure in dancing and delightful song, and waited for the evening to come on. And they were still taking their pleasure when the dark evening came: then they went home to sleep, each to his own house. Telemachos went to where his own high room was built in the fine courtyard, in a sheltered spot. There he went to his bed, turning over many thoughts in his mind. With him, carrying burning torches to light his way, there went the loyal-hearted Eurykleia, the daughter of Ops, son of Peisenor. Laertes had bought her long ago with his own possessions, when she was still in her first youth, and he had given the worth of twenty oxen for her: he honoured her in his house as much as his own loved wife, but he never slept with her, to avoid his wife’s anger. It was she then who carried the burning torches for Telemachos. Of all the serving-women she loved him the most, and had been his nurse when he was small. He opened the doors of the strong-built bedroom, and sat down on the bed and took off his soft tunic, and put it in the hands of the wise old woman. She folded the tunic and smoothed it, and hung it on a hook beside the fretted bed. Then she went out of the bedroom, pulled the door shut by the silver handle, and drew the bolt home by its strap. And there all night long, wrapped in woollen blankets, Telemachos pondered in his mind the journey advised by Athene.

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When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, the dear son of Odysseus got up from his bed, and put on his clothes: he slung a sharp sword from his shoulder, and bound his fine sandals under his shining feet. Then he went out of his room, like a god to look at. Immediately he gave orders to the clear-voiced heralds to summon the long-haired Achaians to assembly. The heralds made their summons, and the people quickly gathered. When they were all gathered together in one place, Telemachos set out for the assembly, holding a bronze spear in his hand – not alone, but two quick dogs went with him. Athene shed miraculous beauty over him, and all the people gazed in admiration as he approached. He sat down in his father’s seat, and the elders made way for him. Then the hero Aigyptios began to speak to the assembly. He was now bent with age and had countless experience. A dear son of his, the spearman Antiphos, had gone with godlike Odysseus in the hollow ships to Ilios, the city rich in horses: but the savage Cyclops had killed him in his hollow cave, the last of the men he made his supper. He had three other sons. One of them, Eurynomos, kept company with the suitors, and the other two looked after the family farmlands all the time. But even so he did not forget that first son, grieving and mourning for him. With tears falling for his son he now spoke and addressed the company: ‘Listen now, men of Ithaka, to what I say. There has never been a meeting of our assembly or any other session since godlike Odysseus left in the hollow ships. Who has gathered us now in this way? Who has felt the need so strong – was it one of the young men or one of the older among us? Has he heard report of an army approaching? Can he give us clear news, as the first to hear of it? Or is there some other public matter he has to disclose and explain? This must be a good man, I think, a blessing. May Zeus fulfil to his own good whatever his mind desires.’ So he spoke, and the dear son of Odysseus was glad for the omen of these words. He stayed seated no longer, but felt the urge to speak and stood

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out in the middle of the assembly. The herald Peisenor, a man of sense and experience, put the sceptre in his hand. And then he spoke, addressing the old man first: ‘Old man, the man you seek is not far to find: you will know him now. It was I who gathered the people – there is a concern which pains me greatly. No, I have heard no report of an army approaching, so there is no clear news for me to give you, as the first to hear of it, nor is there any other public matter I have to disclose and explain: but rather a business of my own, the trouble that has fallen on my house – no, two troubles. For one, I have lost my noble father, who was once king among you here, and was gentle as a father to you. And now a much greater trouble, which will soon be the total ruin of my entire house and destroy my whole substance. Suitors have beset my mother against her will, and they are the sons of those who are the greatest men here. They shrink from going to the house of her father Ikarios, for him to settle himself the marriage-gifts for his daughter, and give her to the man he chooses, the one who meets his favour. No, they keep coming to our house day after day, slaughtering cattle and sheep and fat goats, making their great feasts and drinking the gleaming wine with no regard: and our property is largely consumed. Because there is no man at home such as Odysseus was, to defend the house from ruin. We ourselves are not able to defend it – indeed we shall always be weaklings in this, with no skill for the fight. Though I would certainly resist, if I had the strength – because it is intolerable now what is being done, it is now a disgrace how my house is destroyed. You should resent it yourselves too: you should be ashamed before other men, our neighbours, those who live round us: you should fear the anger of the gods, who may turn against you in horror at this wickedness. I beseech you in the name of Olympian Zeus and of Themis, who calls and dissolves the assemblies of men. Leave off, my friends, let me alone to suffer my cruel sorrow – unless perhaps my noble father Odysseus was an enemy to the well-greaved Achaians and did them harm, and now in revenge you are my enemy and doing me harm, by encouraging these suitors. Better for me if it was you consuming my stored treasure and my cattle. If it was you eating them, then there would be recompense in time. We could go round the town and appeal directly for the return of our goods, until all was given back. But as it is you are giving my heart pain that has no redress.’ So he spoke in anger, and he threw the sceptre to the ground, with his tears welling up, and pity came over all the people. Then all the others stayed silent, and no one had the heart to answer Telemachos with hard words. Only Antinoös answered him and said:

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‘Telemachos, you loud mouth, you passionate fool, what is this you are saying? You speak to shame us, and try to bring criticism on us. But the cause of your trouble is not the Achaian suitors, but rather your own dear mother, who has exceptional cunning. It is now the third year, and soon will be the fourth, since she has been cheating the hearts of the Achaians in their breasts. She gives hope to us all, and makes promises to each man, sending him messages: but her mind is set on other things. And here is another trick she worked out in her mind. She set up a great web on the loom in her house and began to weave at it – a fine thread, and very wide. And then she said to us: “Young men, you who are my suitors now that godlike Odysseus is dead, you are eager for this marriage with me, but wait until I finish this robe, so that my weaving is not wasted in vain. It is a burial-shroud for the hero Laertes, for when the cruel fate of death’s long sorrow takes him – so that none of the Achaian women in the town should think wrong of me, that a man of many possessions should lie there without a shroud.” That is what she said, and our proud hearts believed her. Then in the day time she would weave away at the great web, but at nights she would undo the work, with torches set by the loom. So for three years her trick fooled and convinced the Achaians. But when the fourth year came and the seasons had progressed once more, then it was that one of her women, who knew the truth, told us about it, and we found her undoing the splendid web. So she was forced to finish it against her will. Now this is the answer the suitors give you – to make it clear in your own mind, and clear to all the Achaians. Send your mother away to her home, and tell her to marry whichever man her father decrees and she herself approves. But she must not continue to frustrate the sons of the Achaians for a great time longer, exploiting those gifts that Athene has granted her in abundance – skill in beautiful handcraft, and intelligence and cunning. We have never heard tell of the like even in the women of the past, those beautiful Achaian ladies of earlier times, Tyro and Alkmene and lovely-crowned Mykene: not one of these could match the mind of Penelope. Yet what she was minded this time was not fair. So the suitors will continue to consume your substance and possessions as long as she keeps this purpose which the gods are now putting in her heart. She is creating great glory for herself, but for you the loss of much substance. We shall not go to our own estates or anywhere else, until she is married to the Achaian of her choosing.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Antinoös, it is not possible for me to drive from the house, against her will, the mother who bore me, who brought me up. My father is away in another land, alive or dead. It would shame me to pay great recompense to Ikarios, if of my own free will I send my mother back to him. I shall have trouble from her father, and trouble

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too from the gods, since my mother will call down the curses of the hateful Erinyes as she leaves the house: and there will be resentment from men also. So I shall never give this command. If your own hearts are resentful, then leave my house – find your meals elsewhere, eat your own possessions, take turns from house to house. But if this seems to you a better and a finer thing, to destroy one man’s substance with no redress, then eat away. And I shall call on the ever-living gods, in the hope that you are done by as you do – then you would be destroyed in this house, and no redress.’ So spoke Telemachos, and wide-seeing Zeus sent for him a pair of eagles flying down from the height of a mountain peak. For a while they flew along the breath of the wind, their wings stretched and side by side. But when they came right above the numerous assembly, they wheeled round and shook their deep feathers, and swooped at the heads of all those there, foreboding death. Then tearing with their talons at their cheeks and necks they sped away to the right over the habitations of the town. The men watched the birds in astonishment, and wondered in their hearts what was destined to happen. Then the old man, the hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, spoke out to them. He surpassed all men of his generation in the knowledge of birds and the telling of their omens. In all good will he spoke and addressed the assembly: ‘Listen now, men of Ithaka, to what I say: and it is to the suitors most of all that my words have import. For them great disaster is rolling onward. Odysseus will not be much longer away from his family, but already now I think he is near, and sowing death and destruction for all these men – and this will be trouble for many of the rest of us who live in clear-set Ithaka. No, before that let us think how to stop them – or rather let them stop themselves: that will all the sooner be the better for them. I speak as no inexperienced prophet, but in full knowledge. For Odysseus too, I tell you, all is being fulfilled as I declared to him, when the Argives were embarking for Ilios and resourceful Odysseus went with them. I said that after much suffering he would come home in the twentieth year, with all his companions lost, and recognised by none. All this is now coming to pass.’ Then Eurymachos, son of Polybos, answered him: ‘Look now, old man – go home and do your prophesying to your own children: save them from disasters to come. As for interpreting these signs, I am a far better prophet than you. There are many birds going to and fro in the light of the sun – not all of them have meaning. No, Odysseus is dead and far away – and I wish you had perished with him! Then there would not be all this soothsaying, with you playing up to Telemachos’ anger, in the hope that there will be a gift from him for your household. Well, I tell you this, and it will certainly be done as I say. If you, with all the knowledge of old age,

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work your persuasion to incite a younger man to grievance, then firstly there will be all the more trouble for him: and as for you, old man, we shall impose a fine on you which it will grieve your heart to pay  – there will be pain and anguish for you. For Telemachos I shall give my own advice before you all. He should tell his mother to go back to her father’s house: and her family will prepare the wedding and get ready all the many gifts that should go with a loved daughter. Before that, I do not think the sons of the Achaians will cease to burden her with their wooing, since we fear no man in any case, and not Telemachos either, for all his long speeches: and we have no regard for your prophecy, old man – you speak it emptily, and we reject you the more. The goods of the house will be consumed to its loss – never to be what they were – as long as she wears out the Achaians with delay to her marriage. Meanwhile we wait there every day, vying for this women’s excellence, and not seeking the other wives which each of us could marry.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Eurymachos, and all you other proud suitors, on this matter I make no further appeals or speeches to you – now the gods know all, and all the Achaians know. But give me now a fast ship and twenty companions, to take me on my voyage out and back. I am going to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to enquire about the return of my long-absent father. Some mortal man may tell me of him, or I may hear some rumour sent by Zeus – and rumour brings most of the news that men hear. If I hear that my father is alive and will return, then I could bear my present troubles for another year. But if I hear that he has died and is no more, than I shall travel back to my own dear native land, and pile a mound for him and pay him all the many funeral honours that are due, and give my mother to another husband.’ So speaking Telemachos sat down. Then there stood up Mentor, who had been a companion of the noble Odysseus, and when Odysseus left in his ships he had entrusted his whole household to the direction of the old man, for him to keep all safe. In all good will Mentor now spoke and addressed the assembly: ‘Listen now, men of Ithaka, to what I say. Let no sceptred king in future seek to be kind and gentle, or set his mind on justice – no, let them cleave for ever to cruelty and violence – since not one of the people he used to rule remembers godlike Odysseus, who was gentle as a father to them. I am not complaining now at the acts of plunder which the proud suitors commit in the mischief of their minds – they are risking their own heads in plundering the house of Odysseus, thinking that he will not return. No, my anger now is with the rest of the people, the way you all sit there in silence. You are many, and the suitors are few: yet you do not criticise them or stop them.’

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Then Leokritos, son of Euenor, answered him: ‘Mentor, you pest, crazed fool, what are you saying, urging them to stop us? It is hard to fight men just over a meal, against greater numbers as well. Even if Odysseus of Ithaka himself were to come on us proud suitors feasting in his hall and try to drive us out of the house, his wife would have no joy at his return, for all her longing, but he would meet a shameful fate there and then, if he fought against greater numbers. What you say is nonsense. No, let the people disperse now, each to his own homestead, and Telemachos can be sped on his way by Mentor and Halitherses, friends of his father from the beginning. Yet I rather think he will be sitting here long, gathering his news here in Ithaka – he will never make the journey he intends.’ So he spoke, and his words quickly broke up the assembly. The people dispersed each to his own home, and the suitors went back to the house of godlike Odysseus. But Telemachos went apart, down to the sea-shore. He washed his hands in the grey salt water, and prayed to Athene: ‘Hear me, you god who came yesterday to our house. You told me to go in a ship over the hazy sea to enquire about the return of my long-absent father. But all is being blocked by the Achaians – by the suitors most of all, with their insulting arrogance.’ So he spoke in prayer, and Athene came near to him, taking the form and voice of Mentor, and spoke to him with winged words: ‘Telemachos, in the future you will be no coward or fool, if indeed your father’s brave strength has been instilled in you, the way he was to succeed in both word and action. Then this journey of yours will not be fruitless or fail of success. But if you are not the true son of Odysseus and Penelope, then I doubt that you will achieve your desires. Few follow father’s form – most sons are worse, few better than their fathers. But since in the future you will be no coward or fool, and the resource of Odysseus has not entirely deserted you, yes, there is hope that you will succeed in this business. So for now forget the suitors’ plans and ideas – they are mad, they have no sense or scruple. They know nothing of the death and black doom which is now close on them – all to be killed in one day. The journey you intend will not be long delayed now. Such is the help I shall give you as your father’s friend: I shall fit you a fast ship and go with you myself. Now you go back to the house and join the suitors. Get ready provisions and pack them all in containers, jars for the wine and strong skins for the grain which makes the marrow of men. I shall go through the town and quickly gather volunteers for the crew. There are many ships in sea-ringed Ithaka, new and old. I shall look out the best of these, and we can quickly fit her out and launch her on the broad sea.’ So spoke Athene, the daughter of Zeus: and Telemachos did not stay there long, once he had heard the voice of the god. He set off for his home, anxious

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at heart, and found the proud suitors there in the house, skinning goats and singeing fatted hogs in the yard. Antinoös made straight for Telemachos with a laugh, and took his hand and spoke to him: ‘Telemachos, you loud-mouth, you passionate fool, no more thoughts now of hard words or deeds, but let me see you eating and drinking, as before. All this business the Achaians will settle for you – a ship and a picked crew of rowers to speed your journey to holy Pylos after news of your noble father.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Antinoös, it is not possible for me to eat uncomplainingly with you insolent men and take my pleasure at peace. Is it not enough that before now you suitors were robbing me of much fine property, while I was still a child? But now that I am grown up, and know the story from listening to others, and indeed feel my own anger swelling within me, I shall do my best to bring the grim fates of death on you, whether I go to Pylos or stay here in this country. And I shall go – there is no stopping this journey I speak of – but as a passenger, since I am not able to have a ship and rowers of my own: this you doubtless thought was best for you.’ So he spoke, and coldly snatched his hand from Antinoös’. The suitors were busy preparing their meal in the house, and they began to scoff and jeer at him. And this is what one of the arrogant young men would say: ‘Oh, Telemachos is planning our death! He will bring back some champions from sandy Pylos to fight for him, or even from Sparta, so terribly keen he is. Or it may be he wants to go to the rich ploughland of Ephyre, to get there some deadly poison, then put it in our wine-bowl and do away with us all!’ And then another arrogant young man would say: ‘Who knows? If he sets off in a hollow ship he too may get lost and perish far from his friends like Odysseus. And that would mean even more trouble for us – we would have to divide all his property among ourselves, and then give his house to his mother and the man who marries her.’ So they spoke. But Telemachos went down to his father’s high-roofed store-room, a broad chamber where there lay piles of gold and bronze, and clothing in chests and plenty of sweet-smelling oil: and jars of old sweet wine stood there, close-packed along the wall, holding inside them a pure miraculous drink, for when Odysseus might return home again after all his pain. There were locked doors to the room, double doors fitting tightly together: and night and day a housekeeper was about, keeping charge of everything with the depth of her experience – she was Eurykleia, daughter of Ops the son of Peisenor. Telemachos now called her to the store-room and spoke to her: ‘Nurse, draw me off some sweet wine in flagons, the mellowest you have after that which you are keeping in expectation of your ill-fated master, in the hope that royal Odysseus may escape death and doom and

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come home from wherever he may be. Fill twelve flagons and fit them all with stoppers. And pour me some groats into well-stitched skins – let me have twenty measures of the mill-crushed grain. You must be the only one to know of this. Get all these things ready together: I shall collect them in the evening, when my mother goes up to her room and thinks of sleep. I am going to Sparta and to sandy Pylos, to ask for any news I may hear of my dear father’s return.’ So he spoke, and his dear nurse Eurykleia gave a shriek, and in tears spoke winged words to him: ‘Why, dear child, did you get this thought in your mind? How can you want to go travelling over the wide world, when you are a beloved only son? And royal Odysseus is perished in a foreign land, far from his country. As soon as you go, they will be planning harm for you in the future – to lure you to your death, and divide all this among themselves. No, stay here and sit on what is yours. You have no need to go wandering and suffering over the harvestless sea.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Do not worry, nurse, there is a god’s work in this plan. But you must swear that you will not tell my dear mother of it until the eleventh or twelfth day, or until she herself misses me and hears that I am gone – so she does not spoil her lovely face with weeping.’ So he spoke, and the old woman swore a great oath by the gods. When she had sworn and completed her oath, she immediately then set about drawing off the wine for him in flagons and pouring the groats into well-stitched skins: and Telemachos went back to the hall and joined the suitors. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene thought of one more plan. In the likeness of Telemachos she went all through the town, coming up to the men one by one and explaining the need: she told them to gather at the fast ship in the evening. The ship itself she begged from Noëmon, the glorious son of Phronios, and he gladly promised it. Now the sun set and all the paths grew dark. And then Athene pulled the fast ship down to the water, and stowed in it all the tackle that good ships carry. She moored it at the far end of the harbour, and the brave company gathered there all together: and the goddess encouraged each one of them. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene thought of one more plan, and she set off for the house of godlike Odysseus. There she shed sweet drowsiness over the suitors, dazing them as they drank and making the cups drop from their hands. So they sat there no longer, but left to go to bed in the town, since sleep was falling on their eyelids. But Athene, taking the form and voice of Mentor, called Telemachos out of the pleasant house and said to him: ‘Telemachos, your well-greaved companions are sitting already at their oars,

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waiting for the command from you. So let us go, and not delay the journey any longer.’ So speaking Pallas Athene led the way quickly, and he followed the footsteps of the god. When they came to the ship and the sea, they found their long-haired companions there on the beach, and strong Telemachos spoke to them: ‘Come, friends, let us bring the provisions – they are all gathered ready in the house. My mother knows nothing of this, nor do the serving-women, except for one only who has heard my plans.’ So speaking he led the way, and they followed after him. So they brought all the stores and stowed them in the well-benched ship, as directed by the dear son of Odysseus. And Telemachos went on board the ship, with Athene leading him: she took her seat in the stern of the ship, and Telemachos sat beside her. The men cast off the stern-cables, then boarded themselves and sat by the rowlocks. And bright-eyed Athene sent a favouring breeze to speed them, a fresh west wind singing over the sparkling sea. Telemachos then ordered his companions to set to the rigging, and they followed his command. They raised the pine mast and set it in the hollow mast-box, then made it fast with forestays and hoisted the white sails with well-twisted ropes of oxhide. The wind swelled the belly of the sail, and the wave rising at the keel’s stem hissed loud as the ship moved on: and she ran ever onwards, cutting her path through the swell. The men secured the tackle throughout the fast black ship, then set up mixing-bowls brim-full with wine and poured libations to the immortal ever-living gods, and above all to the bright-eyed daughter of Zeus. And all night long and through the dawn the ship kept piercing her way.

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Now the sun left the lovely stream of Ocean and leapt up into the brazen sky, to bring light to the immortals and to mortal men over the grain-giving earth. And they reached Pylos, the well-founded city of Neleus. The men of Pylos were on the sea-shore, making sacrifice of all-black bulls to the dark-haired Earthshaker. There were nine companies, with five hundred men sitting in each, and nine bulls in front of every company. They had just tasted the innards, and were burning the thigh-bones for the god, when the ship put straight in to land. The crew furled the sail of the balanced ship, brailing it up, then moored her and came on shore. And Telemachos came on shore also, with Athene leading him. The bright-eyed goddess Athene was the first to speak: ‘Telemachos, there is no need for shyness now, not even in the slightest. That is why you have sailed over the sea, to find out about your father  –  where the earth has covered him, what fate he has met. So come now, you must go straight to Nestor the tamer of horses. Let us learn what knowledge he has hidden in his heart. You yourself must beg him to tell you the truth: but he will not lie to you – he is a man of great wisdom.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Mentor, how am I to go up to him, how am I to greet him? I am not yet experienced in fitting words, and a young man is shy to question his senior.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘Telemachos, some of what to say you will think of yourself in your own mind: the rest a god will inspire. There was no lack of gods’ favour, I think, in your birth and breeding.’ So speaking Pallas Athene led the way quickly, and he followed in the footsteps of the god. And they came to the assembled companies of the men of Pylos, where Nestor was sitting with his sons, and round them their companions were roasting meat and threading more on spits in preparation of the feast. Now when they saw strangers, they all came out in a body to meet them, and welcomed them with handshakes and invited them to sit down. The first to reach them was Nestor’s son Peisistratos: he took them

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both by the hand and sat them by the feast on soft fleeces spread on the sand of the shore, beside his brother Thrasymedes and his father. He gave them portions of the innards, and poured wine for them in a golden cup, and spoke in welcome to Pallas Athene, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis: ‘Make your prayer now, stranger, to lord Poseidon: this is a feast in his honour that you have met on your coming here. Then when you have made your libation and prayer, as is the proper way, give this man too the cup of honey-sweet wine for him to pour his libation – I am sure that he too prays to the immortals: all men are in need of the gods. But he is younger, of an age with myself, and so it is to you first that I give this golden goblet.’ So speaking he put the cup of sweet wine in her hand, and Athene was delighted at the good sense and right thinking of the man, that he gave the golden goblet to her first. Then at once she prayed long to lord Poseidon: ‘Hear me, Poseidon encircler of the earth, and do not withhold from us as we pray the accomplishment of these our desires. To Nestor first of all and his sons grant glory, and then to all the other men of Pylos give pleasing recompense for this splendid sacrifice. And grant further that Telemachos and I may return home with all achieved for which we came here in our fast black ship.’ Such was her prayer, and she herself was bringing it all to fulfilment. Then she gave the lovely two-handled cup to Telemachos, and the dear son of Odysseus made his prayer likewise. When the men of Pylos had roasted the outer flesh and drawn it off the spits, they divided the portions and began the glorious feast. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, the Gerenian horseman Nestor was the first to speak: ‘It is a better time now to question these strangers and ask them who they are, now that they have enjoyed the pleasure of food. Friends, who are you? Where have you come from, sailing over the paths of the water? Is this a trading voyage, or are you wandering the sea at random like pirates, who roam about risking their lives and bringing ruin to men of other countries?’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, took courage and answered him. Athene herself had put courage in his heart, to ask about his absent father, and to win good repute among men: ‘Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaians, you ask where we are from. I will tell you all. We have come from Ithaka, that lies under Mount Neïon. Our business, which I will tell you, is a private one for myself, not for the town. I am in search of any news of my father that may have spread abroad – the godlike enduring Odysseus, who they say once fought alongside you and sacked the city of Troy. As for all the others who fought against the Trojans, we have heard where each met his miserable death. But with Odysseus, Zeus has put even his death out of men’s hearing. No one can tell us for sure where he died, whether he was

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brought down by enemies on dry land or perished in the sea amid the waves of Amphitrite. So that is why I have come to beg at your knees, hoping that you will tell me of my father’s miserable death, if perhaps you saw it with your own eyes, or have heard talk from others of his wanderings – for his mother bore him to misery, more than any man. And do not soften what you say out of pity or to spare my feelings, but tell me in all detail how you met sight of him. I beg you, if there was ever word or deed that my father, noble Odysseus, pledged and performed for you in the land of Troy, where you Achaians suffered such pain – remember this now, and tell me the truth.’ Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him: ‘Friend, you have brought to my mind the misery which we sons of the Achaians endured in that land in our unyielding urge for battle – all the roaming in our ships for plunder over the hazy sea, wherever Achilleus led us, and all our fighting round the great city of lord Priam. And there all the greatest men were killed. There lies Aias the warrior, there Achilleus, there Patroklos, the gods’ equal in wisdom: and there lies my own dear son, so strong and noble  – Antilochos, who was outstanding in speed of foot and as a fighter. And there were many more disasters than these that we suffered – what mortal man could tell them all? If you were to stay here questioning for five years, or six years, asking the story of all the disasters the godlike Achaians suffered there – no, you would weary before then and go back to your own native land. It was nine years that we worked hard, with every kind of ploy, to bring about their downfall, and when the son of Kronos gave us fulfilment it was at great cost. At Troy there was never anyone who would claim to match the resource of Odysseus: he was the best by far in every kind of cunning – your father, if truly you are his son. Indeed I am filled with wonder as I look on you – your speech is just like his, and you would never think that a young man could sound so much like him. In all the time there I and godlike Odysseus never spoke at variance in either assembly or council. No, we two were of one mind, thinking and planning carefully to make the outcome the very best for the Argives. But when we had sacked Priam’s high city and set off in our ships, god scattered the Achaian fleet. When they sailed Zeus was planning in his mind a miserable homecoming for the Argives, because they had not all shown proper sense or scruple. And so many of them met a wretched fate, through the cruel anger of the bright-eyed goddess of the mighty father, who had set a quarrel between the two sons of Atreus. They had called all the Achaians to an assembly, calling it rashly and quite out of order to meet at sunset, and the sons of the Achaians came heavy with wine. The two brothers explained the reason why they had gathered the people. Then Menelaos urged all the

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Achaians to think of their return home over the sea’s broad back, but this was not at all to Agamemnon’s liking. He wanted to keep the army there and make full and holy offerings in sacrifice to appease this terrible anger of Athene – the fool, he did not realise that she would not be swayed: the mind of the gods who live for ever is not quickly turned. So those two stood there arguing with hard words: and the well-greaved Achaians leapt to their feet with a tremendous clamour, their support divided between the two plans. We spent that night brooding hard thoughts against each other: for Zeus was devising pain and trouble for us. In the morning some of us began to drag our ships into the holy sea, and load in them our possessions and the deep-girdled women we had won. Half of the men held back and stayed where they were with Agamemnon son of Atreus, shepherd of the people: but half of us boarded and set out. The ships sailed fast, as god had smoothed the great belly of the sea. When we reached Tenedos we sacrificed offerings to the gods, eager for home. But Zeus was not yet planning our return: cruel god, he started a wretched quarrel among us for the second time. One party turned their balanced ships round and went back, making peace once more with Agamemnon son of Atreus – these were the men with the resourceful warrior lord Odysseus. But I myself fled on for home with the whole fleet of ships that had followed with me, because I could see that god was planning disaster. And Diomedes fled too, the warrior son of Tydeus, and urged his companions likewise. And later fair-haired Menelaos followed after us and came up with us in Lesbos, where we were debating the long sea-journey – whether we should go north of rocky Chios, hard by the island of Psyra, keeping it on our left, or south of Chios, past windy Mimas. We kept asking god to show us a sign – and he did so, telling us to cut right across the open sea to Euboia, the sooner to escape disaster. And a piping wind blew up to favour us: the ships ran quickly before it over the fish-filled ways, and put into Geraistos in the night. We sacrificed to Poseidon, piling the thigh-bones of many bulls on his altar, in thanks for our crossing of that great expanse of sea. It was the fourth day when the companions of Diomedes the tamer of horses, the son of Tydeus, moored their balanced ships in Argos: but I held on for Pylos, and the following wind never dropped from the time when the god first sent it blowing. So, dear child, I came home in that way without news, and I know nothing of the others, which of the Achaians were saved and which perished. As for what I have heard sitting here in my own house, you shall know it all, as is right – I shall not hide anything from you. They say that the Myrmidon spearmen reached home safely, led by the glorious son of great-hearted Achilleus: safe too is Philoktetes, the excellent son of Poias. Idomeneus brought all his companions back to Crete, all those who had survived

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the war, and the sea took none from him. As for the son of Atreus, you yourselves will have heard, though you live far away, how he came home and how Aigisthos contrived his miserable death. But I tell you he paid a terrible price – how good it is for a son to be left when a man is killed! Since that son, Orestes, took vengeance on his father’s killer, treacherous Aigisthos, the man who murdered his famous father. So you too, my friend – and I can see that you are so fine and tall – you must be brave too, so that people will speak well of you, even in generations yet to be born.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaians  – yes, he took a great vengeance, and the Achaians will carry his fame far, a theme of song for future generations. Would that the gods would clothe me in such strength as his, to take vengeance on the suitors for their hateful outrage – they carry out horrors of insolence against me. But the gods have not fated me such happiness, neither my father nor me. As it is I must just endure come what may.’ Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him: ‘Friend, since you have spoken of this now and brought it to my mind, they say that there are many suitors of your mother doing mischief in your house with no regard for you. Tell me, do you consent to this subjection, or is it that the people throughout your country have come to resent you, following some word from a god? Who knows if Odysseus might come back some day and take vengeance on them for their crimes, either on his own, or all the Achaians with him? If bright-eyed Athene were pleased to favour you as much as she was devoted to glorious Odysseus in the past, in the land of the Trojans where we Achaians were suffering agonies – because I have never yet seen such open favour from the gods as the way Pallas Athene would openly stand by that man  – if she were pleased to favour you in the same way and care for you in her heart, then many a suitor would have to forget any marriage.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Old man, this hope of yours I do not think will be fulfilled. What you suggest is too much – I am amazed that you say it. For myself I cannot hope that this will happen, even if the gods were to wish it so.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘Telemachos, what is this you have let slip the guard of your teeth? If a god wills, he can easily bring a man safe home, even from far away. I myself would rather suffer much pain before finally coming home and seeing the day of my return, than come back straight to die at my own hearth, as Agamemnon perished under the treachery of Aigisthos and his own wife. But not even the gods can keep death the leveller away even from a man they love, when the time comes for the cruel fate of death’s long sorrow to take him.’

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Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Mentor, let us not talk of these things any longer, for all our concern. For that man return home is no longer real – no, the immortals have already purposed death and black doom for him. But now I want to enquire and ask another question of Nestor, since beyond all others he knows what is right and wise – they say that he has now ruled over three generations of men, so that to me it seems that I am looking on an immortal. Nestor, son of Neleus, tell me truly what I ask. How came the death of the son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon? Where was Menelaos? How did treacherous Aigisthos plot his destruction, since he killed a much greater man than himself? Was Menelaos not in Achaian Argos, but wandering elsewhere among men, so that Aigisthos took the courage to kill?’ Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him: ‘Well, child, I shall tell you everything truly as it happened. You yourself can imagine how it would have been, if the son of Atreus, fair-haired Menelaos, had come back from Troy and found Aigisthos alive in the house. Then there would have been no pile of earth heaped over him at his death, but the dogs and the birds would have torn him as he lay on the ground far outside the city, and no Achaian woman would have wept for him: his was a great crime indeed. We were sitting there in Troy going through fight after fight, while he was at his leisure in the heart of horse-rearing Argos, working at his seduction of Agamemnon’s wife with his words. Now at first queen Klytaimnestra, in her good sense, refused the shameful deed. And there was also a bard with her, whom the son of Atreus had earnestly charged, as he left for Troy, with the guarding of his wife. But when the time came when the fate of the gods tied her to subjection, then Aigisthos took that bard to a deserted island and left him there to be the prey and food for birds, and her he led to his own house, willing partners both. Many were the thigh-bones he burnt on the gods’ holy altars, and many the fine offerings he dedicated, woven cloth and gold, now that he had accomplished a great deed, which his heart had never hoped to achieve. Meanwhile we were sailing together back from Troy, Menelaos the son of Atreus and I, in friendly fellowship. But when we reached holy Sounion, the promontory of the land of Athens, then Phoibos Apollo visited and killed with his gentle arrows the helmsman of Menelaos, there where he was with the tiller of the speeding ship in his hands – Phrontis the son of Onetor, who excelled all manner of men in steering a ship when gales were blowing. So Menelaos was detained there, eager though he was to be on his way, in order to bury his companion and give him full funeral honours. But when he was once more moving over the sparkling sea in his hollow ships and had come at speed to the steep headland of Maleiai, then it was that wide-seeing

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Zeus planned a hard journey for them, pouring out the blasts of shrieking winds, and monstrous waves swelling large as mountains. He split their fleet in two, and one group he drove to Crete, to where the Kydonians live around the stream of Iardanos. There is a bare cliff falling sheer to the water, in the hazy sea at the edge of the land of Gortyn, where the south wind drives a huge swell against a westerly headland, on towards Phaistos, and only this little cape checks the great waves. These ships came here, and the men barely escaped death as the waves shattered the ships against the rocks. But the other five dark-prowed ships were carried by wind and water to Egypt. So there Menelaos went to and fro in his ships among men of foreign tongues, amassing much gold and other substance. In this time Aigisthos had contrived his grim deeds at home. For seven years he ruled over golden Mykene after he had killed the son of Atreus, and the people were subjected under him. In the eighth year came his doom – godlike Orestes came back from Athens and killed his father’s killer, treacherous Aigisthos, the man who murdered his famous father. And when he had killed him, he gave a funeral feast to the Argives at the burying of his hateful mother and the coward Aigisthos. And on the very same day Menelaos, master of the warcry, joined him, bringing back many treasures, as much freight as his ships could carry. And you, my friend, do not wander long or far from your home, leaving behind your property and such high-handed men in your house – they may share out your goods and devour them all, and then your journey would be in vain. But Menelaos, I tell you, you should certainly visit. He has recently come back from another country, from a people that a man could not hope to return from, when once the gales have driven him off course into that great ocean which even the birds cannot cross back over in the same year, so vast and fearsome it is. So you should go now with your ship and your companions. Or if you prefer to go by land, there is a chariot here for you and horses, and here too my sons, who will be your escorts to holy Lakedaimon, where fair-haired Menelaos lives. You yourself must beg him to tell you the truth: but he will not lie to you – he is a man of great wisdom.’ So he spoke, and the sun set and darkness came on. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene spoke among them: ‘Old man, what you say is right and true. But come, you people should cut the victims’ tongues now and mix wine, so that we can make libations to Poseidon and the other immortals and then think of bed. It is the time for that: the light has already gone down to the west, and we should not sit longer at the gods’ feast, but go back now.’ So spoke the daughter of Zeus, and they heard what she said. The heralds poured water over their hands, and the young men filled the mixing-bowls to the brim with wine, poured a libation into each man’s cup, and then served

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them all. They threw the tongues in the fire, then each stood up and poured his libation over them. When they had made their libations and drunk what their hearts desired, then Athene and godlike Telemachos both made to go back to their hollow ship. But Nestor checked them with protesting words: ‘May Zeus forbid it, and the other immortal gods, that you should leave me to go to your fast ship, as if I was some pauper wholly without clothing, without many rugs and blankets in my house, for my own and my guests’ sleeping in comfort. No, I have rugs and fine blankets. I tell you the dear son of this man Odysseus will never sleep on the deck of his ship, as long as I live or there are sons left after me in my house, to entertain any guest who comes to my home.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘Yes, that is well said, old man: and Telemachos should do as you say, since it is much better so. He then will go with you now, to sleep in your house. But I myself shall go to the black ship, to encourage our companions and tell them all they need to know. I am the only one among them of older years – the others are all younger men, coming with us out of friendship, all of them of an age with great-hearted Telemachos. So I shall sleep there by the hollow black ship for now. And in the morning I shall set off for the great-hearted Kaukonians where a debt is owed me, a long-standing debt and far from small. As for Telemachos, since he has come to your house, send him on his journey with a chariot and one of your sons: and give him the horses which are your fastest and strongest.’ So speaking bright-eyed Athene left them in the form of a vulture. Amazement took all the Achaians, and the old man was full of wonder when he saw it with his eyes. He took Telemachos by the hand, and spoke to him and said: ‘My friend, I do not expect you will be any coward or weakling, if young as you are the gods are already with you as your guardians and escorts. Because of all the gods who live on Olympos this was none other than the most glorious daughter of Zeus, Athene Tritogeneia, she who used to favour your noble father too among the Argives. So, goddess, be gracious to us, and grant me fair renown, for myself and my children and my honoured wife. And in turn I will sacrifice to you a heifer, a yearling broad across the brow, unbroken, and never yet brought beneath the yoke – this will be your sacrifice, and I will cover her horns with gold.’ So he spoke in prayer, and Pallas Athene heard him. Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor led the way, leading his sons and sons-in-law back to his own fine house. And when they reached the king’s famous palace, they took their seats in order on the chairs and benches: and when they were come to their places the old man mixed for them a bowl of sweet wine, a wine which the housekeeper had opened and unstoppered in its eleventh year. Such was

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the wine which the old man mixed in the bowl, and he made libation from it with many prayers to Athene, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis. When they too had made their libations and drunk what their hearts desired, the others went each to his own home to sleep: but as for Telemachos, the dear son of godlike Odysseus, the Gerenian horseman Nestor lodged him to sleep there in the palace, on a fretted bed under the echoing portico, and beside him he put Peisistratos of the fine ash spear, leader of men, who was his only son yet unmarried in the house. He himself then went to sleep inside the high house, and the queen his wife prepared and shared his bed. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, the Gerenian horseman Nestor got up from his bed, and went out and took his seat on the dressed stones which stood, white and gleaming with oil, in front of the high doors. Here Neleus had sat in earlier times, the gods’ equal in his wisdom: but he had long ago been brought down by fate and gone on his way to Hades, and now in his turn Nestor the Gerenian, the warden of the Achaians, used to sit there holding his sceptre. His sons left their rooms and gathered round him all together – Echephron and Stratios and Perseus and Aretos and godlike Thrasymedes. Then the hero Peisistratos came to join these five, and they led Telemachos, looking like a god, to a seat beside them. The Gerenian horseman Nestor began to speak to them: ‘Quickly now, dear children, do as I desire, so that before all other gods I can seek the blessing of Athene – she came to the gods’ rich feast and showed herself clear to my sight. So come, one of you go down to the plain for a heifer – I want her here as soon as can be, with the cowherd driving her. And another of you go to great-hearted Telemachos’ black ship and bring all his companions, leaving two only. And one tell the goldsmith Laerkes to come here, to cover the heifer’s horns with gold. The rest of you stay here together, and tell the serving-women inside the great house to prepare for a feast, bringing out here seats and firewood and bright water.’ So he spoke, and they all busied about their tasks. The heifer came up from the plain, the companions of great-hearted Telemachos came from the fast balanced ship, and the smith came with his metal-working tools in his hands, the instruments of his craft, the anvil, hammer, and well-made tongs with which he worked gold. And Athene came, to accept the sacrifice. The old horseman Nestor gave the smith gold, and he then skilfully worked it over the heifer’s horns, to make a gift pleasing in the sight of the goddess. Stratios and godlike Echephron led the heifer forward by the horns. Aretos came from the storeroom bringing lustral water in a flower-patterned bowl, and in the other hand he carried the barley-grains in a basket. The staunch Thrasymedes stood by with a sharp axe in his hand, to fell the heifer: and Perseus held the blood-bowl. Now the old horseman Nestor began the ritual

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with the lustral water and the barley-grains for sprinkling, and prayed long to Athene as he initiated the sacrifice by cutting hairs from the victim’s head and throwing them on the fire. When they had offered prayers and sprinkled the barley-grains, Nestor’s son, proud-hearted Thrasymedes, stepped straight up and struck. The axe cut through the neck tendons, and collapsed the heifer’s strength: and the women raised the ritual cry – Nestor’s daughters and daughters-in-law, and his honoured wife, Eurydike, eldest of the daughters of Klymenos. Then the men lifted the heifer from the wide-wayed earth and held her up: and Peisistratos, leader of men, cut her throat. When her dark blood had run out and the life left her bones, they quickly jointed the carcass, and then in the proper way cut out the thigh-bones and covered them in fat, folding it twice over, and placed pieces of raw meat on top. The old man burnt them on cut firewood, and poured libations of gleaming wine over them, while the young men stood by him with five-tanged forks in their hands. Then when the thighs were burnt up and they had tasted the innards, they chopped the rest into pieces and threaded them on spits, then roasted them, holding the pointed spits in their hands. Meanwhile Telemachos was bathed by the beautiful Polykaste, the youngest daughter of Nestor son of Neleus. When she had bathed him and rubbed him richly with oil, she dressed him in a fine cloak and tunic, and he came from the bath looking like the immortal gods. He then went and sat down beside Nestor, shepherd of his people. When they had roasted the outer flesh and drawn it off the spits, they sat down and began to feast: and fine serving-men attended them, pouring their wine in golden cups. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, the Gerenian horseman Nestor was the first to speak: ‘Come now, my sons, bring a pair of lovely-maned horses for Telemachos and harness them to a chariot, so that he can make good speed on his journey.’ So he spoke, and they listened well and obeyed, and quickly yoked fast horses to the chariot. And the housekeeper put in it bread and wine, and such meats as are the food of god-ordained kings. Telemachos mounted the fine chariot: and Nestor’s son Peisistratos, leader of men, mounted beside him and took up the reins in his hands. He whipped the pair on, and they flew eagerly on their way out to the plain, leaving the steep city of Pylos behind them. And all day long they kept the yoke rattling between them. Now the sun set and all the paths grew dark. And they came to Pherai, to the house of Diokles the son of Ortilochos, who was a son born to Alpheios. There they slept the night, and he gave them gifts of friendship.

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When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, they yoked the horses and mounted the decorated chariot, and drove out through the yard and the echoing portico. Peisistratos whipped the pair on, and they flew eagerly on their way. They came out on to the plain where the wheat grows, and then made speed to finish their journey: such were the fast horses that carried them on. And now the sun set and all the paths grew dark.

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Telemachos in Sparta

And they came to the bowl of Lakedaimon with its many ravines, and drove up to the house of glorious Menelaos. They found him holding a wedding feast in his home for many kinsmen, for the marriages of his son and of his excellent daughter. The daughter he was sending to marry the son of Achilleus, breaker of men. It was in Troy that he had first promised and agreed to give her, and the gods were now bringing their marriage to fulfilment. So he was sending her there with horses and chariot, to the famous city of the Myrmidons, where Achilleus’ son was king. For his son he was bringing a bride from Sparta, the daughter of Alektor  – his loved young son, strong Megapenthes, who was borne to him by a slave woman, since the gods had granted no further child to Helen, once she had given birth to her lovely daughter Hermione, who had the beauty of golden Aphrodite. So they were feasting there in the great high-roofed house, the neighbours and kinsmen of glorious Menelaos, and taking their pleasure: in their midst a divine bard was singing to the lyre, and among them two acrobats led their dancing, whirling and tumbling at the centre. And now those two, the hero Telemachos and the splendid son of Nestor, came to the gates of the house and stopped there with their chariot. Lord Eteoneus, the ready servant of glorious Menelaos, came out and saw them, and went back through the house to bring the news to the shepherd of the people. He came close and spoke winged words to him: ‘O my lord Menelaos, there are some strangers here – two men, who look like the race of great Zeus himself. So tell me, should we unyoke their fast horses, or send them on to go to some other man for their welcome?’ Fair-haired Menelaos answered him in great indignation: ‘You were not a fool before now, Eteoneus son of Boëthoös: but now you are speaking folly like a child. You and I in the past enjoyed much hospitality from other men before we came back here – and may Zeus spare us misery in days to come. No, unyoke the strangers’ horses, and bring the men in here to the banquet.’

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So he spoke, and Eteoneus ran back through the hall, and called other ready servants to follow with him. They released the sweating horses from the yoke and tied them at the stable mangers, throwing down for them wheat mixed with white barley, and they leaned the chariot against the gleaming wall of the yard. The men themselves they led inside the marvellous house: and when they saw it they were full of wonder at the whole palace of the god-ordained king, for there was a radiance like that of the sun or the moon throughout the high-roofed house of glorious Menelaos. When they had taken their pleasure in the sight before their eyes, they went and bathed in polished baths. And when the serving-women had washed them and rubbed them with oil, and dressed them in woolly cloaks and tunics, they took their seats on chairs beside Menelaos, son of Atreus. A maid brought water in a beautiful golden jug, and poured it out over a silver basin, for them to wash their hands: and she set a polished table beside them. The honoured housekeeper brought bread and placed it before them, and served them many kinds of food, generous with her store. And the carver carried plates of various meats to place before them, and put golden cups beside them. And fair-haired Menelaos showed his greeting and said to them: ‘Eat now, and welcome. And then when you have had your meal, we shall ask you who you are. Certainly in you two the breeding of your parents is not lost – no, you are of the race of sceptred kings whom Zeus sustains, since no inferior parents could bear such sons as you.’ So he spoke, and with his own hands he took up and placed before them the fat roasted chine of an ox which had been served to him as his own special portion. They put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. And when they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, then Telemachos spoke to the son of Nestor, holding his head close to him, so the others should not hear: ‘Look, son of Nestor, pleasure of my heart, look at the gleam of gold in these echoing halls – and bronze and amber and silver and ivory. The house of Olympian Zeus must be like this inside, such are the countless treasures here – I am filled with wonder as I look on them.’ But fair-haired Menelaos had understood what he said, and spoke to them both with winged words: ‘Dear children, no mortal man could rival Zeus  – his house and his possessions are for ever. But among men few or none can rival me in wealth. I suffered much and travelled far to bring these treasures home in my ships, and it was in the eighth year that I returned. I travelled to Cyprus and Phoinicia and Egypt, and came to the Ethiopians and the Sidonians and the Eremboi, and to Libya, where the lambs are horned at birth. The ewes there lamb three times in a year’s full cycle, and neither king nor shepherd goes short of cheese or meat, or of sweet milk, but the ewes are

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constantly in milk for the suckling lambs. But while I was wandering in those parts amassing much substance, in that time a man killed my brother – by stealth, unsuspected, through the treachery of his accursed wife. So I take no joy in being master of this wealth. You will have heard the story from your fathers, whoever they may be, how I suffered much in the past, and lost the many fine possessions that filled my well-set home. But I would gladly live on in my house with only a third of the wealth I now have, if only they were still alive, the men who died then in the broad land of Troy, far from the horsepasture of Argos. But as it is I grieve and mourn for them all, and many times I sit here in our house satisfying my heart with weeping, and then in time I cease – a man soon tires of chilling tears. But my grief for all of these, much though I miss them, is not as great as my grief for one man, whose memory as I think of him sours food and sleep for me – because no man among the Achaians laboured harder or took more on himself than Odysseus. Yet for him there was to be misery, and for me lasting pain for his sake: he is gone so long now, and we have no knowledge whether he is alive or dead. They must be mourning for him now at home – the old man Laertes, faithful Penelope, and Telemachos, whom he left new-born in his house.’ So he spoke, and he roused in Telemachos the desire to weep for his father. He let a tear fall to the ground when he heard his father’s name, but held his purple cloak with both hands in front of his eyes. Menelaos saw him, and pondered then in heart and mind whether to let Telemachos himself speak of his father, or whether he should begin to question and test him. While he debated this in heart and mind, Helen came down from her fragrant high-roofed room, looking like Artemis of the golden distaff. Adreste placed a well-made chair for her, and Alkippe brought a rug of soft wool. And Phylo brought the silver work-basket which Alkandre had given her, the wife of Polybos, who lived in Egyptian Thebes, where the houses are stored with great wealth. He had given Menelaos two silver baths, a pair of tripods, and ten talents of gold. And separately his wife had brought beautiful gifts for Helen: she gave her a golden distaff and a work-basket on wheels that was made of silver with the rims finished in gold. It was this that the maid Phylo brought and placed beside her, full of yarn already spun: and the distaff lay across it, weighted with purple wool. Helen sat down on the chair, with a stool beneath for her feet, and immediately began to ask all questions of her husband: ‘Do we know yet, lord Menelaos, who these men are who have come to our house? Will I be wrong in this – my heart urges me to say it – or will it be the truth? I tell you I have never yet seen such a likeness in either man or woman – I am filled with wonder as I look on him – as the way this man is the image of the son of great-hearted Odysseus, Telemachos, the

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child Odysseus left new-born in his house, when for my sake, whore that I was, you Achaians went to Troy with the bold design of war.’ Fair-haired Menelaos answered her: ‘Yes, I too, wife, am thinking now as you suppose. Odysseus had just these feet and hands; the glance of his eyes was the same, and his head and hair. And just now I was speaking of Odysseus, recalling how much he had laboured and suffered on my behalf, and this man was pouring the tears from his eyes, holding up his purple cloak to hide his face.’ Then Nestor’s son Peisistratos said to him: ‘Lord Menelaos, son of Atreus, leader of your people, yes, this is in truth Odysseus’ son, just as you say. But he is a man of sense, and would think it wrong, coming here for the first time, to rush to open speech before you, when we two take pleasure in your words as if we listened to a god. But the Gerenian horseman Nestor has sent me to go with him as his escort, as he was eager to see you, in the hope that you might offer word or deed to help him. When the father is gone a son has many troubles at home, if there are no others to defend him, and so it is now with Telemachos: his father is gone, and there are none among his people who can protect him from evil.’ Fair-haired Menelaos answered him: ‘Oh then, it is a very dear friend whose son has come to my house – a friend who endured many contests for my sake. And I had thought to welcome him on his return above all the other Argives, if wide-seeing Olympian Zeus had granted us both a safe return over the sea in our fast ships. I would have settled him in a city in Argos and built a house for him, bringing him from Ithaka with his possessions and his son and all his people: I would have emptied for him one of the cities that are close to us here, under my rule. And then we would have been here meeting each other often, and nothing would have separated us in the enjoyment of our friendship, until the black cloud of death covered us over. But god himself must have grudged us this, blighting Odysseus and making him the only one to have no homecoming.’ So he spoke, and he roused in them all the desire for weeping. Argive Helen, daughter of Zeus, began to weep, and Telemachos wept too, and Menelaos son of Atreus. Nor could Nestor’s son keep his eyes free of tears: he had called to mind the excellent Antilochos, killed by the splendid son of bright Dawn. Remembering him, he spoke now with winged words: ‘Son of Atreus, the old man Nestor would always say that you were the most sensible of men, whenever we spoke of you in his house and questioned each other about you. So now, if at all possible, will you agree with me? You see, I myself take no pleasure in weeping like this at supper, and early-born Dawn will soon bring another day. Not that I think anything wrong in lamentation

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for any man who has died and met his fate: indeed this is the only honour we can pay to wretched mortals, to cut locks from our hair for them and let the tears run down our cheeks. I too have had a brother die, not the worst of the Argives. You will have known him. I myself never met nor saw him – but they say that Antilochos was a man above all others, outstanding in speed of foot and as a fighter.’ Fair-haired Menelaos answered him: ‘Friend, you have spoken as a man of sense would speak and do, even a man older than you: and of course it is your father in you, that you speak so well. It is easy to tell the child of a man whom the son of Kronos has destined for blessing at both birth and marriage – the way he has blessed Nestor throughout all his days, giving him a long life of prosperity in his own house, and sons of good sense and fighting prowess. So then, let us leave the tearfulness that was on us before now and turn our thoughts again to the meal – and the servants can pour water over our hands. The stories that Telemachos and I have to tell each other will be told in the morning.’ So he spoke, and Asphalion, the ready servant of glorious Menelaos, poured water over their hands. And then they put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, thought of something else. Into the bowl of wine they were drinking she threw a drug that stopped all grief and anger, and brought forgetfulness of every kind of trouble. A man who swallowed this drug, once mixed in the wine, would not shed a tear down his cheeks all day long, not even if his mother and father were to die, not even if they put his brother or his own son to the sword in front of him, while he looked on. Such were the clever drugs the daughter of Zeus had in her possession – healing drugs, which Polydamna, the wife of Thon, had given her. She was an Egyptian woman. There the grain-giving ploughland yields drugs in plenty, healing and harmful drugs of many kinds growing together. And every man there is a healer skilled above all other peoples, because they are all of the race of Paiëon. When Helen had added this drug to the bowl and ordered the pouring of wine, she addressed her words to them once more: ‘Lord Menelaos, son of Atreus, and you two sons of noble men. It is true that god gives good or evil to different men at different times, since Zeus can do all things. But for the present eat and enjoy the talk, sitting here in our hall. And I will tell you a story that suits the occasion. I could never tell or recount all the many exploits of enduring Odysseus. But here is one which that mighty man had the daring to achieve in the land of Troy, where you Achaians suffered such pain. He broke himself with the stripes of a shameful beating, threw squalid rags around his shoulders, and slunk into the enemies’ broad-wayed city

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looking like a slave. He disguised himself in another’s likeness, like a mere beggar, quite different from the way he was by the ships of the Achaians. In this form he slunk into the Trojans’ city, and they paid no attention, none of them. I was the only one to recognise him for who he was, and I began to question him – but he in his cunning kept evading me. But when at last I was bathing him and anointing him with oil, and gave him clothes to wear and swore a mighty oath that I would not reveal Odysseus’ presence to the Trojans until he was back by his own huts and fast ships, then and only then he told me all the Achaians’ plans. And he killed many of the Trojans with his long-pointed sword on his way back to the Argives, and he brought with him much intelligence. Then the other women of Troy wailed loud in lamentation, but my heart was glad, because by now my mind had turned to the desire to go back to my house, and I wept for the blindness which Aphrodite had brought on me when she led me away from my dear native land, forsaking my daughter and the house of my marriage, and my husband who lacked nothing in either mind or body.’ Fair-haired Menelaos answered her: ‘Yes, all that you say, wife, is right and true. In my time I have come to know the thoughts and minds of many great men, and I have travelled over much of the world. But I have never yet cast eyes on another man the equal of Odysseus, with a heart as enduring as his was. Here is something which that mighty man had the daring to achieve – in the wooden horse, where all the best of us Achaians were waiting to bring death and destruction to the Trojans. And then you came up to it – you must have been impelled by some god who wished to give glory to the Trojans: and godlike Deïphobos was with you as you came. Three times you went round our hollow hiding-place and felt it with your hands; and you kept calling out the names of the best of the Danaans, making your voice sound like each man’s wife when you called him. I and the son of Tydeus and godlike Odysseus were sitting right among them, and heard you call. Diomedes and I were both ready to leap up and come out, or to answer immediately from inside: but Odysseus restrained us and checked our impulse. Then all the other sons of the Achaians kept silent, and only Antiklos still wanted to call in answer to you. But Odysseus gripped the man’s mouth with his powerful hands, and held on firmly until Pallas Athene took you away, and so he saved all the Achaians.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Lord Menelaos, son of Atreus, leader of your people, it is all the sadder: because none of this saved him from a miserable death, nor would it even if his heart within him had been made of iron. But come, take us to our beds now, so that we can lie down and enjoy the sweetness of sleep.’

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So he spoke, and Argive Helen told the serving-women to make beds under the portico and put fine purple rugs on them, and spread blankets above and lay woolly cloaks on top for their covering. The women went out of the hall with torches in their hands, and spread the beds: and a herald led the way for the guests. So they then lay down there in the porch of the house, the hero Telemachos and the splendid son of Nestor. And the son of Atreus went to sleep inside the high house, and beside him lay long-dressed Helen, queen among women. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, Menelaos, master of the war-cry, got up from his bed, and put on his clothes; he slung a sharp sword from his shoulder, and bound his fine sandals under his shining feet. Then he went out of his room, like a god to look at, and sat beside Telemachos and spoke to him: ‘What need has brought you here, hero Telemachos, over the broad back of the sea to holy Lakedaimon? Is it a public matter or private? Tell me this in truth.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Lord Menelaos, son of Atreus, leader of your people, I have come in the hope that you might tell me some news of my father. My estate is being consumed, my rich farms are ruined, and my house is full of hateful men who every day slaughter my crowded sheep and shambling twist-horned cattle – they are suitors of my mother, outrageous in their insolence. So that is why I have come to beg at your knees, hoping that you will tell me of my father’s miserable death, if perhaps you saw it with your own eyes, or have heard talk from others of his wanderings – for his mother bore him to misery, more than any man. And do not soften what you say out of pity or to spare my feelings, but tell me in all detail how you met sight of him. I beg you, if there was ever word or deed that my father, noble Odysseus, pledged and performed for you in the land of Troy, where you Achaians suffered such pain – remember this now, and tell me the truth.’ Fair-haired Menelaos answered him in great indignation: ‘Oh, it is a mighty man whose bed they want to sleep in, and they are cowards and weaklings. Just as when a deer leaves her two new-born suckling fawns to sleep in a mighty lion’s den, while she goes looking for pasture over the mountain spurs and grassy glens, and then the lion comes back to his lair and brings a horrible fate on both the fawns – so Odysseus will bring a horrible fate on those men. Oh, father Zeus and Athene and Apollo, would that he were the man he was long ago in well-founded Lesbos, when he accepted the challenge and wrestled with Philomeleïdes, and brought him down with a mighty throw, to the joy of all the Achaians. If only Odysseus, the man he was then, could meet these suitors! They would all find a grim marriage and a quick death. As for what you ask and beg of me, I shall tell you without

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wandering or evasion: I shall not deceive you. No, of all that I was told by the old man of the sea, the unerring prophet, I shall not hide or conceal a word from you. The gods were holding me in Egypt  – though I longed for my return home – because I had failed to offer them full sacrifices, and the gods never allow men to forget their commands. Now there is an island lying in the wave-washed sea in front of Egypt, which they call Pharos, as far away as a hollow ship can travel in a full day with a piping wind blowing behind to speed it. There is a fine harbour there, where they draw water from a dark well and then launch their balanced ships on the open sea. There the gods kept me for twenty days, and there was never a sign of the offshore breezes that carry ships out over the broad back of the sea. And now all our provisions would have run out, and the men’s spirits with them, if one of the gods had not taken pity and had mercy on me, Eidotheë, the daughter of mighty Proteus, the old man of the sea. It was she above all gods whose heart I stirred, when she met me wandering alone away from my companions – they were always roaming round the island, using bent hooks to catch fish, as hunger wore at their bellies. She came close and spoke to me: “Are you just a fool, stranger, a slackbrained idiot? Or are you deliberately giving up and enjoying this hardship? Here you are kept all this time on this island, and you cannot find any release while your companions’ hearts are failing.” So she spoke, and I answered her: “I will tell you, goddess, whoever you are. It is none of my will that I am kept here, but I must have offended the immortals who hold the wide heaven. But you tell me, since gods know all things, which of the immortals it is who is prisoning me here and has stopped me on my voyage. And tell me also of my home-coming, how I am to return home over the fish-filled sea.” So I spoke, and the queen among goddesses answered me straightaway: “Stranger, I will tell you what you ask in clear truth. There is an old man of the sea, a prophet, who makes this place his haunt. He is Proteus of Egypt, an immortal who knows the depths of all the sea, a servant of Poseidon: and they say it was he who fathered me. If you could somehow waylay and catch hold of him, he will tell you the path and the measure of your journey, and your home-coming, how you are to return home over the fish-filled sea. And he will also tell you, my lord, if you wish it, all that has been done for good or ill in your house while you have been away on your long and hard journey.” So she spoke, and I answered her: “You must show me now how to trap this old god, or he may have sight or knowledge of me in advance, and so escape: it is hard for a mortal man to defeat a god.” So I spoke, and the queen among goddesses answered me straightaway: “I will tell you all that you ask in clear truth. When the sun straddles the centre of the sky the old prophet of the sea comes out of the water, hidden in the dark shiver which spreads over it at the

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west wind’s blowing. Once on land he lies down to sleep in the hollow caves. And round him the seals gather to sleep, the children of the lovely daughter of the sea: they too come out of the grey salt water, breathing the rank stench of brine from the deep. At the showing of dawn I shall take you there and give you each a place to lie – you must carefully choose three companions, the best men you have by your well-benched ships. Now I will tell you all the wiles of this old god. First he will go the round of his seals and count them. Then when he has inspected them all and done the tally, he will lie down among them like a shepherd amid his flocks of sheep. As soon as you see him lie down to rest, that is when you must call on all your strength and courage, and hold him there for all his struggles and attempts to escape. He will take every shape as he tries to get free – turning into any creature on earth, or into water or monstrous fire: but you must hold on relentlessly and grip him all the harder. But when at last he speaks and questions you in his own shape, the way he was when you saw him lie down to rest, then, hero, you should relax your hold and let the old god free. Ask him then which god it is that thwarts you, and ask him about your homecoming, how you are to return home over the fish-filled sea.” So speaking she sank down into the swelling sea, and I set off back to my ships, where they stood on the sandy beach: and my heart was in a turmoil as I went. When I reached the sea and my ship, we prepared our supper, and immortal night came on: then we lay down to sleep where the surf breaks on the shore. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, I set out along the shore of the broad-wayed sea, making many prayers to the gods: and I had with me three companions, those I trusted most for any venture. Meanwhile Eidotheë had sunk into the broad lap of the sea and returned bringing the skins of four seals, all freshly flayed: this was the trick she planned for her father. She had hollowed out beds for us in the sand, and was sitting there waiting. We then came up to her, and she settled us each in his place, throwing a seal-skin over each man. And that would have been the most dreadful vigil, as the ghastly stench of the sea-reared seals was a horrible affliction – who would choose a sea-monster to share his bed? But the goddess herself came to our rescue and found a powerful remedy. She brought ambrosia and put some under each man’s nose: the sweet smell of it killed the fishy stench. All morning we waited there with enduring hearts. Then the seals came out of the sea in throngs, and lay down side by side where the surf breaks on the shore. At midday the old god came out himself from the sea, and found his fat seals in place. He reviewed the whole line of them and counted their number, counting us as the first of the beasts, with no suspicion in his heart of our trickery. Then he lay down himself. We rushed on him with a shout, and gripped him in our arms. But the old god

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had not forgotten his cunning ways. First he became a great bearded lion, then a snake, a panther, and a huge boar: and he turned into running water, and a tall leafy tree. We held on relentlessly with enduring hearts. But when at last the old god with all his wiles began to tire, he spoke and questioned me: “Which then of the gods was it, son of Atreus, who conspired with you, so you could trap me unawares and hold me? What do you want of me?” So he spoke, and I answered him: “You know, old god – why try to mislead me? You know how I am kept here all this time on this island, and cannot find any release, while my heart within me is failing. So you tell me, since gods know all things, which of the immortals it is who is prisoning me here and has stopped me on my voyage. And tell me also of my homecoming, how I am to return home over the fish-filled sea.” So I spoke, and he answered me straightaway: “Well, you should have made proper sacrifice to Zeus and the other gods before you embarked, to win a fast voyage home to your country over the sparkling sea. But I tell you you are not fated to see your family again, and return to your well-founded house and your own native land, until you have gone back to the waters of the Nile, the river rain-fed from Zeus, and sacrificed holy hecatombs to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven. Then the gods will grant you the journey you desire.” So he spoke, and my heart was broken within me to hear him bid me go back over the hazy sea to Egypt, a long and hard voyage. But even so I answered him: “I shall do all this, old god, just as you command me. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. Did all the Achaians return in their ships unharmed, all those whom Nestor and I left behind when we made our way from Troy, or have any of them perished, either by some bitter fate overcoming their ship, or in the arms of their family once the thread of war was spun?” So I spoke, and he answered me straightaway. “Son of Atreus, why do you ask me these questions? Better that you should not know, nor learn what my mind knows. I tell you, your tears will not be long in coming when you have heard the full tale. Of those men many were brought down, and many were left. Of the leaders of the bronze-clad Achaians two only perished on their return – as for the fighting, you were there yourself. And one more is alive, but kept prisoner somewhere in the wide sea. Aias was brought down among his long-oared ships. First of all Poseidon drove him onto the great rocks of Gyrai, but saved him from the sea. And he would have escaped his doom, for all Athene’s enmity, had he not been so utterly blinded by folly as to make an outrageous boast: he claimed that he had escaped from the great gulf of the sea despite the gods’ will. Poseidon heard him boast loud: and immediately he took his trident in his mighty hands and struck the rock of Gyrai, splitting it in two. One half remained, but the shattered part, where Aias had been sitting when the blind folly came on

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him, crashed into the sea, carrying him down into the boundless waves of the ocean. So he drank the salt water and perished there. Now as for your brother, he managed to escape doom and got away in his hollow ships – queen Hera had protected him. But when he was soon to reach the steep headland of Maleiai, a storm wind caught him up and carried him, groaning in despair, out over the fish-filled sea to the edge of the land where Thyestes had once had his home, and it was now the home of Thyestes’ son Aigisthos. Yet from there too there came a safe return: the gods turned the wind to favour them, and they reached home. Then Agamemnon stepped joyfully onto the land of his fathers, took up his native earth in his hands and kissed it over and over again: and his warm tears flowed in profusion, for joy at the sight of his country. But a watcher had seen him from a look-out place, where the treacherous Aigisthos had taken and posted him, promising a fee of two talents of gold. This man had been watching for a year, so that Agamemnon should not arrive and pass by unseen, and so have the chance to summon his fighting spirit. He now went to tell his master, the shepherd of the people, in his house: and Aigisthos at once laid his treacherous plan. He chose twenty of the best men in the town and set them in ambush, and ordered a feast to be prepared in another part of the palace. Then he went out with horses and chariot to call Agamemnon, the shepherd of his people, to the feast – but the thought in his mind was treason. He then brought the king up from the shore all unknowing of his doom, feasted him, then killed him as a man kills an ox at the manger. Not one of Agamemnon’s companions who went with him was left, and not one of Aigisthos’ men: they were all killed there in the house.” So he spoke, and my heart was broken within me. I sat down on the sand and wept, and my heart had no wish to live further or see the light of the sun. When I had had my fill of weeping and writhing in grief, the old prophet of the sea spoke to me again: “Enough, son of Atreus; no more of this long and ceaseless weeping. It will do us no good. No, your aim now must be to reach your own country as soon as possible. You may find Aigisthos still alive, or perhaps Orestes will have come first and killed him – and then you might join the feast at his burial.” So he spoke, and at these words my heart and proud spirit were warmed again in my breast, despite my grief. And I spoke to him with winged words: “These two I now know of. But tell me who the third man is, the one who is alive but kept prisoner in the wide sea – or perhaps he is dead now: I want to hear, even to my sorrow.” So I spoke, and he answered me straightaway: “It is the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaka. I have seen him on an island, weeping heavy tears. He is in the house of the nymph Kalypso, and she is holding him against his

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will. He cannot reach his own native land – he has no oared ships with him and no crew to take him over the broad back of the sea. But for you, my lord Menelaos, it is not fated that you should die and meet your doom in horse-rearing Argos: but the immortals will translate you to the Elysian plain at the edge of the world, where fair-haired Rhadamanthys is, and the men there live in the greatest ease. There there is no snow-fall, never any heavy storms or rain, but all year round Ocean sends forth the singing breezes of the west wind, to be men’s refreshment. And this will be yours because your wife is Helen, and the gods reckon you in the family of Zeus.” So speaking he sank down into the swelling sea, and I set off with my godlike companions back to the ships – and my heart was in a turmoil as 1 went. When we reached my ship by the sea, we prepared our supper, and immortal night came on. Then we lay down to sleep where the surf breaks on the shore. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, first we hauled our fleet down into the holy sea, and placed the masts and the sails in the balanced ships. Then the men boarded themselves, and sat by the rowlocks: and, each sitting in his place, they struck into the grey sea with their oars. Back we went to the Nile, the river rain-fed from Zeus: there I anchored the ships and made full sacrifices. When I had then put an end to the anger of the ever-living gods, I piled a funeral mound for Agamemnon, so his glory should never die. These things done, I set off for home, and the immortals granted me a favouring wind and carried me quickly back to my own dear country. But come, you must stay on in my house until the eleventh or twelfth day, and then I shall send you well provided on your way. I shall give you splendid gifts, three horses, and a polished chariot. And further I shall give you a beautiful cup, so that whenever you make libations to the immortal gods you can remember me all your days.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Son of Atreus, do not keep me here for so long. For myself I could gladly stay here with you for a whole year and feel no pangs for my home or my parents – such is the wonderful pleasure I take in your talk and your stories. But my companions are chafing by now in holy Pylos, while you keep me here longer. As for the gift which you may give me, let it be a treasure I can keep. The horses I cannot take to Ithaka, but I shall leave them here to your own glory. You are king over a broad plain, where there is clover in abundance, and galingale, wheat and rye, and broad-eared white barley. But in Ithaka there are no open runs or meadows: it is goat-country, and the more lovely for that than any horsepasture. None of the islands that slope into the sea is rich in fields or fit for riding, and Ithaka least of all.’

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So he spoke, and Menelaos, master of the war-cry, smiled, and stroked him with his hand, and spoke to him, saying: ‘You are of good stock, dear child, and it shows in what you say. Yes, I shall change my gift for you – that is easy. Of all the treasures that lie stored in my house for gifts, I shall give you the finest and the most precious. I shall give you a mixing-bowl worked in metal. It is solid silver throughout, with the rim finished in gold. Hephaistos made it: it was given me by the hero Phaidimos, king of the Sidonians, when his house gave me hospitality as I came there on my journey home. Now I wish to present it to you.’ Such were their words to each other. And while they spoke, the diners came up to the godlike king’s palace, driving sheep with them and bringing wine that cheers men’s hearts: and at the same time their bread was sent up to the house by their mantled wives. So they prepared for the meal in the palace. Meanwhile in front of Odysseus’ house the suitors were amusing themselves with games of discus and spear-throwing on the levelled ground, as before and with their usual arrogance. Seated there were Antinoös and godlike Eurymachos, the leaders of the suitors and far the best of them in courage. Noëmon, the son of Phronios, came up to them and addressed a question to Antinoös: ‘Antinoös, do we know, or do we not, when Telemachos will return from sandy Pylos? He has gone with my ship, and I need it now to cross to broad Elis, where I have twelve mares with young strong mules at the teat, as yet unbroken. I want to drive off one of these and break him in.’ So he spoke, and they were astonished – they had no idea that Telemachos had gone to Neleian Pylos, but they had thought that he was somewhere there on the estate, perhaps with the flocks of sheep or with the swineherd. Then Antinoös, son of Eupeithes, answered him: ‘Tell me now in truth. When did he leave, and who were the men who went with him? Were they taken from the town, or his own hired men and slaves (as he could do that too)? And tell me this truly – I want to know. Did he take your black ship from you by force against your will, or did you give it to him of your own wish, when he begged it of you?’ Noëmon, son of Phronios, answered him: ‘I gave it to him of my own free will. What would any other man do, when asked by a man of that quality with troubles in his heart? It would be hard to refuse the gift. As for the crew that went with him, they were the best men in the town after us. And as captain I saw Mentor embarking with them – either Mentor or a god, but it looked like the man himself in every way. And this is what puzzles me. I saw the noble Mentor here early yesterday morning – yet before he had boarded the ship for Pylos.’

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So speaking Noëmon went away to his father’s house. But those two were astonished, their proud hearts struck with amazement. They stopped the suitors’ games and made them all sit down. Then Antinoös, Eipeithes’ son, spoke to them in deep anger: fury filled his dark heart full, and his eyes were like blazing fire. ‘Oh, this is a great coup for Telemachos! The insolence of it, to bring off this voyage when we all thought he could never succeed! A mere child, he has escaped the whole lot of us and gone off just like that – launching a ship, crewing it with the best men in town! This is the start of yet more trouble from him – may Zeus crush his strength before he reaches manhood! But come, give me a fast ship and twenty crew, so I can watch for his return and ambush him in the strait between Ithaka and rocky Samos – that will put a grim end to his voyaging after his father.’ So he spoke, and they all agreed and approved his proposal. Then they rose and went into Odysseus’ house. Now Penelope was not long without word of the plans which the suitors were plotting in their hearts. The herald Medon told her. He had been outside the courtyard, listening to their discussion inside as they wove their plan. He then went off through the house to bring the news to Penelope, and as soon as he stepped over her threshold Penelope spoke to him: ‘Herald, why have the proud suitors sent you here? Is it to tell the maids of godlike Odysseus to stop their other work and prepare them a meal? If only this was the end of their company and their courting – if only this could be their last and final dining in this house! Yes, all of you gather here time after time, stripping us of all our great substance, the property of wise-hearted Telemachos. Have you not heard from your fathers in the past, when you were children, what sort of a man Odysseus was to your parents? Never did he say or do a wrong word or action to any man among his people  – and yet this is the usual way with divine kings: they will hate one man, and perhaps favour another. But Odysseus never did anything wrong to any man. But now your own hearts show in your shameless actions, and there is no gratitude for past kindness.’ Then Medon, good man of sense, answered her: ‘If only this, Queen, were the greatest of your troubles. But there is something much worse and harder to bear which the suitors are planning, and may the son of Kronos bring it to nothing. They are determined to kill Telemachos with the sharp bronze as he returns home: he has gone for news of his father to holy Pylos and sacred Lakedaimon.’ So he spoke, and her strength and spirit collapsed there and then. For a long time she was gripped speechless, and her eyes filled with tears, and her strong voice was blocked. But then at last she answered him: ‘Herald, why has my boy gone? He had no business to be embarking on speedy ships, which

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men use as horses over the water, to go their way over the great expanse of the sea. Or does he want his very name to vanish from the world?’ Then Medon, good man of sense, answered her: ‘I do not know if it was a god’s prompting, or the urge of his own heart which took him to Pylos. He went to learn of his father – either his homecoming, or news of the fate he has met.’ So speaking he went back through the house of Odysseus. And she was flooded with grief which broke her heart. There were chairs there in plenty in her room, but she could not bear now to sit in any, sinking down instead on the threshold of her elaborate chamber and wailing pitiably: and around her her maid-servants gathered whimpering, all the maids in the house, young and old. In ceaseless lamentation Penelope spoke to them: ‘Listen, my friends. The Olympian has given me sorrows more than any of the women born and reared in my time. First, long ago, I lost a noble husband with the heart of a lion, who excelled in every form of prowess among the Danaans – a great man, whose fame spread wide throughout Hellas and the heart of Argos. And now my beloved son – the storm winds have snatched him away all unbeknown from the house, and I heard nothing of his going. You cruel women, not even you – not one of you – thought to wake me from my bed, though you were well aware, when he set off to the hollow black ship. If I had learned that he was planning this journey, he would certainly have stayed here for all his eagerness to be going – or else left me dead in the house. But will someone quickly call the old man Dolios here, the slave given me by my father when I was first coming here, who now keeps my orchard garden – he must go as soon as can be to Laertes, sit down with him and tell him all this in every detail. Perhaps Laertes will weave some plan in his mind, and come out to make public complaint to the people for their murderous intent on his family and the son of godlike Odysseus.’ Then her dear nurse Eurykleia said to her: ‘Dear girl, you may kill me with the pitiless bronze or let me live on in the house, as you please – but I shall not hide the truth from you. Yes, I knew it all, and I gave him all that he asked for, food and sweet wine. But he took a great oath from me, that I would not tell you until the twelfth day, or until you yourself missed him and heard that he was gone – so you should not spoil your lovely face with weeping. But now you should wash and put on clean clothes, and go upstairs with your serving-women and pray to Athene, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis: she then may keep him safe, even from death. And the old man is troubled enough – do not trouble him more. I cannot think that the race of this son of Arkeisios is utterly hated by the blessed gods: but I am sure there will be family left to inherit this high-roofed house and the rich fields far round it.’

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So she spoke, and this quieted her grief and stopped her eyes from weeping. Then Penelope washed and put on clean clothes, and went upstairs with her serving-women, and filled a basket with barley-grains for sprinkling, and made her prayer to Athene: ‘Hear me, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis, Atrytone. If ever resourceful Odysseus burned for you the fat-wrapped thigh-bones of an ox or sheep in this house, please remember that now, and keep my dear son safe, protect him from the violence of these arrogant suitors.’ So speaking she raised the ritual cry, and the goddess heard her prayer. Downstairs the suitors made a clamour throughout the shadowy hall, and this is what one of the arrogant young men would say: ‘Oh, it sounds now as if our much-courted queen is getting ready for marriage! But she has no idea that death is in store for her son.’ That is what they liked to say, though it was they who had no idea of what was in store. But Antinoös spoke and addressed the company: ‘Fools, you must avoid, all of you, all such rash talk – or someone will take the news upstairs in the house. No, let us just get up in silence and put into effect the plan which is already firm in all our minds.’ So speaking he chose twenty of the best men, and they set off to their fast ship by the sea shore. First they hauled the ship down to the deep water, then placed the mast and the sails in the black ship, and fixed all the oars properly in their leather loops. They spread the white sails, and their eager servants brought down their weapons for them. They moored the ship well afloat in the water, then came ashore and took their supper there, waiting for evening to come. Meanwhile good Penelope lay there fasting in her upper room, without taste of food or drink, worrying whether her fine son would escape death, or be brought down at the hands of the violent suitors. Her thoughts were like those of a lion surrounded by a band of men and terrified as they draw their stealthy ring round him. Such were the fears in her mind until sweet slumber came over her: she sank back and slept, and all her limbs were relaxed. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene thought of one more plan. She created a phantom in woman’s shape, the image of Iphthime, daughter of great-hearted Ikarios and the wife of Eumelos, who had his home in Pherai. She sent this phantom to the house of godlike Odysseus, to save Penelope from her pain and lamentation, and bring to an end her weeping and tears of grief. It came into her room past the strap of the door-bolt, and stood above her head and spoke to her: ‘You are sleeping then, Penelope, for all your troubled heart? But I tell you the gods who live at their ease do not wish you to weep or be distressed, because your son will still come back safe to you: he has done no wrong in the sight of the gods.’

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Then good Penelope answered her, sleeping so sweetly at the gates of dreams: ‘Sister, why have you come here? You have not been here often before, since your home is so far away. And now you tell me to forget my grief and all the pain which troubles my heart and mind, when first, long ago, I lost a noble husband with the heart of a lion, who excelled in every form of prowess among the Danaans – a great man, whose fame spread wide throughout Hellas and the heart of Argos: and now my beloved son has gone away in a hollow ship – he is a child, inexperienced in action or debate. I am more distressed for him even than for my husband. I tremble for him and am terrified that something may happen to him, either in the place where he has gone, or at sea. There are many enemies plotting against him, intent on killing him before he gets back to his own native land.’ The insubstantial phantom answered her: ‘Do not worry, do not let your heart be troubled with such great fear. Such is the power of the escort who goes with him, one whom many other men have prayed to stand by them, Pallas Athene. She has pity for your distress: and it is she who sent me here now to bring you this message.’ Then good Penelope answered her: ‘If then you are a god, and have heard the voice of a god, tell me too about the other: tell me if that poor man is alive somewhere and still sees the light of the sun, or is he dead now and down in the house of Hades?’ The insubstantial phantom answered her: ‘Of him, alive or dead, I will not tell you all: and empty words are wind and nothing.’ So speaking the phantom slipped past the bolt by the door-post and out into the breath of the winds. And the daughter of Ikarios woke from her sleep: and her heart was warmed within her at the clarity of the dream which had visited her in the dead of the night. Meanwhile the suitors had boarded and set sail over the paths of the water, their hearts set on a stark death for Telemachos. There is a craggy island in mid-sea, half-way between Ithaka and rocky Samos, called Asteris – not a big island, but there are two harbours in it with anchorage for ships. Here the Achaians stopped to lay wait for him.

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Dawn now rose from her bed beside lordly Tithonos, to bring light to deathless gods and mortal men. The gods sat down to council, and among them Zeus the high-thunderer, whose power is greatest of all. Athene’s mind was on Odysseus, and she began to relate his many troubles to the gods: she cared for him, still in the nymph’s home where he was. ‘Father Zeus, and you other blessed ever-living gods, let no sceptred king in future seek to be kind and gentle, or set his mind on justice – no, let them cleave for ever to cruelty and violence: since not one of the people he used to rule remembers godlike Odysseus, who was gentle as a father to them. But he is now kept on an island in an agony of distress, in the house of the nymph Kalypso. She is holding him against his will, and he cannot reach his own native land – he has no oared ships with him and no crew to carry him over the broad back of the sea. And now they are determined to kill his beloved son as he returns home: he has gone for news of his father to holy Pylos and sacred Lakedaimon.’ Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: ‘My child, what is this you have let slip the guard of your teeth? Was not this your own intended plan, so that Odysseus can return and take vengeance on these men? As for Telemachos, you have the skill and power to see him safe on his way–bring him back unscathed to his own country, so the suitors must sail home in their ship with nothing achieved.’ So he spoke, and turned to his dear son Hermes: ‘Hermes, since you are our messenger in all things, tell the lovely-haired nymph of our infallible decree, that enduring Odysseus must start on his journey home – without help from gods or mortal men. But it will be on a raft tied together with many ropes, and a voyage of great hardship. On the twentieth day he will reach fertile Scheria, the land of the Phaiacians, who are a people close to the gods. They will honour him like a god with all their hearts, and bring him home in a ship to his own dear native land, giving him bronze and gold and clothing in plenty – many gifts, more than Odysseus would

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ever have brought out of Troy, if he had come home unharmed with his full share of the spoil. That is how he is fated to see his family again and, return to his high-roofed house and his own native land.’ So he spoke, and Hermes the guide, the slayer of Argos, did not fail to obey. Immediately he bound under his feet the beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, which carried him over water and limitless earth alike, fast as the wind’s blowing: and he took up the rod with which he lulls the eyes of mortal men as he wishes, and again wakes men from their sleep. With his rod in his hands the mighty slayer of Argos flew on his way. From the upper air he alighted in Pieria, and then dived down to the sea. Then he sped over the waves like a sea-gull hunting for fish through the dread gulfs of the harvestless sea and wetting its feathered wings in the brine: so Hermes was carried like a bird over the many waves of the sea. But when at last he reached that distant island, he came from the violet sea onto land, and went on until he reached the great cave where the lovely-haired nymph had her home: and he found her inside. A great fire was burning in the hearth, and far over the island there was spread the scent of the cedar logs and citron-wood burning there. And she was inside, singing in a lovely voice as she worked to and fro at her loom, weaving with a golden shuttle. Round the cave there was abundant growth of trees, alder and poplar and fragrant cypress: and in the trees there roosted wide-winged birds, owls and hawks and long-tongued cormorants, sea-birds whose work is on the water. And right there round the mouth of the hollow cave ran a golden vine in full glory, rich with clusters of grapes. And there were four springs running with bright water, close at their source then turning to flow each in its own direction. On either side soft meadows grew thick with violet and wild celery. This was a place where even an immortal coming there would gaze at the sight with wonder, and take pleasure in his heart. And there the guide, the slayer of Argos, did stand and gaze: and when he had gazed his fill at all around, he went directly into the broad cave. When Kalypso, queen among goddesses, saw him face to face, she did not fail to know him – the immortal gods can recognise each other even if one lives far away. But great-hearted Odysseus he did not find inside. He was sitting weeping on the shore, where he always did, breaking his heart with tears and groans and anguish: he would sit there looking out over the harvestless sea, with his tears falling. Then Kalypso, queen among goddesses, seated Hermes on a bright shining chair and began to question him: ‘Why now, Hermes, god of the golden wand, have you come? You are honoured and loved here, but before now you have not visited often. Say what is in your mind: my heart prompts me to do it, if I can and it is to be. But first come inside with me, and let me give you hospitality.’

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So speaking the goddess placed a table beside him full of ambrosia, and mixed red nectar for him. So the guide, the slayer of Argos, began to eat and drink. When he had eaten and satisfied his heart with food, he then at last spoke in answer to her questions: ‘You ask me, though I have come as one god to another. Well, I shall tell you the matter frankly – since that is your wish. It was Zeus who told me to come here – none of my own will: who would choose to go all the way across that endless tract of salt water? And not a city of mortals anywhere near, where they make sacrifices and offer gods choice hecatombs! But for any other god there is no avoiding or ignoring the will of Zeus who holds the aegis. Now he says that you have a man here who has suffered the most misery of all those who fought round the city of Priam for nine years. They sacked it in the tenth year, and set off for home: but on their way they offended Athene, and she raised a great storm and huge waves against them. Then all his noble companions perished, but wind and wave carried him and brought him here. Now Zeus has ordered you to let him go without delay. It is not his destiny to die here far from his people, but he is fated still to see his family again and return to his high-roofed house and his own native land.’ So he spoke, and Kalypso, queen among goddesses, shuddered. Then she spoke winged words to him: ‘You are cruel, you gods, jealous beyond measure. You resent goddesses sleeping with men in open union, if one of us makes a man her loved husband. So it was when rosy-fingered Dawn chose Orion. All the time you resented her, you gods who live at ease yourselves, until chaste Artemis of the golden throne visited him with her gentle arrows and killed him in Ortygia. So it was when lovely-haired Demeter yielded to her desire for Iasion and lay with him in love’s union in the three-furrowed fallow: it was not long before Zeus heard of it, and he killed him, striking him down with a flashing thunderbolt. And so now this time with me – you gods resent me having a mortal man with me. I saved him when he was floating astride his keel, alone after Zeus had smashed his fast ship with a vivid thunderbolt and shattered it in the middle of the sparkling sea. Then all his noble companions perished, but wind and wave carried him and brought him here. I welcomed him and looked after him: I told him I would make him immortal and ageless for all time. But since for any other god there is no avoiding or ignoring the will of Zeus who holds the aegis, let the man go – if it is Zeus who orders his going – let him be gone over the harvestless sea. I cannot give him passage myself: I have no oared ships here and no crew to carry him over the broad back of the sea. But I shall gladly give him advice, and hold nothing back, so he can reach his native land unscathed.’ Then Hermes the guide, the slayer of Argos, answered her: ‘Then send him off now as you say, mindful of the anger of Zeus – you do not want to provoke him and feel his fury later.’

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So speaking the mighty slayer of Argos left her. And the great nymph, now that she had heard the message from Zeus, went in search of great-hearted Odysseus. She found him sitting on the shore. His eyes were never dry of tears, and the sweet life was ebbing from him as he wept for his return – since he had lost his pleasure in the nymph. At nights, indeed, he had no choice but to sleep with her in her hollow cave – she was willing, he unwilling. But by day he would sit on the rocks and sands of the shore, breaking his heart with tears and groans and anguish, looking out over the harvestless sea with his tears falling. Here the queen among goddesses came close and spoke to him: ‘Poor man, let us have no more weeping, no more wasting of your life in this place: I am now quite willing to let you go. So come: cut long timbers with the bronze and fit them together into a broad raft. Then fix decking above it, so it can carry you over the hazy sea. And I shall put food in it, and water and red wine, good things which will keep away hunger: and I shall give you clothing, and send a fair wind behind you, so you can reach your native land unscathed – if the gods who hold the wide heaven wish it. They have more power than I to plan and to fulfil.’ So she spoke, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus shuddered. Then he spoke winged words to her: ‘It is something else you have in mind for me, goddess, not any safe journey at all, if you tell me to cross the great gulf of the sea in a raft. These are fearful and dangerous waters – not crossed even by balanced ships with all their speed and revelling in a fair wind from Zeus. So I would not set out on any raft without your good will – unless you are ready, goddess, to swear me a great oath that you will not plot any further mischief to harm me.’ So he spoke, and Kalypso, queen among goddesses, smiled. She stroked him with her hand, and spoke to him, saying: ‘What a rogue you are and full of cunning, to think of saying such a thing as that! Well, may Earth now be my witness, and the wide heaven above, and the flowing water of Styx, which is the greatest and the most awesome oath for the blessed gods – I shall not plot any further mischief to harm you. No: what I intend, what I shall consider now, is all that I would plan for myself, if ever need were to come so strongly on me. I too have a mind which is fair. The heart in my breast is not made of iron: I can feel pity.’ So speaking the queen among goddesses led the way quickly, and he followed in her footsteps. So they came, god and man, to the hollow cave. And there Odysseus sat down on the seat that Hermes had left, and the nymph placed beside him all manner of food for him to eat and drink – the food that mortal men eat. She herself sat down opposite godlike Odysseus, and her maids served ambrosia and nectar for her. So they put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. When they had put away their desire

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for eating and drinking, Kalypso, queen among goddesses, was the first to speak: ‘Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, so then it is your wish to be going now straightaway, back to your home and your dear native land? Well, I wish you joy in spite of all. Yet if you only knew in your own mind all the hardships you are fated to go through before you reach your own country, you would stay here and keep this house with me, and become immortal, for all your longing to see the wife whom you yearn for all the time, day after day. But I can claim to be hardly her inferior, in body or stature – since it is never right for mortal women to compete in form or looks with immortals.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Great goddess, do not be angry with me at this. I myself know it all full well, that good Penelope is less than you in beauty and imposing stature: she is a mortal woman, and you are immortal and ageless. But even so it is my wish and my yearning all the time to go home and see the day of my return. And if some god wrecks me on the sparkling sea, I shall bear it with a heart in my breast that is used to sorrow. Already I have suffered much and endured many hardships in wave and war: this can join the others.’ So he spoke, and the sun set and darkness came on. Then the two went and took their pleasure in love in the corner of the hollow cave, and stayed together side by side. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, Odysseus dressed himself straightaway in cloak and tunic. The nymph put on a great silver-white mantle, a lovely garment of fine weave, and set a beautiful golden belt around her waist, and a veil to cover her head. Then she put her mind to great-hearted Odysseus’ departure. She gave him a great axe of bronze, sharp on both sides and well-fitted to the hand – it had a beautiful haft of olive-wood fixed tightly in it. And she gave him also a smooth-handled adze. Then she led the way to the far part of the island, where the trees grew tall, alder and poplar, and fir reaching to the sky – wood that was long dry and well seasoned, and would float easily for him. When she had shown him where the tall trees grew, Kalypso, queen among goddesses, went back to the house, and he began to cut his timbers – and the work went quickly. He felled twenty trees in all, then trimmed them with the axe, smoothed them skilfully and made them true to the line. Then Kalypso, queen among goddesses, brought him drills: and he bored through all the timbers and fitted them to each other, driving them fast together with treenails and joints. As wide as a man well skilled in ship-building rounds the hull of a broad merchant vessel, such was the width Odysseus gave to the raft he made. He set decking above, fixing it with a row of ribs, and worked on, to finish with long wales along the ribs. He made a mast for it, with a ­yard-arm fitted: and he

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made also a steering-oar, to keep it straight on course. And he fenced it all round with wicker bulwarks to keep out the waves, and piled brushwood as dunnage. Meanwhile Kalypso, queen among goddesses, brought him cloth to make a sail, and he fashioned this well too. Then he made fast in it braces, halyards, and sheets, and dragged the raft on rollers down to the holy sea. It was the fourth day, and all his work was done. On the fifth day the goddess Kalypso saw to his leaving her island, after she had bathed him and dressed him in sweet-smelling clothes. In his raft she placed a skin of dark wine and a second large skin of water, and dry provisions in a leather sack: and she added tasty meats in plenty. Then she set a fair wind blowing safe and warm. Joyful at the wind godlike Odysseus spread his sail and sat at the steering­ oar holding his course with skill. And sleep never fell on his eyelids as he kept his watch on the Pleiades, and late-setting Boötes, and the Bear, which men also call by the name of Wain: she wheels round in the same place and watches for Orion, and is the only one not to bathe in Ocean. Kalypso, queen among goddesses, had told him to keep the Bear on his left hand throughout his sailing. For seventeen days he sailed on following his course over the sea, and on the eighteenth there appeared the shadowy mountains of the land of the Phaiacians, where it was nearest to his view: it looked to him like a shield set in the hazy sea. Now the Earthshaker, the powerful lord Poseidon, was returning from Ethiopia, and from far away, from the mountains of the Solymoi, he caught sight of Odysseus sailing over the sea. Anger deepened in his breast. He shook his head and said to his own heart: ‘Oh, so now the gods have changed their mind over Odysseus, while I was away with the Ethiopians – and now he is close to the land of the Phaiacians, where he is fated to escape the bond of all the misery that visits him. But even so I promise I shall drive him yet to his fill of trouble.’ So speaking he gathered the clouds, and taking his trident in his hands he whipped up the sea. He roused all the blasts of every wind there is, and covered earth and sea alike in cloud: and night rushed down from the sky. East and south wind fell together on the sea, with the ill-blowing west wind and the north wind, child of the clear air, rolling the waves huge. Then Odysseus’ strength and spirit collapsed, and in dismay he spoke to his own great heart: ‘Oh, my misery! What will become of me in the end? I fear that the goddess spoke it all in truth when she said that I would go through travails at sea before reaching my own country. And now all this is coming to pass – look at the clouds which Zeus is wreathing across the breadth of the sky, the way he has whipped up the sea, the furious blowing of all the winds there are:

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now my stark destruction is sure. Thrice-blessed and four times blessed are those Danaans who perished there in the broad land of Troy doing service to the sons of Atreus. If only I too had died and met my fate on that day when the massed Trojans hurled their bronze-tipped spears at me over the body of Achilleus. Then I would have won due burial rites, and the Achaians would have carried my glory abroad. But now I am doomed to be taken by a miserable death.’ As he spoke a huge wave, rearing fearsomely, crashed down over him and sent the raft spinning. He let the steering-oar go from his hands, and was flung far from the raft. Then there came a terrible blast of all the winds joining together, which snapped his mast in two and sent sail and sailyard hurtling far over the sea. He was driven under water for a long time, and could not quickly surface under the force of the great wave, weighed down as he was by the clothes which the goddess Kalypso had given him: but at last he came up again, and spat out of his mouth the bitter brine that streamed down from his head. Even so, for all his exhaustion, he did not forget the raft, but struck out through the waves and caught hold of it, then sat himself in the middle of it, keeping away the end that is death. The raft was carried this way and that along the flow of the great waves. As the north wind in late summer carries dry thistles over the plain, and they stick to each other in thick clumps, so the winds carried the raft this way and that over the sea. Now the south wind would toss it to the north wind to drive, and now again the east wind would yield pursuit to the west. Now Odysseus was seen by the daughter of Kadmos, lovely-ankled Ino, also called Leukotheë, who was first a mortal woman with human voice, but now had been granted the honour of a god in the salt seas. She took pity on Odysseus adrift and in distress. She flew up from the water like a gull, sat on the raft, and spoke to him: ‘Poor man, why has Poseidon the earthshaker felt such violent anger against you, that he sows all this misery for you? Well, he will not destroy you, however furious his desire. Now you must do as I say – you seem to me no fool. Take off these clothes, leave the raft for the winds to carry with them, then start swimming, making for landfall in the country of the Phaiacians, where deliverance is fated for you. Here, take this shawl and tie it under your chest: it is immortal, and with it you have no fear of harm or destruction. But when your hands have touched land, untie it and throw it back into the sparkling sea, far out from the land: and keep your eyes turned away.’ So speaking the goddess gave him the shawl, then dropped back into the swelling sea like a gull: and the dark waves covered her over. But muchenduring godlike Odysseus hesitated, and in dismay he spoke to his own great heart: ‘Oh, I am afraid one of the immortals is again contriving a trap

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for me  – telling me to leave my raft. Well, I shall not do so yet, because I could see with my own eyes the distance to the land where she said I could find escape. No, this is what 1 shall do, and this seems to me best. As long as the timbers hold fast in their joints, I shall stay where I am and endure my plight. But when the waves break up the raft, then I shall swim – I can think of no better plan.’ While he was pondering this in his mind and his heart, Poseidon the earthshaker raised a huge wave against him, arching fearful and dangerous, and brought it crashing down on him. As when a gusty wind tosses a heap of dry chaff and scatters it far and wide, so the wave scattered the raft’s long timbers. But Odysseus got astride a single plank, riding it like a courser, and took off the clothes which the goddess Kalypso had give him. He then tied the shawl under his chest, stretched out his arms, and flung himself headlong into the sea, swimming for all he could. The Earthshaker, powerful lord, saw him. He shook his head and said to his own heart: ‘So then – after all your hardships you can keep on wandering like this over the sea, until you meet with men who are favoured by the gods. But even so I doubt you will think light of your suffering.’ So speaking he whipped on his lovely-maned horses and came to Aigai, where he has his glorious palace. But Athene, daughter of Zeus, had other thoughts. She blocked the path of all the other winds, and ordered them all to cease and go to rest. Then she set the quick north wind blowing, and broke down the waves in his path, so that royal Odysseus could escape death and destruction and meet with the oar-loving Phaiacians. Then for two nights and two days he was driven on by the heavy swell, and many times his heart foresaw death. But when lovely-haired Dawn brought in the third day, then the wind dropped and there came a windless calm: and looking keenly forward as the great swell lifted him, he saw land close by. As when a man’s children realise with joy that their father will live, when he has been lying in sickness and great pain, long wasting away under the onslaught of some hateful power, and then to their joy the gods release him from his suffering, such was Odysseus’ joy when he saw land and trees, and he swam on in haste to set his feet on solid ground. But when he was as close as a man’s shout will carry, then he heard the thunder of the sea on rocks: the huge breakers were dashing on the solid land with a fearsome roar, and all was covered in salt spray. For here there were no harbours to hold ships, no roadsteads, but only cliffs thrusting into the sea, reefs, and rocks. Then Odysseus’ strength and spirit collapsed, and in dismay he spoke to his own great heart: ‘Oh, my misery! Now that Zeus has granted me sight of land beyond my hope, and I have crossed all this great gulf of water and come through, nowhere can I find a way out of the grey sea. Off shore there

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are sharp rocks, and the breakers dashing and roaring over them: and then the cliff runs up sheer and smooth. The sea is deep close in – no way then to stand firm on both feet and escape trouble: a great wave could catch me as I try to land and dash me against the stony rocks, and my efforts could be in vain. And if I swim further round in the hope of finding a shelving beach or a haven from the sea, I fear that a storm-wind may snatch me up again and carry me groaning in despair out over the fish-filled sea, or a god may set on me one of the many sea-monsters which famous Amphitrite breeds. I know how much I am hated by the great Earthshaker.’ While he was pondering this in his mind and his heart, a great wave began to carry him against the rocky shore. And there he would have been stripped of his skin and his bones broken, if the bright-eyed goddess Athene had not prompted his mind. As he was swept up to a rock he took hold of it with both hands, and clung there groaning until the great wave had passed over him. So far he had escaped, but the wave struck him again in its rapid back-wash, and flung him far out to sea. As when an octopus is dragged out of its lair and the pebbles cling thick on its suckers, so the skin was stripped from Odysseus’ brave hands and left clinging on the rocks: and the great wave covered him over. And there wretched Odysseus would have perished beyond his fate, if bright-eyed Athene had not given him forethought. He surfaced from the breakers that thundered shorewards, and swam along outside them, keeping his eyes on the land in the hope of finding a shelving beach or a haven from the sea. And when at last in his swimming he came opposite the mouth of a fine-flowing river, this seemed to him the best place, clear of rocks and with shelter against the wind. He felt the current of the stream and prayed in his heart to the river-god: ‘Hear me, lord, whoever you are. I come to you as the answer to my many prayers, looking for escape from the sea and the menace of Poseidon. Respect is due even from the immortal gods for any man who comes in supplication far from home, as I now approach your stream after much hardship and come to beg at your knees. Have pity on me, lord: I am your suppliant.’ So he spoke, and the river immediately stopped its stream and held back the waves, and made all calm before him, and brought him safe to its mouth. And there both his knees buckled and his strong arms dropped: the heart within him had been broken by the sea. All his flesh had swollen, and sea-water gushed in streams from his mouth and nostrils. He lay there breathless and speechless, with the strength low in him, and terrible weariness came over him. When at last he regained his breath and the spirit gathered back again in his heart, he untied the scarf the goddess had given him and let it flow with the river out to sea. The strong current carried it out in its stream, and Ino quickly took it up in her own hands.

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Meanwhile Odysseus turned away from the river, sank down in a bed of reeds, and kissed the grain-giving earth. Then in dismay he spoke to his own great heart: ‘Oh, what will I suffer now? What will become of me in the end? If I spend a miserable night here by the river, I fear that hard frost and soaking dew together will be more than my weakness can survive – the life is already breathing from me: and the breeze from a river can blow cold before dawn. But if I climb up the hill-side to the shelter of the trees and lie down in the thick undergrowth, for cold and exhaustion to leave me and sweet sleep to come on, then I fear I may be prey and spoil to wild beasts.’ As he thought it over in this way it seemed to him better to go for the wooded ground, and he found the spot not far from the water in a clearing. There he crept under two bushes growing from the same stem, one of olive, the other of wild olive. These the force of no damp wind could penetrate, nor could the burning sun strike through with its rays, nor the rain push in all the way: so thick and closely-twined they grew, and Odysseus crept under them. Then he heaped up with his hands a broad bed for himself: there were dry leaves shed there in abundance, enough to cover two or three men in the winter season, however hard the weather. Much-enduring godlike Odysseus rejoiced to see this store, and lay down in the middle, piling the shed leaves over himself. As when a man buries a burning log under dark ashes, in a farm far in the country, where there are no neighbours, keeping alive the spark of fire so he need not kindle it from elsewhere, so Odysseus covered himself in leaves. And Athene shed sleep over his eyes, sleep which would close his eyelids and bring release most quickly from his pain and weariness.

B O OK 6

Nausikaä

So much-enduring godlike Odysseus slept there, overcome by sleep and exhaustion. But meanwhile Athene went to the land and city of the Phaiacians. In earlier times they had lived in broad Hypereia, near the Cyclopes  – an aggressive people, who were stronger than them and kept doing them harm. So godlike Nausithoös had the Phaiacians move from there, and led them to settle in Scheria, far away from the rest of men who eat bread on earth. He drove a wall round the settlement, and built houses, and made temples for the gods, and divided out the land for tillage. But he had long ago been brought down by fate and gone on his way to Hades, and now their king was Alkinoös, ruling them with wisdom from the gods. It was to his house that the bright-eyed goddess Athene now went, planning great-hearted Odysseus’ return. She made her way into a richly-decorated bedroom, where there was sleeping a girl like the immortal goddesses in body and looks  – Nausikaä, the daughter of great-hearted Alkinoös. With her there were two maids, both blessed with beauty from the Graces, sleeping on either side of the doorposts: and the shining doors were shut. Like a breath of wind Athene swept through to the girl’s bed, and stood above her head and spoke to her, taking the form of the daughter of Dymas, famed for his ships: she was of an age with Nausikaä, and a friend in whom her heart delighted. In this shape, then, bright-eyed Athene spoke to her: ‘Nausikaä, how did your mother come to have such a lazy child? Look, your shining clothes are lying here all uncared for, yet the day of your marriage is not far off, when you will need to be beautifully dressed yourself and to provide fine clothing for all your escort. These things, you know, make people speak well of a bride, to the joy of her father and honoured mother. So, let us go to do the washing when dawn shows. And I will come with you to help with the work, so you can get yourself ready as soon as possible – you will not be an unmarried girl for much longer, you know. Already you are being sought by the best men of all the Phaiacians in their land, which is the land of your own family too. So come, ask your famous father to get ready mules and a wagon before dawn,

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to carry the shirts and dresses and shining blankets. And for you too this is much better than going on foot: it is a long way from town to the washingplaces.’ So speaking, bright-eyed Athene went away to Olympos, where, as men say, the gods’ everlasting home is fixed for ever. There no winds shake, no rain drenches, no snow comes near, but a cloudless sky stretches wide above, and a bright radiance is spread over all: here the blessed gods take their pleasure all their days. This was where the bright-eyed goddess went, when she had given her message to the girl. Immediately the throned Dawn came, and woke fine-robed Nausikaä. She marvelled at her dream, and set off through the house to tell her parents, her dear father and her mother. She found them both inside. Her mother was seated at the hearth with her maid-servants, spinning sea-purple wool on the distaff: and she met her father as he was going out to join the illustrious princes at a council meeting to which the Phaiacian nobles were calling him. She came close to her dear father and spoke to him: ‘Daddy dear, could you not fit me out a high wagon with good wheels, so that I can take our fine clothes to the river to wash – I have them all piled here dirty. You yourself should have clean clothes to wear when you are with the leading men talking in your council debates. And you have five dear sons of yours in the house – two married, but three are lusty bachelors who are always wanting newwashed clothes when they go to the dance. And all this is my concern.’ So she spoke. She was too shy to speak openly to her dear father of her own fruitful marriage, but he understood all and answered her: ‘You are welcome to the mules, child, and anything else I can give. Yes, you may go. The servants will get you ready a high wagon with good wheels, and fit its carriage-work.’ So speaking he gave orders to the servants, and they obeyed. They got ready a well-wheeled mule cart outside the house, and brought up the mules and yoked them to the wagon: meanwhile the girl carried the bright clothing from her room, and placed it in the polished wagon. Her mother filled a box with tasty food of all sorts, putting in delicacies and pouring wine into a goat-skin. The girl climbed up on the wagon, and her mother handed her soft olive-oil in a gold flask, for her and her maids to rub into their skin. She took up the whip and the shining reins, and whipped the pair of mules on. There was a clatter of hooves, and they stepped out eagerly, carrying along both the clothes and their mistress – she was not alone, but her maids went with her as well. At length they reached the beautiful stream of the river, where there were washing-troughs which never failed  – so much lovely water flowed out through  them, enough to clean even the dirtiest clothes. Here they

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unharnessed the mules from the cart, and shooed them along the bank of the eddying river to graze the sweet dog’s-tooth grass. Then they lifted the clothes from the cart in their arms, and carried them into the dark water, and began treading them briskly in the troughs, making a game of it. When they had washed the clothes and cleaned all the stains from them, they spread them out in a row along the shore, where the sea beating on land left the pebbles cleanest. Then they bathed and rubbed themselves richly with oil, and took their meal on the bank of the river, waiting for the clothes to dry in the sunlight. When maids and mistress had taken their pleasure in food, they threw off their head-scarves and began a game of ball: and white-armed Nausikaä led their sports. As when Artemis the archer-goddess ranges over the mountains – on the heights of Taygetos or on Erymanthos – delighting in the boars and the quick-running deer: with her, nymphs of the countryside, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus, join in the chase, and her mother Leto’s heart rejoices  – Artemis holds head and forehead above them all, and, though all are beautiful, she cannot be mistaken. So now, among her maids, the unmarried girl Nausikaä stood out clear in her beauty. But when she was minded to yoke the mules and fold the fine clothes and set off for home again, then the bright-eyed goddess Athene thought of one more plan – so that Odysseus should wake and see the beautiful girl, and she should guide him to the city of the Phaiacians. So, when the princess threw the ball to one of her maids, it flew past the maid and fell in a deep eddy of the river, and they all shrieked loud. This woke godlike Odysseus. He sat up and debated in his heart and mind: ‘Oh, whose land have I come to this time? Are they violent, savage, and lawless people – or hospitable folk with a godfearing habit? There is a sound around me of young women shrieking – they must be the nymphs who live in the high mountain-peaks or the springs of rivers or the grassy water-meadows. Or am I perhaps close to mortals of human speech? Well, let me find out and see for myself.’ So speaking godlike Odysseus crept out from the bushes, and with his powerful hand he broke off from the thick undergrowth a leafy branch, to cover his naked manhood. Then he set out like a mountain lion who, sure of his own power, goes on his way through rain and wind, his eyes burning: he is after cattle or sheep or wild deer, and his hungry belly urges him to break right into a close-built fold and try for the flocks. So it was that Odysseus made to meet these lovely-haired girls, naked though he was: necessity was on him. And he was a horrible sight to them, all uglified by the brine. They fled in terror this way and that over the jutting shores. Only the daughter of Alkinoös stayed: Athene had put courage in her heart and taken the fear from her legs. She then stood firm and faced him. Odysseus pondered whether he should clasp the lovely girl’s knees to beseech her, or keep his distance where

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he was and beseech her with soft words, in the hope that she would show him where the city was and give him clothes. As he thought it over in this way it seemed to him better to use soft words of entreaty and keep his distance, as the girl might be offended if he clasped her knees. So at once he began with soft and subtle words: ‘I am your suppliant, my lady. Are you a goddess, I wonder, or a mortal? If you are one of the gods who hold the wide heaven, then it is Artemis, daughter of great Zeus, who I think you are most like in face and height and form. But if you are one of the race of mortals who live on earth, then thrice-blessed are your father and honoured mother, and thrice-blessed your brothers: their hearts must always be warmed with gladness because of you, when they see such a lovely creature entering the dance. But then the happiest man, blessed at heart beyond all others, is the one who prevails with his marriage-gifts and takes you as wife to his home. My eyes have never yet seen anyone like you, either man or woman  – I am filled with wonder as I look on you. I did once see something as fine in Delos, a young palm-tree shooting up by the altar of Apollo (yes, I have been there also, with many troops behind me, on that expedition which was to cost me so much pain). Then too my heart marvelled long at that sight – no sapling like that had ever yet sprung from the ground. So now, my lady, I feel the same awe and wonder in front of you, and I am terribly afraid to clasp your knees, though hard distress has come upon me. Only yesterday I escaped the sparkling sea, on the twentieth day: all that time I was carried by the waves and the rushing winds away from the island of Ogygia. And now some god has cast me up on this land, doubtless to suffer more hardship here: I do not think that my troubles will be over – before that the gods have much in store for me yet. So have pity on me, my lady. You are the first I have come to for help after all the misery I have suffered, and I know none of the rest of the people whose country and city this is. Show me the way to the town, and give me a rag to cover myself – perhaps you brought with you some wrapping sheet for the clothes. And for you, may the gods give you all that your heart desires, granting you husband, home, and harmony  – which is a noble thing. There is nothing stronger or better than this, when a man and wife make their home together in harmony of mind – this is grief to their enemies, joy to their friends, and high repute for themselves.’ Then white-armed Nausikaä answered him: ‘Stranger, you do not seem a man of low birth or intelligence. You must know then that Zeus the Olympian and he alone allots men their prosperity, to high and low alike and to each man as he will: he will have given you this fortune, and you must simply endure it. But now, since you have come to our country and city, you will not go short of clothing or anything else which is due on the approach of a

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suppliant who has suffered much. I shall show you the way to the town, and tell you the name of our people. It is the Phaiacians who live in this country and city, and I am the daughter of great-hearted Alkinoös: on him depends all the might and strength of the Phaiacians.’ So she spoke, and then called out to her lovely-haired maids: ‘Stop, girls! Where are you running off to at the sight of a man? You don’t surely think he comes from an enemy people, do you? There is no living mortal, nor shall there ever be, who could come to the land of the Phaiacians bringing war. We are greatly loved by the immortals: we live far away surrounded by the wash of the ocean, at the edge of the world, and no other mortals have contact with us. No, this is a poor unfortunate who has wandered here, and we must now look after him. Zeus protects all strangers and beggars, and small kindness costs nothing. So, girls, give the stranger food and drink, and bathe him in the river, where there is shelter from the wind.’ So she spoke, and the maids stood still and called to each other. They sat Odysseus down in a sheltered spot, as Nausikaä, the daughter of great-hearted Alkinoös, had ordered. They placed a cloak and tunic beside him for him to wear, and gave him soft olive-oil in the golden flask, and told him to wash in the stream of the river. Then godlike Odysseus said to the maids: ‘Girls, please stand back over there and let me myself wash the salt from my shoulders and rub myself over with olive-oil – it is a long time since my skin has known oil. I will not wash in front of you: I am ashamed to go naked in the presence of lovely-haired young women.’ So he spoke, and they withdrew and told the girl what he had said. Then in the river-water godlike Odysseus began to wash his skin clear of the salt which covered his back and broad shoulders, and scrubbed from his head the crust of the harvestless sea. Then when he had washed completely and anointed himself richly with oil, and dressed in the clothes which the virgin girl had given him, Athene, child of Zeus, made him taller and broader to look at, and sent the hair curling thick from his head like a hyacinth. As when a skilled craftsman gilds silver with an overlay of gold – a man taught mastery of his art by Hephaistos and Pallas Athene, and the creator of beautiful works – so Athene shed beauty over the head and shoulders of Odysseus. He then moved away and sat down on the shore of the sea, shining with beauty and grace: and the girl marvelled to see him. She spoke to her lovely-haired maids then, and said: ‘Listen to me, my white-armed maids: I have something to say to you. Not all the gods on Olympos are against this man: some god has willed his coming among the godlike Phaiacians. At first he seemed to me a sorry creature, but now he looks like the very gods who hold the wide heaven. If only a man like this would be named my husband, living here and content to stay! But come on, girls, give the stranger food and drink.’

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So she spoke, and they listened well and obeyed, and put food and drink beside Odysseus. And much-enduring godlike Odysseus set to eating and drinking with avid pleasure: he had been without taste of food for long. But white-armed Nausikaä had further thoughts. She folded the clothes and placed them in the fine wagon, harnessed the strong-hooved mules, and mounted the wagon herself. Then she called to Odysseus and urged him to his feet: ‘Up now, stranger, ready to go to the city, so I can see you safe to my wise-hearted father’s house – and there, I assure you, you will meet all the best of the Phaiacians. Now this is what you must do – you seem to me a man of some sense. As long as we are passing through the fields and men’s farmland, keep walking briskly with the maids behind the mules and the cart, and I shall lead the way. Then we shall reach the city. There is a high wall round it, and a fine harbour on either side. A narrow isthmus leads in, with balanced ships drawn up to the road: each and every man has his own slipway. There, next to the fine temple of Poseidon, they have their meetingplace, set round with quarried stones bedded deep in the earth. And there too they look after the tackle of their black ships, the cables and sails, and put an edge on their oars. You see, the Phaiacians have no concern for bows and quivers, only for masts and oars and the balanced ships in which they glory to sail the grey sea. These are the people whose malicious gossip I want to avoid, to have no one blaming me later. There are some very critical types in this town, and if one of the cruder ones were to meet us he could say something like this: “Now who is this tall and handsome stranger Nausikaä has with her? Where did she find him? He will be her husband, I warrant you. She will have picked him up, no doubt, from his own ship – some foreigner from far away who has wandered here, since there are no other people close to us. Or perhaps some god has come down from heaven in answer to her constant prayers, and will keep her all her days. Better it is, if she has gone about and found herself a husband from elsewhere. Certainly she shows little regard for all these at home, the many noble Phaiacians who are suitors for her hand.” That is what they will say, and all this would be to my shame. Indeed I would blame any other girl who behaved like this – who to her family’s distress and with father and mother still living associates with men before she is openly married. So stranger, listen to what I tell you, to make sure that you gain help for your journey home as soon as can be from my father. By the road you will find a lovely wood of poplars, sacred to Athene: a spring runs in it, and there is meadow all around. That is where my father has his grant of land and fertile garden, about as far from the city as a shout will carry. You must sit there and wait for the time it takes us to enter the town and reach my father’s house.

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Then when you think we shall have arrived home, you must walk on into the city of the Phaiacians and ask for the house of my father, great-hearted Alkinoös. It is easily distinguished, and a little child could lead you to it: none of the other Phaiacians’ houses are built like the house of the hero Alkinoös. Now once you are safe inside the buildings and the yard, go quickly straight through the hall until you reach my mother. She sits at the hearth in the light of the fire, spinning sea-purple wool on the distaff – a wonder to see – with her chair leaning against a pillar and her maids sitting behind her. And by the same pillar leans my father’s chair, where he sits and drinks his wine like an immortal. Pass him by and throw your arms round my mother’s knees, if you want the joyful sight of the day of your return, and with all speed, however far you come from. If she has friendly thoughts for you in her heart, there is hope then that you will see your family again and return to your well-founded house and your own native land.’ So speaking she lashed the mules with her shining whip, and they quickly pulled away from the flowing river. They then ran on well, trotting nicely. Nausikaä drove them just so, to allow the maids and Odysseus to follow on foot, and applied the whip judiciously. The sun set as they reached the famous wood sacred to Athene. Here godlike Odysseus settled down, and then immediately made his prayer to the daughter of great Zeus: ‘Hear me, Atrytone, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis. Listen to me now this time: you did not hear me ever before when I was being ship-wrecked, when the famous Earthshaker was wrecking me. Grant that the Phaiacians may welcome me with kindness and pity.’ So he spoke in prayer, and Pallas Athene heard him: though as yet she would not appear to him openly face to face. This was in deference to her father’s brother, who kept up his furious anger at godlike Odysseus before he reached his own land.

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So much-enduring godlike Odysseus made his prayer there, while the strong mules carried the girl on to the town. When she reached her father’s famous house, she halted at the gateway, and her brothers, handsome as the immortal gods, gathered round her to unyoke the mules from the cart and carry the clothes indoors. She herself went to her own room, where a fire was lit for her by her chamber-maid Eurymedousa, an old woman from Apeire. She had been carried off in their balanced ships from Apeire long ago, and they had chosen her as the prize of honour for Alkinoös, since he was king over all the Phaiacians, and the people obeyed him like a god. She had been nurse to white-armed Nausikaä in the house, and it was she now who kindled a fire and prepared supper for her in her room. Then Odysseus set out to walk to the city: and in her concern for him Athene shed a thick mist round him, so that he should meet none of the great-hearted Phaiacians to challenge him and ask him who he was. But when he was just about to enter the lovely city, the bright-eyed goddess Athene herself came to meet him, in the likeness of a young girl carrying a pitcher. She stopped in front of him, and godlike Odysseus asked her: ‘Child, could you take me to the house of the hero Alkinoös, who is king over these people here? I am a stranger who has suffered much, and I come here from far away, from a distant land: so I know none of the people who live in this town and work these fields.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene answered him: ‘Yes of course, sir, I shall show you the house you ask for – it is close to my own noble father’s house. I shall lead the way, but you must follow in silence – so. Do not look at any of the people or ask any questions. People here do not tolerate strangers, and they do not welcome or look after anyone who comes from elsewhere. They put their trust in their fast ships, which speed them over the great ocean – and this is the gift of Poseidon the earthshaker. Their ships fly swift as wing or thought.’

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So speaking Pallas Athene led the way quickly, and he followed in the footsteps of the god. The ship-famed Phaiacians never saw him as he went among them on his way through the town. The lovely-haired Athene, dread goddess, would not allow it: in the concern of her heart she kept the miraculous mist shed over him. Odysseus marvelled at the harbours and the balanced ships, at the men’s meeting-places and the long high walls topped with a palisade of stakes, a wonderful sight. Then when they reached the king’s famous palace, the bright-eyed goddess Athene was the first to speak: ‘Here is the house, sir, you asked me to show you. You will find the god-ordained kings in there at their feast. But you must go in and have no fear in your heart – boldness is best in all things, even for a man who comes from elsewhere. The queen is the first you will meet in the house. Arete is the name she is known by, and she was born from the same stock as king Alkinoös. In the first place Nausithoös was born to Poseidon the earthshaker and Periboia, most beautiful of women, the youngest daughter of great-hearted Eurymedon, who was once king of the over-proud Giants: but he destroyed his reckless people, and was destroyed himself. Poseidon lay with his daughter, and the child she gave birth to was great-hearted Nausithoös, who was king among the Phaiacians: and Nausithoös fathered Rhexenor and Alkinoös. Rhexenor, new-married and still sonless, was shot down in his house by Apollo of the silver bow, leaving just one daughter, Arete. Alkinoös made her his wife, and honoured her as no other woman on earth is honoured, more than any wife in this world who keeps house for her husband. Such is the honour which Arete has held and enjoys still from her dear children, from Alkinoös himself, and from her people. They look on her like a god, and welcome her with warm greetings whenever she walks through the town – because indeed she is by no means without her own good judgement, and among her friends she will settle even the men’s quarrels. If she has friendly thoughts for you in her heart, there is hope then that you will see your family again and return to your high-roofed house and your own native land.’ So speaking bright-eyed Athene went away over the harvestless sea, leaving the lovely land of Scheria. She came to Marathon and broad-wayed Athens, and entered the strong house of Erechtheus. Meanwhile Odysseus went on towards Alkinoös’ glorious palace – and many times he stopped and wondered in his heart before reaching the bronze threshold. There was a brilliance like that of the sun or the moon throughout the high-roofed palace of great-hearted Alkinoös. Walls of bronze were built on both sides, running all the way from the entrance to the back, and there was a frieze of dark-blue enamel all around. Golden doors closed in the strong house, with silver door-posts set in a bronze threshold, and a silver

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lintel above: the door-handle was of gold. On either side of the doors there were dogs of gold and silver, which Hephaistos had made in the cunning of his craft to guard the house of great-hearted Alkinoös – they were immortal, and ageless for all time. Inside, there were chairs fixed along the walls on both sides, all the way round from the entrance to the back of the hall, each with a covering of fine cloth, closely-woven, the work of women’s hands. There the leaders of the Phaiacians would sit for their eating and drinking: and there were always supplies in plenty. Golden statues of boys stood on solid plinths holding burning torches in their hands, to give light in the hall through the night for the banqueters. Alkinoös had fifty serving-women in his palace. Some grind appleyellow corn in the mills, others weave webs at the loom or sit to spin wool from the distaff, fingers flickering like the leaves on a tall aspen: and soft oil drips from the close-packed threads. Just as the Phaiacian men are skilled above all others at speeding a fast ship in the sea, so their women excel in the craft of weaving: Athene has granted them special skill and intelligence to make things of surpassing beauty. Outside the yard and right by the gates is a great garden of four acres, with a fence running all round it. Here there grow tall fruiting trees – pears and pomegranates, bright-fruited apple trees, sweet figs and flourishing olives. The fruit of these trees never dies or fails in winter or in summer, the whole year long: but all the time the breath of the west wind is bringing some to bud and others to ripeness. Pear upon pear grows full, apple after apple, grapes in cluster after cluster, fig upon fig. There too Alkinoös has a fruitful vineyard planted out. On one side is a warm area of level ground where grapes dry in the sun: some grapes are being gathered, others trodden in the press: and in front there are unripe clusters with their flowers just shed, while others are beginning to darken. And there too, beyond the furthest row of vines, are neat vegetable-plots growing with every kind of plant in full glory. And in the garden there are two springs. One is channelled to bring water throughout the whole plot: the other runs opposite, under the entrance of the yard towards the great house, and here the townspeople draw their water. Such were the god’s glorious gifts in the house of Alkinoös. So much-enduring godlike Odysseus stood there and gazed in wonder. And when his heart was filled with the wonder of all he could see, he quickly stepped over the threshold and inside the house. He found there the leaders and lords of the Phaiacians pouring libations from their cups to Hermes the sharp-sighted, the slayer of Argos: this was the god to whom they would always make their final libation when it was time to think of sleep. But much-enduring godlike Odysseus walked straight through the hall, wrapped in the deep mist which Athene shed over him, until he reached Arete and

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king Alkinoös: and he threw his arms around the knees of Arete. Then the miraculous mist left him, and they fell silent throughout the hall at the sight of the man, and looked on him with amazement. But Odysseus began his entreaty: ‘Arete, daughter of godlike Rhexenor, after much hardship I come to beg at your knees, a suppliant before you, your husband, and these guests here – may the gods grant them a life of happiness, and may each hand on to his children the possessions of his house and the privileges granted him by the people. But for me, give me by your power a speedy return to my country. I have long been suffering miseries far from my family.’ So speaking he sat down at the hearth in the ashes by the fire: and they all stayed silent. But then at last there spoke out the old man, the hero Echeneos, who was the oldest of all the Phaiacians and their best speaker, with all the wisdom of the ages. In all good will he spoke and addressed the company: ‘Alkinoös, this is not the better way or the proper way to treat a stranger, letting him sit on the ground, in the ashes by the hearth  – while all these people here hold back, waiting for the word from you. No, come, raise the stranger up and sit him on a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine, so that we can make libation too to Zeus the thunderer: he is the patron of suppliants, and demands respect for them. And have the housekeeper give the man supper from her stores.’ Alkinoös, powerful king, heard what Echeneos said, then took the resourceful warrior Odysseus by the hand and raised him from the hearth and sat him on a shining chair next to his own, moving from it his favourite son, the kindly Laodamas. A maid brought water in a beautiful golden jug, and poured it out over a silver basin, for him to wash his hands: and she set a polished table beside him. The honoured housekeeper brought bread and placed it before him, and served him many kinds of food, generous with her store: and much-enduring godlike Odysseus began to eat and drink. Then king Alkinoös called to his herald: ‘Pontonoös, mix a bowl of wine and serve it to everyone in the hall, so that we can make libation too to Zeus the thunderer, who is the patron of suppliants and demands respect for them.’ So he spoke, and Pontonoös mixed cheering wine, poured a libation into each man’s cup, and then served them all. When they had made their libations and drunk what their hearts desired, Alkinoös spoke and addressed the company: ‘Listen to me, leaders and lords of the Phaiacians, so I can tell you what my heart within me urges. For the present, now the meal is over, you should go to your houses to sleep. But then in the morning we shall summon more of the elders and entertain the stranger in our house and make proper sacrifice to the gods. Then we shall turn our minds to his passage home, to make sure that under our escort this

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stranger reaches his native country without pain or grief  – a quick and joyful return, however far away he lives – and meets no harm or trouble on the way until he sets foot on his own land. But then thereafter he will suffer whatever Fate and the grim Spinners spun for him with their thread as he was born, at the moment his mother gave birth to him. But if he is one of the immortals come down from heaven, then this is some new trick of the gods. Before now they have always appeared clear to our sight, at our sacrifices of splendid hecatombs, and they feast with us at the same tables. And if any solitary traveller meets them on his way, there is no disguise, because we are close to the gods, as close as the Cyclopes and the wild race of Giants.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Alkinoös, that should not be any thought in your mind. In body and stature I am nothing like the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven – rather an example of mortal humankind. Indeed if you think of the men bearing the heaviest burden of misery known to any of you here, I would compare my pain to theirs: and I would go on to tell you of yet further hardship, the full total of the suffering the gods have willed me. But let me eat now, for all my grief. There is nothing as brazen as the belly – curse it! It forces a man to think of it even when he is in great distress and sick at heart. So now I am sick at heart, but my belly keeps on urging me to eat and drink, driving out the memory of all that pain, and demanding to be filled. But at the showing of dawn please speed your plans to set this luckless man back on his native land. I have suffered much, and the life can gladly leave me when I have seen my property again, my servants and my own great high-roofed house.’ So he spoke, and they all applauded and urged safe passage for this stranger: he had spoken as he should. When they had made their libations and drunk what their hearts desired, the others went each to his own house to sleep, and godlike Odysseus was left there in the hall, with Arete and king Alkinoös sitting beside him, while the maids began clearing away the dinner things. White-armed Arete was the first to speak. She had recognised when she saw them the fine clothes Odysseus wore, the cloak and tunic which she herself had made with her serving-women. She then spoke winged words to him: ‘Stranger, I have questions for you first of all. Who are you and where are you from? Who gave you these clothes? You say, do you not, that you came wandering here over the sea?’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘It would be hard, my queen, to tell you the full story of my troubles, since the heavenly gods have given me so many: but I shall say this in answer to your questions. There is an island called Ogygia lying far away in the sea. There lives the daughter

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of Atlas, the lovely-haired Kalypso, a dread goddess full of magic. No one – god or mortal man – comes near her. But an unkind fate brought me to her hearth and all alone, after Zeus had smashed my fast ship with a vivid thunderbolt and shattered it in the middle of the sparkling sea. Then all my noble companions perished, but I took hold of the keel of my balanced ship and was carried like that for nine days. Then on the tenth dark night the gods brought me to the island of Ogygia, where the lovelyhaired Kalypso lives, the dread goddess. She took me in and welcomed me kindly and looked after me, and told me she would make me immortal and ageless for all time: but she never won the heart in my breast. I stayed there seven long years, all the time wetting with my tears the immortal clothes given me by Kalypso. But when the eighth year came rolling on, then at last she let me go and encouraged my return: she had been warned by Zeus, or perhaps her own mind had changed. She sent me off on a raft tied together with many ropes, and gave me a great store of food and sweet wine, and dressed me in immortal clothing. Then she set a fair wind blowing safe and warm. For seventeen days I sailed on following my course over the sea, and on the eighteenth there appeared the shadowy mountains of your country, and my heart rejoiced – poor fool that I was! I was still to meet with much misery sent on me by Poseidon the earthshaker. He launched the winds at me to stop my course, and whipped up a monstrous sea. I groaned loud, but the waves would not let me stay on the raft, and the storm then smashed it in pieces. And I had to swim my way across this great gulf of water, until wind and wave carried me close in to your land. But there as I tried to get out the waves would have dashed me on the coast, flinging me against the great rocks of that unwelcome place – if I had not pulled back and swum on until I reached a river, which seemed to me the best place, clear of rocks and with shelter against the wind. Gathering all my strength I flung myself ashore there, as immortal night came on. I went inland away from the rain-fed river and lay down in the bushes, heaping leaves around me: and god shed a lasting deep sleep on me. So there in the leaves, and distressed at heart, I slept all night long and through the dawn and the middle of the day: the sun was westering when sweet sleep released its hold on me. And then I saw your daughter’s maids playing on the beach, and she herself was with them, looking like a goddess. I made supplication to her, and she showed every bit of good sense, more than you would expect from a young person, meeting you like that – young people are always so thoughtless. But she gave me food in plenty and gleaming wine, and washed me in the river, and gave me the clothes I am wearing. Though it pains me to tell you this story, it is the truth.’

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Then Alkinoös said in reply: ‘Well, sir, there is one respect in which my daughter did not show proper sense. She did not bring you into our house when she and the maids came back: and yet she was the first to receive your supplication.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘My lord, please do not blame your reproachless daughter on this account. She did tell me to follow her along with the maids, but it was I who refused – I was fearful and ashamed, thinking that your heart might perhaps be angry if you saw us. We men who live on earth are easily offended.’ Then Alkinoös said in reply: ‘Sir, the heart in my breast is not one given to baseless anger: but proper is better in all things. Oh, father Zeus and Athene and Apollo, how I wish that being the man you are, a man thinking as I do, you would stay here and take my daughter in marriage and become my son-in-law! I would give you a house and an estate, if you were willing to stay – but no Phaiacian will keep you against your will: may that never be the wish of father Zeus! As for your escort home, I hereby decree a date for it, so you can be in no doubt – it will be tomorrow. During that journey you will be lying in the grip of sleep while they drive over a calm sea until you reach your country and your home and all that is dear to you – even if it is far further than Euboia, which those of our people who have seen it say is the most distant of all lands. That was when they took fair-haired Rhadamanthys to visit Tityos the son of Earth. And I tell you they went there and completed the journey home again without trouble in the same day. But you will learn for yourself in your own mind how far my ships are the best and our young men the best at churning the salt sea with their oars.’ So he spoke, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus rejoiced at his words, and then spoke aloud in his own prayer: ‘Father Zeus, may Alkinoös fulfil all that he has promised. Then his glory will never die over the grain-giving earth, and I shall reach my own country.’ Such were their words to each other. And white-armed Arete told the serving-women to set up a bed under the portico and put fine purple rugs on it and spread blankets above, and lay woolly cloaks on top for a covering. The women went out of the hall with torches in their hands, and busied themselves spreading a thick bed. When they had finished, they came up to Odysseus and bade him rise: ‘Come, sir, you may go to rest now: your bed is made.’ So they spoke, and sleep was a welcome prospect to him. So muchenduring godlike Odysseus slept there on a fretted bed under the echoing portico. And Alkinoös went to sleep inside the high house, and the queen his wife prepared and shared his bed.

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Phaiacian Games and Song

When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, Alkinoös, powerful king, got up from his bed, and royal Odysseus, the sacker of cities, rose too. King Alkinoös led their way to the Phaiacians’ assembly-place, which was built close to their ships. When they reached it, they sat down on the polished stones next to each other. Meanwhile Pallas Athene went all through the town in the likeness of a herald from wise Alkinoös. She was planning the return home for great-hearted Odysseus, and as she came up to the men one by one she said: ‘Come this way, you leaders and lords of the Phaiacians. Come to the assembly to hear about the stranger who has just arrived at the palace of wise Alkinoös – a wanderer over the sea, and a man who looks like the immortal gods.’ So speaking she spurred the will and heart in each of them. Quickly the seats and places in the assembly were filled by the gathering people, and there were many who looked with wonder on the wise son of Laertes. Athene shed miraculous grace over his head and shoulders, and made him taller and broader to look at, so that all the Phaiacians would welcome him and regard him with awe and respect, and he would succeed through the many contests in which they would test him. When the Phaiacians were all gathered together in one place, Alkinoös spoke and addressed the company: ‘Listen to me, leaders and lords of the Phaiacians, so I can tell you what my heart within me urges. This stranger here has come in his wanderings to my house – I do not know who he is, or whether he comes from the peoples of the east or the west. He asks for his return home, and begs us to make it sure for him. So, just as we have done before, let us speed a passage for him  – since it is certain that no other man who comes to my house waits here long and pines for lack of a passage home. So come, let us haul a black ship – a first-timer – down into the holy sea and let me have fifty-two young men chosen from among you, those who have proved the best before. When you have all tied your oars fast to the rowlocks, leave the ship and then come quickly to my house to

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take your meal – I shall provide well for you all. Those are my instructions for the young men. As for the sceptred princes, you are all to come to my fine palace so that we can entertain the stranger in our hall  – and let us have no refusals. And summon the divine bard, Demodokos: he is the man to whom above all others god has given the gift of song, to delight us in whatever way his heart inspires him to sing.’ So speaking he led the way, and the princes went with him: a herald set off to fetch the divine bard. As Alkinoös had ordered, the fifty-two young men went down to the shore of the harvestless sea. When they reached the sea and the ship, they hauled the black ship down to the deep water, then placed the mast and the sails in the ship, and fixed all the oars properly in their leather loops. They spread the white sails, and moored the vessel well afloat in the water. Then they set off to go to wise Alkinoös’ great house. The whole house, porticoes, yards, and rooms, was filled with the crowd of men gathering there, young and old alike. For this company Alkinoös slaughtered twelve sheep, eight white-tusked hogs, and two shambling oxen. These they flayed and prepared, and got ready a delightful feast. Then the herald approached leading the loyal bard. This was a man the Muse had loved more than any other, but she had given him both good and bad: she had robbed him of his eyes, but gave him the gift of sweet song. Pontonoös set a silver-studded chair for him in the middle of the company, placing it firmly against a tall pillar. On a peg there above the bard’s head the herald hung his clear-voiced lyre, and showed him how to reach it with his hands: and beside him he placed a fine table, with a basket of bread and a cup of wine, for him to drink at will. So the company put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, the Muse inspired the bard to sing tales of men’s glory. He chose from the song whose fame then reached to the broad heaven, the story of the quarrel between Odysseus and Achilleus son of Peleus – how once at a rich feast for the gods they had clashed with angry words, and Agamemnon lord of men was happy at heart, to see the best of the Achaians quarrelling. This was the oracle that Phoibos Apollo had given him in holy Pytho, when he crossed the stone threshold to put his question to the god: by then the beginning of disaster was rolling on for both Trojans and Danaans through the will of great Zeus. Such was the theme of the song the famous bard was singing. But Odysseus took his great purple cloak in his strong hands and drew it down over his head, hiding his handsome face: he was shedding tears from his eyes, and out of politeness did not wish the Phaiacians to see them. Whenever the divine bard paused in his singing, Odysseus would wipe away the tears and take the

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cloak from his head, and then lift his two-handled cup and make a libation to the gods. But then whenever the bard started singing again at the insistence of the Phaiacian nobles in their pleasure at his song, Odysseus would cover his head once more and continue to weep. His tears went unseen by all the others at the feast, but Alkinoös noticed and was the only one to realise, sitting next to him and hearing his deep groans. Immediately he spoke to the oar-loving Phaiacians: ‘Listen to me, leaders and lords of the Phaiacians. Our hearts have had their fill now of the shared feast, and of the lyre which is the accompaniment of a fine meal. So now let us go outside and try ourselves in all the sports, so that when this stranger gets home he can tell his friends how far we excel other men in boxing and wrestling, jumping and running.’ So speaking he led the way, and the others followed. The herald hung the clear-voiced lyre back on the peg, took Demodokos’ hand and led him out of the hall, then guided him along the same path taken by the Phaiacian nobles on their way to watch the athletics. They all walked to the meeting-place, and with them followed a huge crowd, thousands of people. Many young nobles stood forward to take part. Up stood Akroneos and Okyalos and Elatreus, Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialos, Eretmeus, Ponteus and Proreus, Thoön and Anabesineos and Amphialos, son of Polyneos the son of Tekton: and Euryalos stood forward also, looking like Ares the curse of men – he was the son of Naubolos, and the best of all the Phaiacians in body and looks after the noble Laodamas. And there stood up all three sons of noble Alkinoös – Laodamas, Halios, and godlike Klytoneos. Their first contest was the foot-race. They set off at full stretch from the start, and flew on at speed all together, raising the dust over the ground. By far the best runner was the noble Klytoneos: he set a lead equal to the breadth of fallow a pair of mules can plough in a day, and came back to the crowd far in front, the others left behind. Painful wrestling was the next contest, and here Euryalos beat all the other nobles. In the jumping Amphialos led them all: the champion with the discus was Elatreus, and at boxing Laodamas, the noble son of Alkinoös. Then when they had all taken their pleasure in the games, Laodamas, Alkinoös’ son, spoke to them: ‘Come, friends, let us ask this stranger if there is any sport he has learnt. He is certainly not without the build for it – good thighs and legs, a good pair of arms, a massive neck, and all that strength. And he is still in his prime, though broken down by many hardships: I tell you there is nothing worse than the sea to break a man, however strong he may be.’ Then Euryalos said in reply: ‘Laodamas, that was well said. So go now and challenge him yourself, telling him your idea.’

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On hearing this the noble son of Alkinoös stepped forward into the middle and spoke to Odysseus: ‘Come now, old sir, you should try the games too, if there is any sport you have learnt – and I am sure that you know some sports. There is no greater glory a man can win throughout his life than what he achieves by the speed of his feet or the strength of his arms. So come now, make your trial, and cast all cares from your heart – your journey home is not far away now: the ship has been launched for you and the crew is ready.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Laodamas, why are you two provoking me with this challenge? My thoughts are on my troubles, not on games. Before now I have suffered much and been through much hardship: and now I am sitting here in your assembly-place urgent for my return and making my plea to your king and all your people.’ Then Euryalos answered and insulted him to his face: ‘No, stranger, you do not look to me like a man who knows anything of the many sports there are in the world. You are more like someone who spends his life plying to and fro in a benched ship, giving his orders to trafficking sailors, a cargo-minder looking for trade and easy profits. No, you do not have the look of an athlete.’ Resourceful Odysseus scowled at him and said: ‘Stranger, that was unfair, and shows you a lout. So it is that the gods do not grace all men with every gift  – with beauty, intelligence, and quality of speaking. One man may be deficient in looks, but god crowns his words with beauty, so that people look up to him with pleasure at his fluent speech and persuasive charm, and he excels in any gathering – as he goes through the town they look on him like a god. And then another may have looks like the immortals, but no grace is shed over the words he speaks. So it is with you: outstanding looks – not even a god could make them better – but emptiness of mind. Now you have roused the anger in my heart with your ill-considered speech. I am no incompetent at games, as you claim: indeed I reckon myself among the best, as long as I can trust my vigour and the strength of my hands. But now I am held down by hardship and pain: I have been through much, threading the wars of men and dangerous seas. But even so, despite all my suffering, I shall try your games. Your words have stung my heart, and I rise to your challenge.’ So speaking he leapt up, cloak and all, and seized a large, thick discus, heavier by some way than those the Phaiacians used for throwing in their contests. He whirled it round and flung it from his mighty hand, and the stone hummed on its way: and the Phaiacians, masters of the long oar and famed for their ships, crouched down to the ground as the stone flew over them. It overshot the marks of all the other throws, so fast did it fly from his hand. Athene, taking the form of a man, marked the spot, and called out: ‘Even a blind man, stranger, feeling with his hands could tell your mark from the others  – it is not among the pack, but far ahead. So you can be

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confident for this contest at least: none of the Phaiacians will reach this mark or overshoot it.’ So she spoke, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus was delighted, glad that he could see a kind friend in the gathering. He then spoke in lighter heart to the Phaiacians: ‘Well, reach that, you young men. In a moment I think I shall throw another as far or even further. Now any others of you, whose heart and spirit prompts you, come and try me now – since you have angered me greatly – at boxing or wrestling or even in the foot-race. I welcome it all, and give this challenge to all the Phaiacians other than Laodamas himself. He is my host, and who would fight with a man who entertains him? Only a fool and a worthless man would challenge his host in a foreign land to a contest of sport: that would be to cut his own chances. But of the rest of you there is no one I refuse or belittle: I am prepared to find out your worth and try you openly. I am not bad at all the sports that men play. I know how to handle a polished bow: I would be the first to hit my man with my shot in a welter of enemies, even if I was surrounded by many comrades all shooting at their men. Only Philoktetes could beat me with the bow among all the people at Troy, whenever we Achaians were shooting arrows there. Of the others I claim to be far the best, of those, that is, who are alive now and eat their mortal bread on earth. With men of the past I would not wish to compete – with Herakles or with Eurytos of Oichalia, men who contended in archery even with the immortals. That is why great Eurytos came to a sudden death, and he never reached old age in his house: Apollo killed him in anger, for challenging him with the bow. With the spear I can throw as far as another man can shoot an arrow. It is only in the foot-race that I fear one of the Phaiacians may pass me. I have been cruelly broken down amid the countless waves, and the stores on my craft did not last: so the strength of my legs has collapsed.’ So he spoke, and they all stayed silent. Only Alkinoös answered him and said: ‘Stranger, we cannot but accept what you say to us. You want to display the prowess which is part of you, and you were angry that this man stood up in the games and insulted you – in a way that no man who had the wit for sensible speech would ever slight your prowess. But now you listen to what I say, so that you can tell some other hero too, when you are dining in your own house with your wife and children and recalling our prowess – you can tell them the qualities which Zeus has bestowed on us, all the way down from our fathers’ time. We are not great boxers or wrestlers, but we can run fast and with ships we are the best. Our constant pleasures are the feast, the lyre and dancing, changes of clothes, warm baths, and bed. So come now, all you Phaiacians who are best at the dance, make your sport now, so that when this stranger gets home he can tell his friends how

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far we excel other men in seamanship and running, dancing and song. And someone quickly bring his clear-voiced lyre for Demodokos  – it is there somewhere in our house.’ So spoke the godlike Alkinoös, and a herald rose to go and bring the hollow lyre from the king’s palace. Then nine umpires stood up  – elected public officials whose job it was to organise everything at the games. They smoothed out the dancing-floor, and cleared a fine wide space. Then the herald approached carrying the clear-voiced lyre for Demodokos, and he then stepped forward into the middle: and round him stood the boys in their first youth, the expert dancers, who beat out a marvellous dance with their feet. And Odysseus looked on at the flashing of their feet with admiration in his heart. Demodokos then struck up on his lyre to sing a fine song, about the love of Ares and lovely-crowned Aphrodite, how they first lay together secretly in Hephaistos’ house. Ares had given her many gifts, and was dishonouring the marriage-bed of lord Hephaistos. But the Sun came to tell Hephaistos – he had seen them at their love-making. So when Hephaistos heard this painful tale, he went off to his forge, brooding ugly thoughts. He set his great anvil on the anvil-block, and began forging chains that could not be broken or undone, so the lovers would be fixed fast where they were. Then when he had made this trap in his anger at Ares, he went to the bedroom where his own bed lay, and spread the chains all round the bed-posts, with many hanging too from the beam above  – all light as spiders’ webs, that no one could see, not even the blessed gods: such was the cunning of his craftsmanship. Then when he had spread the complete snare round his bed, he made as if to go to Lemnos, the well-founded city in the land which was dearest of all to him. But Ares of the golden reins was not keeping blind watch: he saw Hephaistos the famous craftsman going away. He set off then to the house of renowned Hephaistos, urgent for love with the lovelycrowned Kythereia. She had just returned from the house of her mighty father, the son of Kronos, and was sitting there. He came into the room, and took her hand and spoke to her: ‘Come, dear one, let us go to bed and enjoy our love. Hephaistos is no longer around: by now, I think, he has gone to Lemnos, to join the barbarous Sintians.’ So he spoke, and bed was a welcome prospect to her. So the two of them went to the bed and lay down. And then all around them there dropped the intricate chains which cunning Hephaistos had made, so that they could not move or lift a single limb: and they realised the truth only when there was no escape left. And now the famous lame god approached. He had turned back before reaching the land of Lemnos, warned by the Sun who was keeping watch for him. He set off for his house, with anguish in his heart. He stood

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in the doorway, and violent rage seized him. He let out a fearful cry, and shouted to all the gods: ‘Father Zeus, and all you other blessed ever-living gods  – come here, come and see something grotesque, intolerable. See how Aphrodite, Zeus’ daughter, is always dishonouring me for my lameness, and gives her love to the appalling Ares – because he is handsome and sound of foot, whereas I was born a cripple: and no one is to blame except my two parents, and I wish they had never begotten me. So come, look, see where these two are sleeping together in love, mounting my own bed – I cannot bear the sight. Yet I doubt that they would want to lie there for a minute longer, however strong their love. Soon enough they will both regret their sleep: but my cunning bonds will keep them there, until her father pays me back all the bridal gifts I gave him for this whorish girl. His daughter is beautiful, but cannot control her passions.’ So he spoke, and the gods gathered at his bronze-floored house. Poseidon came, the encircler of the earth, and Hermes the kindly, and lord Apollo the far-worker: but the female gods all stayed at home for shame. So there the gods, the givers of good things, stood in the doorway: and uncontrollable laughter arose among the blessed gods, as they looked on the trick that cunning Hephaistos had worked. And one would glance at his neighbour and say: ‘Wrong never prospers, and swift is caught by slow. So here now Hephaistos the slow and the cripple has used his skill to catch Ares, the swiftest of all the gods that hold Olympos: and he owes him now the price of adultery.’ Such were their words to each other. Then lord Apollo, son of Zeus, said to Hermes: ‘Hermes, son of Zeus, giver of good things and guide to men, would you want to lie in bed with golden Aphrodite even though you were caught in these strong chains?’ Then Hermes the guide, the slayer of Argos, answered him: ‘Lord Apollo, far-shooter, if only it could be so! Let there be boundless chains holding me, three times that number, let  all you gods and all the goddesses be looking on, even so I would sleep with golden Aphrodite.’ So he spoke, and raised laughter among the immortal gods. Poseidon, though, did not share their laughter. He kept on begging the craftsman Hephaistos to release Ares, and spoke winged words to him: ‘Let him go: I promise you that he will pay what you ask, the proper price and paid in front of the immortal gods.’ Then the famous lame god answered him: ‘No, Poseidon, encircler of the earth, do not ask me this. Where pledges are given, worthless is as worthless does. How could I arrest you in front of the immortal gods, if Ares were to escape both debt and chains and go his way?’ Then Poseidon the earthshaker answered him: ‘Hephaistos, if Ares escapes his debt and runs away, I myself

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shall pay you what he owes.’ Then the famous lame god answered him: ‘I cannot and must not refuse your word.’ So speaking the mighty Hephaistos released the chains, strong though their grip had been, and the two were free. Immediately they jumped up and away. Ares went off to Thrace, and Aphrodite, smiling goddess, came to Cyprus, to Paphos, where she has her precinct and her altar fragrant with sacrifice. There the Graces washed her and rubbed her with oil – the immortal oil that glistens on the ever-living gods – and dressed her in lovely clothing, a wonder to see. Such was the famous bard’s song: and Odysseus listened to it with delight in his heart, together with the Phaiacians, masters of the long oar and famed for their ships. Now Alkinoös told Halios and Laodamas to dance – on their own, as no one else could match them. They then took in their hands a fine purple ball, made for them by the skilful Polybos. One would bend right back and fling the ball up to the shadowing clouds, and the other would leap high off the ground and catch it easily before his feet reached earth again. Then when they had had a round with the ball thrown straight upwards, they began dancing low on the nourishing earth, passing the ball constantly between them: the other young men standing round the ring clapped out the time, and the noise rose huge. Then godlike Odysseus said to Alkinoös: ‘Alkinoös, my lord, most illustrious of all men, you claimed that your dancers were supreme, and here now is proof of that claim. I am filled with wonder as I look on them.’ So he spoke, and Alkinoös, powerful king, was delighted. Immediately he spoke to the oar-loving Phaiacians: ‘Listen to me, leaders and lords of the Phaiacians. This stranger seems to me a man of good judgement. So come, let us give him the proper gifts of friendship. There are twelve distinguished princes who rule with authority over the people, and I am the thirteenth. Each of you should bring him a clean cloak and a tunic, and a talent of precious gold. And let us get all the gifts together at once, so that the stranger can have them in his hands and go to his dinner happy at heart. And Euryalos should make amends to him personally, with both apology and gift, for the discourteous words he said to him.’ So he spoke, and they all agreed and approved his proposal. Each one sent a herald to bring the gifts, and then Euryalos answered and said: ‘Alkinoös, my lord, most illustrious of all men, yes, I shall of course make amends to this stranger, as you ask. I shall give him this sword which is all of bronze, with a silver hilt and a scabbard round it of new-sawn ivory: it will be a possession of great value to him.’ So speaking he placed the silver-studded sword in Odysseus’ hands, and spoke winged words to him: ‘Farewell, stranger sir. If any bad word has been

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spoken, let the winds snatch it away and carry it off. And may the gods grant that you see your wife again and reach your country: you have long been suffering miseries far from your family.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘You too, friend, my greetings to you. May the gods give you happiness, and may you never in future time feel the loss of this sword which you have given me with your words of amends.’ So speaking he slung the silver-studded sword round his shoulders. Now the sun set, and the glorious gifts had arrived. Noble heralds carried them into Alkinoös’ house, where the sons of the excellent Alkinoös received the lovely gifts and placed them by their honoured mother. Then Alkinoös, powerful king, led the way home, and they all went with him and took their seats on high-backed chairs. Mighty Alkinoös then spoke to Arete: ‘Come, wife, bring a fine chest here, the best we have, and you yourself put a clean cloak in it and a tunic. And you servants heat a cauldron on the fire, and warm water for him, so that our guest can first bathe and see properly stowed all the gifts which the noble Phaiacians have brought here, and then enjoy the feast and the song he hears from the bard. And I shall give him here this cup of mine, a beautiful cup made of gold, so that he can remember me all his days when he makes libations in his own house to Zeus and the other gods.’ So he spoke, and Arete told her maids to hurry to set a great tripod over the fire. They placed a three-legged cauldron on the burning fire, and poured water into it, and brought firewood to kindle under it. The fire worked on the belly of the cauldron, and the water warmed. Meanwhile Arete brought a beautiful chest out of her store-room for the guest, and put in it the lovely gifts of clothing and gold which the Phaiacians had given him. She added a cloak and fine tunic from herself, and then spoke winged words to him: ‘Now you look to the lid yourself, and put your own knot on it quickly, so that nobody can rob you on your journey, when by and by you are sleeping sweetly as the black ship carries you on.’ When much-enduring godlike Odysseus heard this, he fitted the lid straightaway, and quickly put on it an intricate knot which queen Kirke had once taught him. Immediately after that, the housekeeper invited him to step into the bath and wash. The hot bath was a welcome sight to him, short of comforts as he had been ever since he left the house of lovely-haired Kalypso – though when he was there he had had all the constant comforts of a god. So when the serving-women had washed him and rubbed him with oil, and dressed him in a fine cloak and tunic, Odysseus stepped out of the bath and walked across to join the men at their wine. Now Nausikaä, blessed with beauty from the gods, was standing by the pillar that held the strong-built roof. She gazed at Odysseus in admiration,

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and spoke to him with winged words: ‘Farewell, stranger. When you are in your own country you can think of me sometimes, and remember how I have first claim to the debt for your life.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Nausikaä, daughter of great-hearted Alkinoös, may this now be the will of Zeus, loud-thundering husband of Hera, that I should reach home and see the day of my return. Then when I am there I shall pray to you like a god, constantly, all my days. Young woman, you gave me my life.’ So he spoke, and then went to sit beside king Alkinoös. Already the attendants were serving the helpings and mixing the wine, and the herald approached leading Demodokos, the loyal bard revered by his people: he sat him down in the middle of the company, firmly placed against a tall pillar. Then resourceful Odysseus cut off a piece from his own portion, the chine of a white-tusked hog – the greater part was still left, with rich fat all round – and called over the herald: ‘Here, herald, take this meat and give it to Demodokos – for him to eat and me to show him my appreciation, despite my sorrows. Because bards deserve honour and respect among all men on earth – the Muse has taught them the paths of song and shown her love for all the company of bards.’ So he spoke, and the herald took the meat and put it in great Demodokos’ hands: he received it with delight in his heart. So they all put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. Then when they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, resourceful Odysseus called to Demodokos: ‘Demodokos, I congratulate you above all other mortal men. Either it was the Muse herself who taught you, the daughter of Zeus, or else Apollo. You sing with such truth about the fortunes of the Achaians – all they did and suffered and all the toils they went through – as if you were there yourself or have heard from one who was. But come now, change your theme and sing of the crafted wooden horse, which Epeios made with Athene’s help, and godlike Odysseus got one day into the city – an ambush he had filled with the men who then sacked Ilios. If you can tell me this story as it rightly was, I shall then declare to the whole world how richly god has endowed you with the divine inspiration of song.’ So he spoke, and at this challenge the bard started with an invocation to the god, and then began to display his song, taking it up at the point where the Argives had fired their huts and embarked and were sailing away in their well-benched ships, leaving those with glorious Odysseus sitting concealed in the horse in the Trojans’ assembly-place. The Trojans themselves had dragged the horse into their city, and there it stood, while they sat round it in long and confused debate. Three proposals had their supporters: to break through the hollow wood with the pitiless bronze; to drag it up to the heights

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and throw it on the rocks below; or to let it stand as a great offering to win the gods’ favour. And this last was how it was to be in the end. Because it was the city’s fate to be destroyed, when it welcomed within it the great wooden horse, where there sat all the best of the Argives bringing death and destruction to the Trojans. And the bard sang of how the sons of the Achaians sacked the city, pouring out of the horse and leaving their hollow ambush. He sang how the men went this way and that through the high city to ravage it, but Odysseus went like the war-god himself to the house of Deïphobos, and godlike Menelaos with him. And that, he said, was the most terrible battle Odysseus undertook, and won in the end through the help of great-hearted Athene. Such was the famous bard’s song. But Odysseus melted in tears, and his cheeks were wet with the tears flowing from his eyes. As when a woman weeps, throwing herself over the the body of her dear husband who has fallen in front of his city and his people, trying to keep the pitiless hour of death away from his town and his children: she sees him gasping there and dying, and folds herself over him shrieking loud: and behind her they beat her back and shoulders with their spears, and carry her off into slavery, to suffer hardship and misery: and her cheeks are wasted in her most piteous grief. So Odysseus shed piteous tears from his eyes. His tears went unseen by all the others at the feast, but Alkinoös noticed and was the only one to realise, sitting next to him and hearing his deep groans. Immediately he spoke to the oar-loving Phaiacians: ‘Listen to me, leaders and lords of the Phaiacians, and Demodokos should now stop playing his clear-voiced lyre – this song of his is not giving pleasure to all of us. From the moment we started to eat and the divine bard began, our guest has not ceased from weeping and lamentation: some great sorrow must have come over his heart. So Demodokos should stop, so that we can all have equal enjoyment, hosts and guest alike: it is much better that way. Because it is for our honoured guest’s sake that all this has been arranged, our farewell to him and the gifts we are giving him in friendship. Any man who has even a little grasp of good sense looks on a stranger and a suppliant as a brother. And for that reason you too, sir, should not hide anything or dissemble in answering my questions: it is better to speak openly. Tell me your name, what you were called in your own country by your mother and father, the townspeople and neighbours. From the moment of his birth, no man is ever left nameless  – whether commoner or noble, all parents give their children names when they are born. And tell me your land and your people and city, so that our ships can aim their minds and carry you there. You see the Phaiacians have no helmsmen, and there are no rudders as

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on other ships: but the ships themselves perceive the thoughts and intentions of men, and they know the cities and rich farmland of all the world. They cross over the tracts of open sea at great speed, wrapped in mist and cloud: and there is never any fear of damage or loss. Except there is one thing I heard my father Nausithoös once speaking of. He said that Poseidon resented us, for giving safe passage home to all men: and he said that one day when one of the Phaiacians’ well-built ships was returning from such a mission Poseidon would shatter it in the hazy sea, and surround our city with a great mountain. That is what the old man said: and god may bring it to pass or leave it unfulfilled, whatever is the pleasure of his heart. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. Where have your wanderings taken you? What countries of men did you come to? Tell me about their fine cities and the men living there  – how many were violent, savage and lawless people, and who were hospitable folk with a god-fearing habit? And tell me why you weep and feel sorrow in your heart when you hear the story of the fate that befell the Argives and Troy. This fate was the work of the gods: they destined men’s destruction, and that is then a theme of song for generations yet to come. Did perhaps some brave kinsman of yours lose his life at Troy, a brother-in-law or a father-in-law? – these are the closest to a man after his own blood and family. Or was it perhaps a friend, a brave man after your own heart? A good friend and a man of sense is worth no less than a brother.’

B O OK 9

The Cyclops

Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Alkinoös, my lord, most illustrious of all men, oh, this is indeed a fine thing, to be listening to a bard such as this one is, with a voice like the gods’. For myself I say there is no more delightful state than when good cheer is spread abroad, the banqueters are sitting in their places in the hall listening to a bard, the tables beside them are full of bread and meat, and the wine-pourer is drawing wine from the bowl and carrying it round to fill their cups. To my mind this is the finest thing there is. But your heart is inclined to ask me about the troubles of mine that make me weep – and that will be more pain and weeping for me. Where then shall I start, where end? The troubles the heavenly gods have given me are so many. But first I shall tell you now my name: then you will know who I am, and if I escape the pitiless hour of death I can be a guest-friend for you in future, even though my home is far away. I am Odysseus son of Laertes. All men know me for my cunning, and my fame has reached the sky. I live in clear-set Ithaka. A mountain stands out there, Mount Neriton with its quivering leaves. Around it there lie several islands very close to each other  – Doulichion and Same and wooded Zakynthos. Ithaka itself is low-lying, and the furthest out in the sea to the west, while the other islands are away from it towards the rising sun. It is rough land, but a good place for bringing up children: I tell you, I can think of no sweeter sight than one’s own country. Kalypso, queen among goddesses, tried to keep me with her in her hollow cave, eager to make me her husband. And in the same way the witch Kirke was for keeping me in her house in Aiaia, also to make me her husband – but she never won the heart in my breast. So it is that there is nothing sweeter to a man this his own country and parents, however grand the house in which he finds himself in a foreign land and far from his parents. Well now, let me tell you also of the painful journey which Zeus imposed on me when I left Troy for home.

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The wind that carried me from Ilios brought me to Ismaros, where the Kikones live. Then I sacked their city and killed the men. We took their wives and much booty from the city and divided everything among us, so that I should have none of my men going without his fair share. Then I urged our escape hot-foot, but the great fools would not have it. So there a great deal of wine was drunk, and they slaughtered many sheep and shambling twisthorned cattle on the shore. Meanwhile the Kikones had gone and called for help to other Kikones who were their neighbours living inland – these were more numerous and better warriors, skilled in battle with chariots as well as when men must be fought on foot. These then arrived, as many as the leaves and flowers that come in springtime, and they came at early morning: that was when an evil fate from Zeus doomed us to great suffering. They formed for battle and fought it out by our fast ships, and each side cast at the other with their bronze-tipped spears. For as long as it was morning and the holy sun was waxing, we managed to stand our ground and hold them despite their greater numbers. But when the sun moved over to the time when oxen are unyoked, then the Kikones turned the Achaians and overwhelmed them. From each ship six of my well-greaved companions were killed. The rest of us got away, escaping death and doom. So we sailed on from there in distress of heart: we were lucky to be saved from death, but we had lost our dear companions. And I would not let the balanced ships go much further, until we had called out three times to each of our poor companions who had died there in the plain, cut down by the Kikones. But then Zeus the cloud-gatherer raised the north wind against our ships in a terrible storm, and covered earth and sea alike in cloud: and night rushed down from the sky. The ships were then driven sideways, and the roaring wind ripped their rigging to rags. We took the sails down into the ships, fearing destruction, and rowed for land with all our strength. There we lay for two nights and days on end, eating our hearts out with exhaustion and misery together. But then when lovely-haired Dawn brought in the third day, we set up the masts and spread the white sails and took our places in the ships: and the wind and the helmsmen held them on course. And then I would have reached my homeland unscathed, but as I was rounding Maleia the waves and the current and the north wind drove me off my course and pushed me past Kythera. From there the cruel winds carried me for nine days over the fish-filled sea. On the tenth day we landed in the country of the Lotus-eaters, a people whose food is flowers. There we went on land and drew water, and my companions quickly made their meal by the fast ships. When we had had our food and drink, I sent some of my companions out to go and see what sort of men lived there eating their food in that land: I chose two men, and sent a third with

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them to report back. They went off straightaway, and came to meet with the Lotus-eaters. These people intended no harm to my men, but they gave them lotus to eat. All those who ate the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus lost their will to report back or return, but all their desire was to stay there with the Lotuseaters, eating the fruit and forgetting home. They were weeping as I forced them back to the ships, but I dragged them below deck in the hollow ships and tied them there. Then I told my other trusty companions to get aboard their fast ships with all speed, so that no one else should eat the lotus and forget home. They quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks: and, each sitting in his place, they struck into the grey sea with their oars. So we sailed on from there in distress of heart. And we came to the land of the Cyclopes, a violent, lawless people, who do no sowing of crops or ploughing with their own hands, but simply trust in the immortal gods and crops of every sort grow there unsown and unploughed – wheat and barley and vines yielding wine from fine grapes  – and the rain from Zeus gives them increase. These people have no assemblies for debate and no common laws, but they live on the tops of high mountains in hollow caves, where each man is the law for his own women and children, and they care nothing for others. Now opposite the harbour of the Cyclopes’ land, neither very close in nor very far, there stretches a low island covered with trees. On it wild goats breed in unlimited numbers: there is no tread of man to keep them away, and hunters do not visit the island to ply their arduous business through forest and mountain-top. No flocks or ploughed fields occupy the island, but it remains unsown and unploughed for all time, bereft of men and home to bleating goats. For the Cyclopes do not have any crimson-bowed ships, nor any shipwrights among them who could make them the well-benched ships which could reach other men’s cities and carry out all the purposes which send men crossing the sea in ships to visit each other. They could have made the island a pleasant settlement for them. It is not at all a bad place, and would produce all crops in their season. It has soft water-meadows bordering the shore of the grey sea: vines there would flourish for ever. It has level land for ploughing, and they could always reap a thick crop at harvest, as there is great richness in the soil underneath. And it has a fine harbour, where there is no need of any moorings – no dropping of anchor-stones, no making fast with stern-cables. All you need do is beach your ships and wait until the men are minded to sail and the winds are blowing. And then at the head of the harbour there is a spring of bright water running out from under a cave, with poplars growing round it. This is where we put in, and some god was guiding us through the murky night. There was no way of seeing ahead: the ships were surrounded by thick

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fog, and the moon, covered by clouds, gave no light from the sky. So none of us saw the island with our eyes, and we could not even see the long breakers rolling to shore until our well-benched ships grounded on the beach. When our ships beached we took down all the sails, and then jumped out ourselves where the surf breaks. And there we fell asleep and waited for the holy dawn. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, we went roaming all over the island, delighted with it. The Nymphs, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus, started some mountain goats, so there could be a meal for my men. Quickly we fetched curved bows and long-socketed hunting-spears from the ships. We divided ourselves into three companies, and began to shoot: and soon god gave us satisfying game. I had twelve ships with me, and nine goats fell to each ship: to me and my ship alone they allotted ten. So then we sat all day long till the setting of the sun feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine – because the supply of red wine in our ships was not yet exhausted: there was still wine left, as each of our crews had drawn off a great deal in jars when we took the holy city of the Kikones. And we looked across at the land of the Cyclopes nearby: we could see smoke and hear their voices and the bleating of their sheep and goats. When the sun set and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep where the surf breaks on the shore. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, I held a meeting of the men and spoke to them all: “My trusty companions, the rest of you should stay here now, while I go with my ship and my crew to find out about these people, who they are, whether they are violent, savage, and lawless, or hospitable folk with a god-fearing habit.” So speaking I boarded my ship, and told my crew to get on board also and loose the stern-cables. They quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks: and, each sitting in his place, they struck into the grey sea with their oars. When we reached the spot I spoke of  – it was not far  – we saw there on the jut of the land, near the sea, a high cave covered over with laurels. Here many flocks of sheep and goats were penned for the night: a yard-wall had been built high round it out of stones sunk deep in the earth and tall pine trees and high-branched oaks. That was the sleeping-place of a monstrous man, who shepherded his flocks away by himself: he had no dealings with other men, but kept apart in his own lawless ways. And he was indeed an amazing monster, nothing like an ordinary man who eats bread, but more like a wooded peak in the high mountains, showing clear by itself away from the others. Then I told the rest of my trusty companions to stay there by the ship and guard it. And I set off, choosing twelve of my best men to go with me. I had with me a goatskin of the dark sweet wine given me by Maron, son of

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Euanthes: he was the priest of Apollo, the god who protects Ismaros, and we had spared him together with his wife and child out of respect, because he lived in the wooded precinct sacred to Phoibos Apollo. And so he gave me splendid gifts. He gave me seven talents’ weight of wrought gold, and a mixing-bowl all of silver, and then wine – twelve jars in all he filled with a sweet unmixed wine, a divine drink: none of his servants or maids in the house knew of it, only himself and his dear wife and his one housekeeper alone. When they drank this honey-sweet red wine, he would fill one cup to pour into twenty measures of water, and a wonderful sweet smell would come from the mixing-bowl, so that no one would then wish to hold back. I filled a big goatskin with this wine and took it with me, and food too in a leather sack: because my proud heart had a sudden sense that we would meet someone clothed in enormous strength, a savage with no notion of justice or law. We quickly reached the cave, but did not find him there: he was tending his fat flocks at pasture. We went inside the cave and looked around in amazement. There were baskets heavy with cheeses, and folds crammed with lambs and kids – all separated out, with different pens for each group: firstlings, middlings, and younglings. All the well-made vessels he used for milking – his pails and bowls – were dripping with whey. My companions urged on me that we should first take some of the cheeses and then get going, quickly driving the lambs and kids from their folds down to our fast ships and sailing away over the salt water. But I would not agree – it would have been much better if I had. I wanted to see the man, and see if he would give me gifts of friendship. But my companions were not going to find him a charming host when he did appear. So we lit a fire there and made sacrifice and then took some of the cheese to eat ourselves: and we sat inside the cave waiting for him. At last he approached, driving his flocks. He was carrying a massive load of dry wood, to burn at his supper. He threw this down inside with a great crash, and we rushed to the back of the cave in terror. Then he drove his fat flocks into the broad cave – all those for milking: the males, the rams and he-goats, he left outside in the deep yard. Then he picked up a huge door-stone and placed it against the doorway. It was a massive stone, which not even twenty-two fine four-wheeled wagons could budge from the ground. Then he sat down and started milking his ewes and bleating goats, all in turn, putting a young one under each. Then straightaway he curdled half of the white milk, gathered the curds, and placed them in wicker baskets. The rest of the milk he stood in pails, ready for him to take and drink at his supper. When he had finished busying about these tasks of his, it was then that he lit a fire and saw us. He asked us: “Who are you, strangers? Where have you

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come from, sailing over the paths of the water? Is this a trading voyage, or are you wandering the sea at random like pirates, who roam about risking their lives and bringing ruin to men of other countries?” So he spoke, and our hearts broke within us in terror at his deep voice and the monster himself. But even so I found words and answered him: “We are Achaians on our way back from Troy, but driven off course over the great gulf of the sea by every wind there is. We were making for home, but have travelled on another path and different ways: such must be the plan that Zeus willed for us. We are proud to call ourselves men of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, whose fame is the greatest of any now under the sky – so great was the city he sacked and so many the people he killed. Now we find ourselves here, and have come to your knees in supplication, hoping you will give us a present of friendship, or some other form of gift, as is the proper way with guests. So come now, my dear fellow, show respect for the gods. We are your suppliants, and Zeus is the avenger of suppliants and guests: he is the god of guests and strangers, and goes with them to see they have respect.” So I spoke, and he gave me immediate answer from his pitiless heart: “You are a fool, stranger, or else come from far away, if you tell me to fear the gods or avoid their anger. We Cyclopes care nothing for aegis-bearing Zeus or the other blessed gods, as we are much stronger than them. No fear of Zeus’ anger would make me spare you or any of your companions, unless it was my own wish to do so. But tell me where did you anchor your well-made ship when you came here – was it somewhere far along the coast or nearby? I want to know.” So he spoke. He was trying me on, but I had much experience and he did not fool me. So I answered him back with crafty words: “My ship was wrecked by Poseidon the earthshaker. The wind had brought us in from the open sea, and he drove us against a headland and smashed us on the rocks at the edge of your land. But I and these men with me managed to escape stark destruction.” So I spoke, and he gave me no answer from his pitiless heart, but sprang up and laid his hands on my companions. He snatched up two together and smashed them on the ground like puppies: their brains ran out and soaked the earth. Then he tore them limb from limb and made them his supper. And he ate them like a mountain lion, leaving nothing – guts, flesh, bones and marrow. We wept and lifted up our hands to Zeus, as we watched these hideous deeds, and hopelessness gripped our hearts. When the Cyclops had filled his great belly with his meal of human flesh and the undiluted milk he drank on top, he lay down inside the cave, stretched out among his flocks. The immediate plan in my great heart was to go up to him, draw my sharp sword

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from beside my thigh, and stab him in the front, where the midriff holds the liver, feeling for the place with my hand. Then a second thought stopped me. We too would have perished there just as starkly. We would not have had the strength of hand to push away from the high doorway the massive stone which he had put there. So then with groans and tears we waited for the holy dawn. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, he lit the fire and milked his fine sheep and goats, all in turn, putting a young one under each. Then when he had finished busying about these tasks of his, he snatched up two more men together to make his breakfast. When he had breakfasted he drove his fat flocks out of the cave, easily removing the great door-stone: and then he put it back again, as a man might put the lid on a quiver. With much whistling the Cyclops turned his fat flocks towards the mountain, and I was left there brooding ugly thoughts – if I could somehow take vengeance on him, and Athene grant me a triumph. And this seemed the best plan to my thinking. The Cyclops had a great club lying alongside the pen: it was of green olive-wood, and he had cut it for carrying when seasoned. To our eyes it looked as large as the mast of some twenty-oared black ship, a broad freighter that crosses the great open sea – so long and so thick it was to our eyes. I stood over it and cut off about a fathom’s length, which I gave to my companions and told them to plane it. They made it smooth, and then I stood over it again and sharpened one end: I took it then and set about hardening the point in the burning fire. Then I stowed it away well, hiding it under the dung which lay in great heaps throughout the cave. I told the others to shake lots, for who would join me in daring to take up the stake and grind it in the Cyclops’ eye when sweet sleep came over him. The lot fell on the very four that I would have wanted to choose, and I counted myself the fifth with them. He came at evening, shepherding back his well-fleeced flocks. He drove the fat flocks straight into the broad cave – all of them this time, leaving none outside in the deep yard: some premonition perhaps, or it may have been the prompting of a god. Then he lifted the great door-stone and put it back in place, then sat down and started milking his ewes and bleating goats, all in turn, putting a young one under each. Then when he had finished busying about these tasks of his, he snatched up two more men together to make his supper. Then I approached the Cyclops and spoke to him: I had in my hands an ivy-bowl of that dark wine: “Cyclops, here, have some wine after that meal of men’s flesh. I would like you to know just how good this drink is that we had stored in our ship. Now I was bringing it as an offering to you, in the hope that you would take pity on me and give me safe passage home: but your

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behaviour now is madness and hard to bear. Silly man, how will anyone else of all the men there are in the world come to visit you now? Because what you have done is not right.” So I spoke, and he took the wine and drank it off. He was hugely pleased with this sweet drink, and asked for more: “Give me more and keep giving. And tell me your name right now, so I can give you a gift as your host, and you will enjoy it. We Cyclopes have wine too: our fertile earth yields thick clusters of grapes, and the rain from Zeus gives them increase. But this wine is a pure stream of ambrosia and nectar.” So he spoke: and I gave him more of the gleaming wine. Three times I fetched wine and gave it to him, and three times he drank it off in his foolishness. But when finally the wine had got to the Cyclops’ wits, I spoke to him with wheedling words: “Cyclops, you ask me for the name I am known by. Now I shall tell you: but you must give me the gift you promised. Noman is my name. Noman is what my mother and father and all my friends call me.” So I spoke, and he gave me immediate answer from his pitiless heart: “Well, I shall eat Noman last of his company – the others first. That will be my gift to you.” So speaking he keeled over and fell on his back, then slewed his thick neck to one side and lay there, and sleep that conquers all took him. Wine and gobbets of human flesh came spewing from his throat as he vomited in a stupor of drink. Then I took the stake we had prepared and pushed it under a pile of ash to get hot: and I spoke words of encouragement to all my companions, so I should have none of them taking fright and hanging back. When shortly the olive-wood stake was about to catch alight in the fire, green though it was, and was glowing fearsomely, I took it out of the fire and brought it close. My companions gathered round me, and some god breathed great courage into them. They took up the olive-wood stake with its sharpened point and drove it into his eye. I pressed down from on top and kept it twirling round, as when a man is using a drill to bore through a ship’s timber, and below him his fellows keep it spinning with a strap held on either side, and the drill runs on constantly without pause. So we took that stake with its fiery point and spun it round and round in his eye: and the blood came spurting round the hot stake. Eyelids and brow were singed all over in the heat as the eyeball burned, and the roots of the eye crackled in the fire. As when a smith plunges a great axe or adze into cold water, and it hisses loud as he tempers it – though this is what gives iron its strength: so his eye sizzled around the olive-wood stake. He gave out a fearsome great roar of pain, which echoed round the cave and sent us rushing away in terror. He pulled the stake, dripping with blood, from his eye, then flung it away in

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a frenzy, and called out loud to the other Cyclopes who lived round him in caves among the wind-swept mountain peaks. They heard his shouts and came flocking from all directions. They gathered outside the cave and asked him what the trouble was: “Polyphemos, why this shouting in such distress in the middle of the immortal night– robbing us of our sleep? Is any man stealing your flocks and driving them off? Is any man trying to kill you through cunning or superior strength?” Then mighty Polyphemos answered them from inside the cave: “No, my friends, no superior strength. Noman is trying to kill me through his cunning.” They spoke winged words in reply: “Well, if you are alone and no man is overpowering you, you must have a sickness sent by great Zeus, and that cannot be helped. No, you should pray to your father, lord Poseidon.” So they spoke as they went away, and the heart within me laughed to see how my splendid know-how with the name had fooled them. Groaning in the agony of his pain, the Cyclops groped with his hands for the doorstone and removed it, then sat down himself in the doorway with his arms stretched out, hoping no doubt to catch anyone who tried to get through the door among the sheep: such was the fool he must have thought me. But I was trying to plan for the best possible outcome, hoping to find some way of escaping death for my companions and for myself. My mind went to and fro, weaving every sort of trick and device: it was a question of life or death, and disaster was close on us. This seemed the best plan to my thinking. There were fine big rams there in the cave, well-fattened, with thick fleeces of dark wool. Without making a sound, I tied them together with the pliant osiers which the lawless monster used as his bed. I took them three by three. The middle one would carry a man, while the other two walked on either side helping to keep my companions safe: so each man had three sheep to carry him. As for myself – there was a ram there, far the best of the whole flock. I took hold of his back, then rolled over to lie under his shaggy belly: upside down there I clung with both hands to his wonderful fleece, and held on grimly. In this way, then, with groans and tears, we waited for the holy dawn. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, the males of the flocks ran out to pasture, while the females kept bleating round the pens: they were unmilked, and their udders were full to bursting. Their master, suffering with terrible pain, felt the backs of all the sheep as they stopped and stood there in front of him: but the fool did not realise that my men were tied under the bellies of his fleecy sheep. Last of all the flock to come up to the door was my ram, burdened both by his own thick fleece and by me with my crowded thoughts.

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Mighty Polyphemos ran his hands over him and spoke to him: “Dear ram, why do I find you like this, the last of the flock to come out from the cave? Before now you have never been left behind by the other sheep, but you were always the very first to stride out to crop the soft grass, first to reach the river-waters, and first to turn home for the fold at evening. But now you are last of all. Is it that you are sad for your master’s eye, blinded by a coward of a man with his hateful companions, who conquered my wits with wine? Noman is his name, and I swear that he has not yet escaped destruction. Oh, if only you could share my feelings and take voice to tell me where that man is hiding from my fury! Then his brains would be splattered all over the cave as I smashed him on the ground, and my heart would feel some relief from the pain which that nobody of a Noman has caused me.” So speaking he let the ram go on his way outside. When we had gone a little distance from the cave and its yard, I first released my hold on the ram and came out from under it, then I untied my companions. Then quickly we set about driving off the long-legged sheep, all rich in fat, and kept driving them, with many a backward glance, until we reached our ship. We came as a welcome sight to our dear companions – those of us who had escaped death: for the others who were lost they began lamentation and mourning. But with an upward gesture of my head and eyebrows to each of them, I would not let them weep aloud, but told them to hurry to get the many fine-fleeced sheep on board and sail away over the salt water. They then quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks: and, each sitting in his place, they struck into the grey sea with their oars. When the ship was as far away as a man’s shout will still carry, I then called to the Cyclops and mocked him: “So then, Cyclops, it was not after all some weakling whose companions you devoured in your hollow cave with all your mighty strength. Your foul deeds were certain to come back on you, you criminal: you did not shrink from eating your guests in your own house. For that Zeus and the other gods have punished you.” So I spoke, and this enraged his heart all the more. He broke off the tip of a great mountain and flung it at us. It fell in front of our dark-prowed ship, and the sea boiled up under the impact of the rock. The backwash carried the ship straight back towards the land, the surge from the sea driving us close in to shore. But I took a long pole in my hands and pushed the ship clear: with urgent nods of my head I signalled to my companions to bend to their oars, to save us from disaster, and they set to rowing at full stretch. Then when we had covered twice as much distance out to sea, I was ready to call to the Cyclops again, but from all over the ship my companions tried to pacify me and persuade me to stop, saying: “Foolish man, why do you want to provoke this savage? Just now he hurled a rock into the sea that drove our

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ship back to land, and we thought that our end had come there and then. If he had heard any sound or word from any of us, he would have smashed in our heads and the ship’s timbers with the cast of another jagged rock – he has the power to throw that far.” So they spoke, but they could not change the purpose of my proud heart. No, I called to him again, with my heart still full of anger: “Cyclops, if any mortal man asks you how your eye suffered such terrible blinding, you can tell him that it was Odysseus the sacker of cities who blinded you, the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaka.” So I spoke, and he groaned out loud and answered: “Oh, those old prophecies have now come home to me in all their truth. There was a prophet here once, a man huge and brave, Telemos the son of Eurymos: he was the best of seers, and lived among us Cyclopes giving his prophecies into old age. He told me that all this would come to pass in the future, that I would be robbed of my sight at the hands of Odysseus. But I was always expecting some fine, tall man to come here, a man clothed in great strength. But now it is a puny, feeble nobody of a man who has blinded my eye, after conquering my wits with wine. But come back here, Odysseus, so I can give you the gifts proper for a guest, and prevail on the famous Earthshaker to grant you safe passage home. I am his son, and he my proud father. And he alone will heal me, if that is his wish – no other blessed god or mortal man can do so.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “If only I could strip you of your life and spirit and send you down to the house of Hades as surely as that eye will never be healed – not even by the Earthshaker himself.” So I spoke, and he then prayed to lord Poseidon, holding out his hands to the sky where the stars are: “Hear me, Poseidon, dark-haired god, encircler of the earth. If I am truly your son, and you my proud father, grant that there should be no home-coming for Odysseus the sacker of cities, the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaka. But if he is fated to see his family again and return to his well-founded house and his own native land, then let him come late and luckless, all companions lost, and on an alien ship: and may he find troubles in his house.” So he spoke in prayer, and the dark-haired god heard him. And then he took up another rock, much bigger than the first, swung it round and hurled it, leaning huge strength into the throw. It fell just behind our dark-prowed ship, nearly hitting the tip of the rudder. The sea boiled up under the impact of the rock, and the wash carried the ship forward, driving us on to reach land. So we came to the island, where our other well-benched ships were gathered waiting, and round them our companions were sitting anxiously, looking all the time for our return. When we got there we beached the ship on the sands, and then jumped out ourselves where the surf breaks. We took

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the Cyclops’ flocks out of the hollow ship and divided them among us, so that I should have none of my men going without his fair share. In the division my well-greaved companions gave me the big ram as a special gift for me alone. I slaughtered it there on the shore and burnt the thigh-bones in sacrifice to Zeus the son of Kronos, the lord of the dark clouds who rules over all. But he paid no regard to my offering: rather he was planning the means of destruction for all my well-benched ships and trusty companions. So then we sat all day long till the setting of the sun feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine. When the sun set and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep where the surf breaks on the shore. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, I roused my companions and told them to get on board the ships and loose the sterncables. They quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks: and, each sitting in his place, they struck into the grey sea with their oars. So we sailed on from there in distress of heart: we were lucky to be saved from death, but we had lost our dear companions.

B O OK 1 0

Kirke

We now came to the Aiolian island. Here lived Aiolos, son of Hippotas, a man dear to the immortal gods. This was a floating island. All around it there was an unbreakable wall of bronze, and the cliffs ran up sheer. Twelve children had been born to Aiolos in his house, six daughters and six sons, now in the strength of their youth: so he had given the daughters as wives to his sons. They are always feasting with their dear father and loved mother: limitless food is set beside them, and day after day the house is filled with the smell of roasting meat and echoes to the sound of music. And at nights they sleep beside their honoured wives, on fretted beds with blankets to cover them. These then were the people to whose city and fine house we now came. For a whole month Aiolos entertained me and questioned me in detail about Troy and the Argive ships and the Achaians’ return home: and I told him everything just as it was. But when at length I asked leave to be going and requested his help for our journey, he did not refuse in any way, and set about preparing our safe passage. He flayed a nine-year-old ox and gave me a bag made from its hide. In this bag he had imprisoned the boisterous winds of all directions – because the son of Kronos had made him warden of the winds, with power to raise or quell any wind he wished. He placed the bag in my hollow ship and tied it with a bright silver cord, so that not even the slightest breath could escape. And for me he set a breeze blowing from the west wind, to carry ships and men on their way. But the wind was not to complete his work, as we came to grief through our own folly. For nine days we sailed on, day and night alike, and by the tenth day the land of our fathers was coming into view: indeed we could see men tending their fires that close. But then sweet sleep came over me. I was exhausted: I had been handling the ship’s sail-sheet all this time myself, without giving it to any of my companions, to make sure that we reached our native land with all speed. And then those companions of mine began talking among themselves: they thought that I was carrying home gifts of gold and silver

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from the great-hearted Aiolos, son of Hippotas. And one would glance at his neighbour and say: “Look how this man meets friendship and honour from all men wherever he goes, in every city and country! He is bringing back many fine treasures from the booty at Troy: whereas we have been through all the way with him, and yet we are coming home with empty hands. And now his friend Aiolos has favoured him with these gifts as well. So let us have a quick look at what is here – let us see just how much gold and silver is in this bag.” So they spoke, and this disastrous counsel prevailed among them. They opened the bag, and all the winds rushed out. In a moment a storm-blast had snatched them and was carrying them weeping out to sea, away from their native land. Then I woke, and debated in my noble heart whether to throw myself overboard and perish there in the sea, or to endure it in silence and stay among the living. Well, I did endure it, and stayed: but I covered over my head and just lay there in the ship where I was, while my companions groaned aloud and the evil storm of wind blew the ships back again to the Aiolian island. There we went on land and drew water, and my companions quickly made their meal by the fast ships. When we had had our food and drink, I took with me a messenger and one other of my men, and set out for the famous palace of Aiolos. I found him feasting there with his wife and children. We entered the house and sat down on the threshold by the door-posts. They were astonished to see us, and asked: “How is it you have come back, Odysseus? What evil power has blighted you? We surely showed every care to give you safe passage, so you could reach your country and your home and all that is dear to you.” So they spoke, and I answered in anguish of heart: “It was my wretched companions that ruined me, they and insistent sleep. Please, friends, put it right for me. You have the power.” So I spoke, soft words of appeal. But they stayed silent. Then their father answered: “Away with you, away at once from this island, you contemptible creature! I may not welcome or help on his journey any man who is hated by the blessed gods. Away – your return here is proof of the immortals’ hatred.” So speaking he sent me out of his house, and I groaned in despair. So we sailed on from there in distress of heart. The men’s spirits were oppressed by the painful rowing: it was our own fault, and now there was nothing to speed our passage. For six days we sailed on, day and night alike, and on the seventh day we came to Telepylos, the steep fortress of Lamos and the city of the Laistrygonians. Here shepherd calls to shepherd, one driving in his flock and the other answering as he drives his flock out. A man who went without sleep

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could earn double wages here, once as a cowherd and again for pasturing white sheep, because here the paths of night and day are very close. We came into a fine harbour, surrounded by cliffs running sheer on both sides, with two opposing headlands jutting close at the mouth, so the entrance is narrow. The crews steered their balanced ships in here, and they were then moored side by side within the enclosure of the harbour  – there was no swell inside, great or small, but calm clear water throughout. But I alone kept my black ship outside, out there on the coast, tying its cables to a rock. I climbed the rocky hillside to where I could stand and take a view. From there there was no sign of cultivation by men or oxen: all we could see was smoke rising from the ground. Then I sent some of my companions out to go and see what sort of men lived there eating their food in that land: I chose two men, and sent a third with them to report back. They left the ship and set off along a smooth track, used by wagons bringing wood to the city from the high mountains. Just outside the town they met a girl drawing water – a strong girl, the daughter of Antiphates, king of the Laistrygonians. She had come down to the fine-flowing spring Artakië, where they drew their water for the town. The men approached and spoke to her, asking who was king in this country and who the people under his rule: and she immediately pointed them to her father’s high-roofed house. They entered the fine palace and found his wife here – she was the size of a mountain peak, and they were appalled at her. She at once called her husband, the famous Antiphates, from the assembly-place, and there and then he set about the ghastly murder of my men. He snatched up one straightaway and made a meal of him, but the other two fled at speed back to the ships. Then Antiphates raised a hue and cry throughout the town, and the mighty Laistrygonians heard it and came crowding from all directions, in their thousands  – they were like the Giants rather than men. They then began hurling down from the cliffs boulders as big as a man could carry: and down there among the fleet there arose a hideous noise of men dying and ships breaking. They speared the men like fish and carried them off for their grisly meal. While this slaughter was going on inside the deep harbour, I drew the sharp sword from beside my thigh and cut the cables of my dark-prowed ship, and then gave urgent orders to my companions to bend to their oars, to save us from disaster. In fear for their lives they churned the sea, all pulling together, and to our relief my ship escaped to open water, away from the overhanging cliffs. But the other ships, the whole fleet of them, were destroyed there in the harbour. So we sailed on from there in distress of heart: we were lucky to be saved from death, but we had lost our dear companions. We now came to the island of Aiaia. Here there lived the lovely-haired Kirke, a fearsome goddess

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with human speech, full sister of the grim Aietes: both were children of Helios the Sun, who gives light to mortals, and their mother was Perse, daughter of Ocean. We brought the ship to shore here without a sound, and put in to a safe anchorage, some god guiding our way. We disembarked and lay there for two days and two nights, eating our hearts out with exhaustion and misery together. But then when lovely-haired Dawn brought in the third day, I took my spear and a sharp sword and went quickly up from the ship to a look-out point, hoping to see signs of human cultivation and to hear their voices. I climbed the rocky hillside to where I could stand and take a view: and I could see smoke rising from the wide-wayed earth, through the dense growth of the forest round Kirke’s house. The first thought in my heart and mind was to go and find out myself, now that I had seen this smoke, reddened with the gleam of fire. As I thought it over it seemed to me a better plan to go back first to the shore and my fast ship, give my men a meal, and then send them out to explore. I set off and had come close to my balanced ship when some god took pity on me, alone as I was, and sent a great tall-antlered stag straight into my path. He was coming down from his haunts in the woodland to the river to drink – the strength of the sun was oppressing him. As he came out of the wood I struck him on the spine, in the middle of his back, and the bronze spear passed right through. He fell screaming in the dust, and his spirit flitted away. I stood on him and pulled the bronze spear out of the wound, then laid it to one side on the ground. Then I pulled up brushwood and osiers and twisted them together into a plaited rope about six feet long, and tied the great beast by the legs. I went on my way to the black ship carrying the stag slung over my neck, and leaning on my spear: there was no way I could have carried it one-handed on my shoulder – it was an enormous animal. I threw it down in front of the ship, and roused my companions, coming up to each man in turn with words of encouragement: “Friends, for all our distress, we shall not be going down to the house of Hades yet – not until our fated day is upon us. No, come: as long as there is food and drink in the ship, let us think of eating and not waste away with hunger.” So I spoke, and they were quick to follow my words. They uncovered themselves where they were lying along the shore of the harvestless sea, and stared in amazement at the stag – it really was an enormous beast. When they had taken their pleasure in the sight before their eyes, they washed their hands and set about preparing a glorious feast. So then we sat all day long till the setting of the sun feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine. When the sun set and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep where the surf breaks on the shore.

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When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, I held a meeting of the men and spoke to them all: “My companions, you have suffered much hardship, but listen now to what I say. Friends, we do not know where west or east is, where the sun who gives light to mortals goes under the earth or where he rises. But we must think quickly now if any plan can still save us, though I doubt there is any. I have just climbed up the rocky hillside to take a view, and I could see that this is an island, ringed by limitless sea. The land itself is low-lying, and in the middle of it I saw smoke rising through the dense growth of the forest.” So I spoke, and their hearts broke within them – they were thinking of what was done by the Laistrygonian Antiphates and the great man-eating brute, the Cyclops. They wept loud, letting the heavy tears fall: but no good came of their lamentation. I divided all my well-greaved companions into two parties, and assigned a leader to each: I led one company, and godlike Eurylochos the other. Then we quickly shook lots in a bronze helmet, and out jumped the lot of greathearted Eurylochos. So he set out on his way, and twenty-two companions with him: they were in tears, and we who were left behind were weeping also. They came on Kirke’s house in the woods – it was in a sheltered spot, and built of dressed stone. Round it there were mountain wolves and lions, creatures that she herself had bewitched, giving them magic drugs. So they did not attack my men, but reared up and fawned on them, wagging their long tails. As dogs fawn around their master when he comes back from the feast – he always brings something to keep their hunger appeased – so these strong-clawed wolves and lions fawned on the men: but they were terrified at the sight of the fearsome beasts. They stopped in the gateway of the lovelyhaired goddess, and they could hear Kirke inside singing in a beautiful voice as she worked to and fro at a great immortal web on her loom – finewoven cloth of grace and beauty, like all the work of goddesses’ hands. First to speak to them was Polites, leader of men, the closest and dearest of my companions: “Friends, there is someone inside – either goddess or mortal woman – weaving at a great web and singing beautifully, so the whole floor echoes to her song. Come, let us call to her straightaway.” So he spoke, and they raised their voices and called to her. She came out immediately, opened the shining doors, and invited them in. They all followed her in their ignorance: but Eurylochos stayed behind, sensing mischief. She led them in and sat them down on chairs and benches, and mixed a drink for them with cheese, barley, and pale honey added to Pramnian wine; and in this dish she mingled harmful drugs, to make them lose all memory of their native land. She gave them the drink, and as soon as they had drunk it down she struck them with her rod and drove them into the sties for her pigs. And they took on the form of pigs – swinish heads,

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grunts, and bristles: only their minds stayed as they had been. So they were penned there, weeping, in the sties: and to eat Kirke threw down for them acorns, mast, and cornel-berries, the usual food of wallowing pigs. Eurylochos came straight back to the fast black ship, to tell the news of his companions and their ghastly fate. But for all his urgency he could not speak a word, heart-struck with deep anguish: his eyes filled with tears, and grief was all his thought. But then we all plied him with anxious questions, and at last he told us the full story of the loss of our other companions: “We went out through the thickets, as you ordered, glorious Odysseus. We came on a house in the woods – it was in a sheltered spot, and built of dressed stone. There someone – either goddess or mortal woman – was weaving at a great web and singing sweetly. The men raised their voices and called to her. She came out immediately, opened the shining doors, and invited them in. They all followed her in their ignorance: but I stayed behind, sensing mischief. They have all vanished, the whole company – not a single one reappeared. I sat there and kept watch for a long time.” So he spoke. I slung round my shoulders my great bronze sword with silver-studded hilt, and my bow as well, and told him to lead me back the way he had come. But he took my knees with both hands and begged me, and in tears spoke winged words to me: “Do not force me to go there again, my lord: leave me here. I know that you will not come back, nor will you bring back any of your companions. No, let us get away from here as soon as we can with these who are left – we can still escape the evil day.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “Well then, Eurylochos, you stay where you are out here, eating and drinking beside the hollow black ship. But I am going – hard though it is, I have no choice.” So speaking I set on my way up from the ship and the sea-shore. I went through the mysterious woods and was just about to reach the great house of the witch Kirke – I was walking towards it – when Hermes, god of the golden wand, came to meet me, in the form of a young man with the first beard on his lip, which is the loveliest time of youth. He took my hand and spoke to me: “Where are you off to this time, my poor man – alone in the hills in unknown country? Your companions are here in Kirke’s house, kept pig-like in solid sties. Have you come here to rescue them? I tell you, you will not get back yourself either – you will stay here with the others. But look, I shall keep you safe and out of harm. Here, take this magic herb with you when you go into Kirke’s house, and it will keep the evil day from your head: and I shall tell you all of Kirke’s deadly arts. She will mix a cup for you, and put drugs in the mixture. But even so she will not be able to bewitch you – that will be prevented by the magic herb I give you, and my instructions. When Kirke strikes you with her long wand, you must then

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draw the sharp sword from beside your thigh and rush on her as if meaning to kill her. She will shrink in terror and ask you to her bed. You must not then refuse the goddess’ bed, if you want release for your companions and your own welcome. But you must make her use the great oath of the blessed gods to swear that she will not plot any further mischief to harm you, so when she has you naked she does not strip you of courage and manhood.” So speaking Hermes, the slayer of Argos, pulled the herb from the ground and gave it to me, showing me its nature: it was black at the root, but its flower was like milk. The gods call it Moly: it is hard for mortal men to dig it up, but the gods can do all things. Hermes then went away over the wooded island to the heights of Olympos, and I set out for Kirke’s house – and my heart was in a turmoil as I went. I stopped at the doors of the lovely-haired goddess, stood there and called out: and the goddess heard my voice. She came out immediately, opened the shining doors, and invited me in: I followed her with anxious heart. She led me in and sat me on a silver-studded chair  –  a beautiful, finely-worked chair, with a footstool underneath. She prepared a drink for me in a golden cup, and put a drug in it, with evil intent in her heart. She gave me the cup, and when I had drunk it down and there was no bewitchment, she then struck me with her wand and called me, saying: “Now go to the pigsty, and lie there with your friends.” So she spoke, but I drew the sharp sword from beside my thigh and rushed at her as if meaning to kill her. She gave a great shriek, and ran in under the sword to clasp my knees, and in tears spoke winged words to me: “Who are you and where are you from? Where is your town and your parents? I am amazed that you have drunk my drugs and were not bewitched. No other man has ever resisted these drugs, once he has drunk them and let them pass the barrier of his teeth: but you must have a will in your breast that is proof against magic. You must surely be that Odysseus of much resource, the man of whom I have often heard from the god of the golden wand, the slayer of Argos – he always told me that Odysseus would come here with his fast black ship on his way home from Troy. So now sheathe your sword, and let the two of us go to our bed, to lie there in love’s union and trust each other.” So she spoke, but I answered her: “Kirke, how can you ask me to treat you kindly, when in your house you have turned my companions into pigs, and now that you have me here too you trick me with the call to your bedroom and your bed, so that when you have me naked you can strip me of courage and manhood? I would not be willing to mount your bed unless you are ready, goddess, to swear me a great oath that you will not plot any further mischief to harm me.”

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So I spoke, and she immediately swore as I asked. When she had sworn and completed her oath, then I went up to Kirke’s beautiful bed. Meanwhile four servants were busy in the house, the maids she has to do the household tasks: they are the children of springs, and woods, and sacred rivers flowing down to the sea. One of these was laying beautiful rugs on the chairs, purple rugs on top of smooth cloth spread underneath. The second set silver tables in front of the chairs, and placed golden breaddishes on them. The third mixed cheering sweet wine in a silver bowl and set out golden cups. The fourth brought water and kindled a great fire under a large three-legged cauldron, and the water heated. Then when the water boiled in the gleaming bronze vessel, she sat me in a bath and began washing me with water from the cauldron, mixing it just right and pouring it down over my head and shoulders, until she had taken the heart-sapping weariness from my limbs. When she had bathed me and rubbed me richly with oil, she dressed me in a fine cloak and tunic, then led me in and sat me on a silver-studded chair, a beautiful, finely worked chair with a footstool underneath. A maid brought water in a beautiful golden jug, and poured it out over a silver basin, for me to wash my hands: and she set a polished table beside me. The honoured housekeeper brought bread and placed it before me, and served me many kinds of food, generous with her store. She bade me eat. But that was not the pleasure of my heart, and I sat there with my thoughts elsewhere and my mind brooding. When Kirke saw me sitting like this, not putting my hands to the food, and deep in sorrow, she came close and spoke winged words to me: “Odysseus, why are you sitting here just like a mute, eating out your heart, and not touching food or drink? Do you perhaps suspect some other trickery? You should have no fear – I have already sworn you a binding oath.” So she spoke, and I answered her: “Kirke, how could any decent man bear to taste food or drink before having his friends freed and seeing them there before his eyes? No, if you are wholehearted in urging me to eat and drink, then free them, and let me see my trusty companions with my own eyes.” So I spoke, and Kirke went out through the house with her wand in her hand, opened the doors of the pigsty, and drove them out: they were in the shape of nine-year-old hogs. They then stood facing her, while she went through them anointing each one with another drug. Their bodies began to lose the bristles grown there by the deadly drug which queen Kirke had first given them. They became men again, younger than before, and looking much taller and more handsome. They recognised me, and each one of them clasped me by the hand. And the joy of tears came over them all, so the whole house rang loud with their weeping, and even the goddess herself was moved.

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Then the queen among goddesses came close and spoke to me: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, you should go now to your fast ship by the sea shore. First haul your ship on land, and bring out all your goods and tackle to store in the caves. Then come back here yourself and your trusty companions with you.” So she spoke, and my proud heart was persuaded. I went to my fast ship by the sea shore, and found my trusty companions there on board weeping heavy tears in pitiful lamentation. As in a country steading, when the cows of the herd return to the yard after their fill of pasture, the calves leap and frisk all together to greet them: the pens cannot hold them any more, and with constant lowing they run to gambol round their mothers. So when my men saw me before their eyes, they poured round me with their tears streaming, and the emotion in their hearts was as if they had reached their native land and the very city of rugged Ithaka, where they were bred and born. In tears they spoke winged words to me: “My lord, our joy at your return was like the joy of reaching our own native land in Ithaka. But tell us now how our other companions were gone.” So they spoke, but I answered with soothing words: “First let us haul our ship on land, and bring out all our goods and tackle to store in the caves. Then all of you get ready to come with me yourselves, so you can see your companions in Kirke’s great house, eating and drinking, with supplies in plenty.” So I spoke, and they were quick to follow my words. Only Eurylochos resisted me and tried to keep them all back, speaking winged words to them: “You poor men, where are we going? Why are you set on disaster like this, on going down to Kirke’s house? She will turn us all into pigs or wolves or lions, and force us to guard her palace – just as the Cyclops trapped our companions when they came to his yard, and this rash Odysseus with them: it was his folly that led to their destruction then.” So he spoke, and I pondered in my mind whether to draw the long sharp sword from beside my thick thigh, and with a cut of it send his head rolling to the ground, for all that he was a close kinsman. But from all over the ship my companions pacified me and persuaded me to stop, saying: “My lord, let us leave this man, if you agree, to stay here by the ship and guard it. You lead us on to Kirke’s great house.” So speaking they set off up from the ship and the sea. And Eurylochos was not in fact left by the hollow ship either: he came too, frightened of the violence of my displeasure. Meanwhile Kirke had treated our other companions with all hospitality in her house. She had bathed them and rubbed them richly with oil, and dressed them in woolly cloaks and tunics: and we found them all at a fine

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dinner in her hall. When the men saw each other and gazed face to face, they broke down in tears, and the house echoed with their weeping. Then the queen among goddesses came close and spoke to me: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, no more now of this lamentation which you and your men are raising so loud. I know full well all the misery you have suffered over the fish-filled sea, and all the ravages done by enemies on land. But come now, eat your food and drink your wine until you regain the heart you had in you when you first left your native land of rugged Ithaka. Now you are worn out and dispirited, always dwelling on the pain of your wanderings. Your hearts are strangers to gladness – so much indeed have you suffered.” So she spoke, and our proud hearts were persuaded. So then day after day for a year’s full circle we stayed there, feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine. But when the year was up, as the seasons turned and the months passed and the long days came round again, then my trusty companions called me outside and said: “Sir, you are strange – it is time now for you to think of your own country, if it is your fate to return in safety to your wellfounded house and your own native land.” So they spoke, and my proud heart was persuaded. So then we sat all day long till the setting of the sun feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine. When the sun set and darkness came on, they lay down to sleep in the shadowy halls. But I went up to Kirke’s beautiful bed and clasped her knees in supplication, and the goddess heard me as I spoke winged words to her: “Kirke, fulfil now the promise you made me, to give me passage home. This is my own eager desire now, and the desire of my companions, who flock round me and wear out my heart with their complaining, whenever you are elsewhere.” So I spoke, and the queen among goddesses answered me straightaway: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, you must stay no longer in my house against your will. But first you must complete another journey, and go to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, there to consult the spirit of Theban Teiresias, the blind prophet. His mind is still as it was: though he is dead, Persephone has granted him sense and thought, and to him alone – all the rest are flitting shadows.” So she spoke, and my heart was broken within me. I sat down on the bed and wept, and my heart had no wish to live further or see the light of the sun. When I had had my fill of weeping and writhing in grief, I finally answered her and said: “Kirke, but who will guide me on this journey? No man yet has ever reached the house of Hades by ship.” So I spoke, and the queen among goddesses answered me straightaway: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, when you are ready by your

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ship do not be concerned for lack of a guide, but set up the mast and spread the white sails and then take your seat: the breath of the north wind will carry the ship on its way. When you have crossed over Ocean in your ship, there will be a low shore and the wood of Persephone  – tall poplars and willows that shed their fruit early. Beach your ship there by the edge of deep-eddying Ocean, and go on foot into the dank abode of Hades. There the rivers Pyriphlegethon and Kokytos, which is a branch of the water of Styx, flow into Acheron, and there is a rock at the confluence of the two thundering rivers. Now, hero, you must do as I tell you. Go in close to that rock, and dig a trench about a cubit long and wide. Round the trench pour offerings to all the dead, the first of milk and honey mixed, the next of sweet wine, and the third of water: and sprinkle white barley-grains over it. Then offer long entreaty to the strengthless heads of the dead, vowing that on your return to Ithaka you will sacrifice in your house the best of your cows that have not borne calf, you will heap a burnt offering with precious gifts, and for Teiresias apart, and for him alone, you will slaughter an all-black ram, the finest among your flocks. When you have made these prayers in entreaty to the famous company of the dead, you must then sacrifice a ram and a black ewe, turning their heads towards Erebos while you yourself turn away and face the waters of the river. Then the spirits of the departed dead will come crowding to the trench. Now you must call to your companions and tell them to flay the two sheep that lie there slaughtered by the pitiless bronze and burn them in sacrifice, with prayers to the gods, to mighty Hades and dread Persephone. You yourself should draw your sharp sword from beside your thigh and sit there, sword in hand, preventing the strengthless heads of the dead from coming any nearer to the blood until you have questioned Teiresias. And soon, leader of your people, the prophet will come there to you, and he will tell you the path and the measure of your journey, and your home-coming, how you are to return home over the fish-filled sea.” So she spoke, and soon after Dawn appeared on her golden throne. Kirke dressed me in a cloak and tunic, and the nymph herself put on a great silverwhite mantle, a lovely garment of fine weave, and set a beautiful golden belt around her waist, and a veil to cover her head. I went through the house rousing my companions, coming up to each man in turn with words of encouragement: “No more sleeping now – you have enjoyed a good, sweet sleep. Come, we must be on our way – queen Kirke has told me all.” So I spoke, and their proud hearts were persuaded. Yet even so, even this time I could not lead my companions away without loss. There was one called Elpenor, the youngest of them, not over-brave in battle nor well equipped with brains. He had drunk too much, and, looking for fresh air, had left the

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rest of my companions and gone to lie down on top of Kirke’s great house. When he heard the hum and clatter of the men stirring, he leapt up suddenly and it quite escaped his mind to go back down again by the long ladder. He fell straight off the roof: his neck was broken from his spine, and his spirit went down on the way to Hades. As the others came out I spoke to them: “Now you must be thinking you are on your way home, to your own dear native land. But Kirke has ordained another journey for us – to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, there to consult the spirit of Theban Teiresias.” So I spoke, and their hearts were broken within them. They sat down right where they were and began to weep and tear their hair: but no good came of their lamentation. Now while we walked in distress of heart to our fast ship by the sea shore, with heavy tears falling, Kirke had gone and tethered a ram and a black ewe beside the ship, passing us unseen with ease. If a god does not wish it, what mortal eye could see him going this way or that?

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The Underworld

When we came down to the ship and the sea, first we hauled the ship into the holy sea and placed the mast and sails in the black ship. We took the sheep and stowed them on board: then we ourselves boarded in distress of heart, with heavy tears falling. But now the lovely-haired Kirke, fearsome goddess with human speech, sent a favouring wind blowing for us behind the dark-prowed ship, a faithful companion to fill our sails. We worked at setting all the tackle throughout the ship, then took our seats while the wind and the helmsman held her sails taut. Then the sun set, and all the paths grew dark. Now the ship came to the furthest extent of Ocean’s deep stream. There is the land and city of the Kimmerian people, covered in mist and cloud. The shining sun never looks down on these men with his rays, neither when he climbs up to the starry sky nor when he turns again from sky to earth, but grim night stretches always over these poor mortals. When we arrived there we beached the ship, and fetched out the two sheep: then we walked on beside the stream of Ocean until we came to the placed described by Kirke. There, Perimedes and Eurylochos held the victims, while I drew my sharp sword from beside my thigh and dug a trench about a cubit long and wide. Round the trench I poured offerings to all the dead, the first of milk and honey mixed, the next of sweet wine, and the third of water: and I sprinkled white barley-grains over it. Then I offered long entreaty to the strengthless heads of the dead, vowing that on my return to Ithaka I would sacrifice in my house the best of my cows that have not borne calf, I would heap a burnt offering with precious gifts, and for Teiresias apart, and for him alone, I would slaughter an all-black ram, the finest among our flocks. When I had made these prayers and vows in entreaty to the company of the dead, I took the sheep and cut their throats over the trench, and the dark blood flowed. And there gathered from out of Erebos the spirits of the departed dead  – young brides and boys yet unmarried, old men of much suffering, innocent girls with the grief fresh in their hearts: and there were

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many wounded with bronze-tipped spears, men killed in battle and their bloodied armour still on them. From all over they came flocking round the trench with an eerie noise, and terror took its pale grip on me. Then I called to my companions and told them to flay the two sheep that lay there slaughtered by the pitiless bronze and burn them in sacrifice, with prayers to the gods, to mighty Hades and dread Persephone. I myself drew my sharp sword from beside my thigh and sat there, sword in hand, preventing the strengthless heads of the dead from coming any nearer to the blood, until I had questioned Teiresias. Before the others there came the spirit of my companion Elpenor, since he had not yet been buried under the wide-wayed earth: we had left his body in Kirke’s house unwept and unburied, as other tasks were urgent. I wept to see him, with pity in my heart, and I spoke winged words to him: “Elpenor, how did you come down to the murky darkness here? You have been faster on foot than I was in my black ship.” So I spoke, and he groaned out loud and answered: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, it was malign fate, some god’s doing, which blighted me – that and too much wine. I had lain down to sleep in Kirke’s house, but did not think to go back down again by the long ladder. I fell straight off the roof: my neck was broken from my spine, and my spirit went down on the way to Hades. But now I beseech you by those you have left behind, who are far from you now – by your wife and your father, who brought you up when you were small, and by Telemachos, whom you left in the house, your only son. I know that when you leave here and go back from the house of Hades you will put in again with your well-made ship at the island of Aiaia. When you are there, my lord, I beg you to remember me. Do not leave me unwept and unburied for ever when you go, do not turn away from me, or I may bring the god’s anger on you: but burn me with my armour, such as I have, and heap a mound for me on the shore of the grey sea, a memorial to a luckless man, for future generations to hear of me. Do these rites for me, and fix an oar on my tomb, the oar which was mine when I was alive and rowing with my companions.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “My poor friend, I shall do this for you, and it shall be fully done.” So we two sat there exchanging these sad words, I on my side of the trench holding my sword over the blood, and on the other side the ghost of my companion talking long. Then there came the spirit of my dead mother, Antikleia, the daughter of great-hearted Autolykos: I had left her alive when I went to sacred Ilios. I wept to see her, with pity in my heart: but even so, for all my deep distress, I would not let her come nearer to the blood until I had questioned Teiresias.

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And then there came the spirit of Theban Teiresias, holding a golden sceptre. He recognised me, and said: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, why is it now, poor man, that you have left the light of the sun and come here, to see the dead and this joyless place? Well, move back from the trench and put up your sharp sword, so I can drink from the blood and give you true prophecy.” So he spoke, and I stepped back and fixed my silver-studded sword in its sheath. Then, when he had drunk the dark blood, the peerless prophet spoke these words to me: “You are seeking your joyful return home, glorious Odysseus: but a god will make that journey hard for you. The Earthshaker, I am sure, will not fail to see you, and he has lodged anger in his heart, in fury at your blinding of his dear son. But even so, and despite much hardship, you may all still reach home, if you have the will to hold back your own and your men’s appetite when once you bring your well-made ship in to the island of Thrinakia, and make landfall there from the violet sea. You will find grazing there cattle and sturdy sheep belonging to Helios the Sun, who sees all things and hears all things. If you leave these unharmed and keep thinking only of your return, then you may all still reach Ithaka, despite much hardship. But if you harm them, then I warn you of destruction to come for your ship and your companions. And even if you yourself escape, you will come home late and luckless, all companions lost, and on an alien ship: and you will find troubles in your house – arrogant men consuming your substance, wooing your godlike wife and offering marriage gifts. But their crimes you will punish when you come. Now when you have killed the suitors in your house, whether by cunning or openly with the sharp bronze, you must then set off, taking with you a wellbalanced oar, and travel until you reach a people who do not know the sea and do not eat their food seasoned with salt. These men will know nothing of crimson-bowed ships nor of well-balanced oars, which are the wings of ships. I will tell you a sign to look for – it will be very clear, and you will not miss it. Whenever another traveller meets you and speaks of the winnowing-fan held on your noble shoulders, then you should fix your well-balanced oar in the ground and make a fine offering to lord Poseidon, sacrificing a ram and a bull and a boar that has mated with sows. Then return home and sacrifice holy hecatombs to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven, to all the gods in turn. Your own death will come away from the sea, a death as gentle as these words: it will take you in the weakness of a rich old age, with your people prospering round you. All this I tell you is the truth.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “Teiresias, this will be the fate which the gods have spun for me, according to their will. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. I can see there the spirit of my dead mother: she is

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sitting silent near the blood, and has not yet looked her own son in the face or spoken to him. Tell me, my lord, how can she be made to recognise me as the son that I am?” So I spoke, and he gave immediate answer: “That is easy to say: I shall tell you and put it clear in your mind. Whichever of the departed dead you allow to approach the blood will speak to you in truth: whichever you refuse will go back again and leave you.” So speaking the spirit of lord Teiresias went away into the house of Hades, after making these prophecies. But I stayed there where I was, until my mother came up and drank the dark blood. Then she recognised me immediately, and in tears spoke winged words to me: “My child, how did you come down to the murky darkness here, and you still alive? It is hard for living men to visit this realm  – in between there are great rivers and dangerous waters, Ocean most of all, which is impossible to cross on foot, only if a man has a well-made ship. Is it that you are come here now still on your way from Troy, after long wanderings with your ship and your companions? Have you not yet been to Ithaka? Have you not seen your wife in your house?” So she spoke, and I answered her: “Mother, it is need that has brought me down to the house of Hades, the need to consult the spirit of Theban Teiresias. I have not yet come near the land of Achaia, I have not yet set foot in my own country, but all the time I have been wandering in constant misery, ever since I first went with godlike Agamemnon to Ilios, the city rich in horses, to fight against the Trojans. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. What was the fate that brought you down in death’s long sorrow? Was it a lingering sickness, or did Artemis the archer-goddess visit you and kill you with her gentle arrows? And tell me of my father and the son I left behind. Is my royal estate still with them, or does some other man hold it now, and people think I shall not return? Tell me too about the intentions of my wedded wife and how she is minded – is she staying there with our child and keeping everything safe, or has she by now been married to the best of the Achaian nobles?” So I spoke, and my honoured mother answered straightaway: “Oh, she is certainly staying on steadfast in your house: but all the time her nights and days of misery are spent in tears. Your fine estate is not yet in other hands, but Telemachos enjoys your land undisturbed and takes his share in the feasts which are proper for a law-giving noble: all the others invite him. Your father stays out there on his farm, and does not come down to the town now. For his bed he has no mattress, blankets, and shining rugs, but in the winter he sleeps where his labourers sleep in the house, in the ashes by the fire, and the clothes on his back are wretched. When summer comes and fruitful autumn, then his bed is made on the ground, wherever the

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leaves have fallen along the crown of his garden vineyard. There he lies in sorrow, and the grief swells large in his heart with longing for your return: old age has come hard on him. And that is how I too perished and met my fate. No, the sharp-sighted archer-goddess did not visit me in the house and kill me with her gentle arrows: nor did any sickness come on me, such as often takes life from limb with hateful wasting. But it was longing for you, glorious Odysseus, for your wisdom and your gentle-hearted way, which took the sweetness of life from me.” So she spoke. My mind was torn, but I wanted to embrace the spirit of my dead mother. Three times I reached for her, with my heart eager to embrace her, and three times she slipped out of my arms like a shadow or a dream. Each time the grief grew sharper in my heart, and I spoke winged words to her: “Mother, why will you not stay for me to embrace you, when that is my desire – so that even in the house of Hades we can throw our arms around each other and both have our pleasure in the pain of tears? Or is this some phantom that queen Persephone is sending me, to make yet more pain and weeping for me?” So I spoke, and my honoured mother answered straightaway: “Oh, my child, most ill-fated of all men, this is no delusion worked on you by Persephone, daughter of Zeus. No, this is the way with all mortals when they die. The sinews no longer hold flesh to bone, but all these are consumed by the mighty power of the fire’s burning, when once life has left the white bones, and the spirit flies away like a dream and stays on the wing. But you must press back to the light with all speed. Remember all this, so that you can tell it later to your wife.” Such were our words to each other. And now, sent up by queen Persephone, there came a pageant of women, all those who were the wives or daughters of great men. They gathered all together around the dark blood, and I wondered how to question each of them separately. This seemed the best plan to my thinking: I drew the long sharp sword from beside my thick thigh, and prevented them from all drinking the dark blood at once. They came forward one after the other, and each told me her birth: I was able to question them all. The first I saw was Tyro, daughter of a noble house. She told me that she was the child of the excellent Salmoneus, and the wife of Kretheus, son of Aiolos. She had fallen in love with a river, the divine Enipeus, loveliest of all the rivers that flow on earth, and she used to walk by his beautiful stream. Now the encircler and shaker of the earth took the form of Enipeus and lay with her in the mouth of the eddying river: a wave surged mountain-high and arched over to cover them, hiding the god and the mortal woman. He undid her virgin’s belt, and shed sleep over her. When the god had

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finished the work of love, he took her hand and spoke to her: “Woman, be happy in our love. As the year comes round you will give birth to splendid children  – union with an immortal is never fruitless. You must care for them and bring them up. But now go back to your house. Keep this to yourself and do not tell my name: but you should know that I am Poseidon the earthshaker.” So speaking he sank down under the swelling sea. And she conceived and gave birth to Pelias and Neleus. Both became powerful regents of great Zeus, Pelias living, rich in flocks, in broad Iaolkos, and Neleus in sandy Pylos. And this queen among women bore other sons to Kretheus: Aison, and Pheres, and the great chariot-fighter Amythaon. After her I saw Antiope, the daughter of Asopos, who could claim the honour of sleeping in the arms of Zeus himself. She bore him two sons, Amphion and Zethos, who were the first founders of seven-gated Thebes and then built walls round their settlement: strong as they were, they could not continue to live in broad Thebes without walls to defend them. After her I saw Alkmene, the wife of Amphitryon, who lay in love in the arms of great Zeus and gave birth to Herakles, a man bold of spirit and with the heart of a lion. And I saw Megara, the daughter of proud-hearted Kreion, who was taken to wife by Herakles, son of Amphitryon and untiring in his strength. And I saw the mother of Oidipous, beautiful Epikaste, who did a terrible deed in all ignorance and married her own son: and he married her after killing his father. In time the gods made this known among men. And then the gods’ cruel plans kept him ruling over the Kadmeians in lovely Thebes, though in pain and suffering, while she went down to the house of Hades, the strong Keeper of the Gate. She hung a lethal noose from a high roof-beam, overcome by her grief: and for him she left behind pain abounding, all that is brought by the Furies who avenge a mother. And I saw the surpassingly beautiful Chloris, married for her beauty by Neleus, after he gave a countless bride-price for her. She was the youngest daughter of Amphion, son of Iasos, who once ruled in strength over Minyan Orchomenos. She then was queen in Pylos, and bore Neleus splendid children: Nestor, and Chromios, and proud Periklymenos. As well as these she bore him a fine daughter, Pero, a marvel for the world, and wooed by all the men who lived thereabouts. But Neleus would only give her to the man who would drive back from Phylake the twist-horned broad-browed cattle of mighty Iphikles, and they were hard to drive. Only one man, a peerless prophet, undertook to drive them off: but he was caught in a harsh fate from god, and country herdsmen there put him in cruel chains. But when the days and the months were accomplished as

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the year turned and the seasons came round, then the mighty Iphikles released him when he had spoken all his prophecies – and this was the working of Zeus’ will. And I saw Leda, the wife of Tyndareos, who bore Tyndareos two mightyhearted sons, Kastor the horse-breaker and the boxer Polydeukes. Both are alive, even though the life-giving earth holds them under. There, though they are in the world below, Zeus has given them the privilege of alternating life and death as the days succeed, alive for one day then dead for the next: and they are honoured like the gods. After her I saw Iphimedeia, the wife of Aloeus. She used to boast of her union with Poseidon, and indeed she bore him two sons, though they were short-lived  – godlike Otos and far-famed Ephialtes. These were the tallest men ever bred by the grain-giving earth, and far the most handsome too, except for the famous Orion. At nine years old they were nine cubits in breadth, and had grown to nine fathoms in height. These two threatened to bring the clash of furious war against the very immortals on Olympos. They were ready to pile Ossa on Olympos, and wooded Pelion on Ossa, in order to scale the heaven. And they would have succeeded, if they had reached their manhood. But Apollo, son of Zeus born to lovely-haired Leto, destroyed them both, before the hair could sprout below their temples and the lovely down thicken on their cheeks. And I saw Phaidra and Prokris and beautiful Ariadne, daughter of the grim Minos. Theseus had tried to carry Ariadne away from Crete to the hill of sacred Athens, but he had no joy of her: before that Artemis killed her in the island of Dia, on the indictment of Dionysos. And I saw Maira and Klymene, and hateful Eriphyle, who accepted a bounty of gold for her own husband. But I could not tell you of them all or even name them – all the wives and daughters of heroes whom I saw: the immortal night would be passed and gone before I could finish. No, it is time to sleep now – and I can either go to join the crew on your fast ship or stay here in the house. My journey home will be for the gods and for you to decide.’ So he spoke, and they all stayed silent, held by the spell of his words in the shadowy hall. White-armed Arete was the first to speak: ‘Phaiacians, what a man this is (do you not think?) in looks and height and the steadiness of his mind! He is also my guest, and each man deserves his honour. So do not be in haste to send him on his way, and do not stint your gifts for a man in such need as his: thanks be to the gods, you all have possessions in plenty stored in your houses.’ Then the old man, the hero Echeneos, who was the oldest of all the Phaiacians, spoke out to them: ‘My friends, to my mind the words of our

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wise queen have not missed the mark or failed our expectation. So do as she says – though it is with Alkinoös here that both word and action must rest.’ Then Alkinoös said in reply: ‘What she says will indeed be so, as surely as I live and reign over the oar-loving Phaiacians. But, however much he longs for his return, our guest must resign himself to wait even so for tomorrow, until I have completed the full tally of our gifts. And this passage home will be the men’s concern, all of them, but mine above all: mine is the power in this land.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Alkinoös, my lord, most illustrious of all men, if you were to bid me stay here for a whole year, and then speed my passage home and give me splendid gifts, I would be happy with that too: and it would be much to my gain, to come back to my dear native land with a fuller hand, so winning greater respect and welcome from all those who see me on my return to Ithaka.’ Then Alkinoös said in reply: ‘Odysseus, as we look at you we do not think you like one of those charlatans and impostors who are nourished by the dark earth far and wide, purveying their lying stories which no man can test. No, with you there is both charm in your words and good sense in your mind, and you have matched the skill of a bard in telling your tale of the suffering endured by all the Argives and your own troubles. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth – did you see any of your godlike companions who joined you in the expedition to Troy and met their fate there? The night before us is long  – there is time in abundance, and it is not yet the hour for sleeping in the house. So tell on, continue your tale of these marvellous doings. I could last right through to the holy dawn, if only you would agree to stay on in this hall telling the story of your troubles.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Alkinoös, my lord, most illustrious of all men, there is a time for long stories and a time also for sleep. But if you are still eager to hear more, then I would not withhold from you a yet more pitiable tale – the sufferings of my companions who died after the war. They survived the misery of battle with the Trojans, but perished on their return through the will of a wicked woman. Well, when chaste Persephone had drived away the spirits of the women, scattering them this way and that, there came the spirit of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, still furious in sorrow: and round him were gathered all the others who died with him and met their fate in the house of Aigisthos. He recognised me at once, as soon as he had drunk the dark blood. He began to weep loud, letting the heavy tears fall, and stretched his arms out to me, eager to embrace: but there was no longer the strength left or any of the force that had once been there in the flex of his body. I wept to see him, with

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pity in my heart, and I spoke winged words to him: “Most glorious son of Atreus, Agamemnon, lord of men, what was the fate that brought you down in death’s long sorrow? Was it with your ships at sea? Did Poseidon overcome you, raising the hateful blast of cruel winds against you? Or was it enemies on land who did you your harm, when you were lifting their cattle and their fine flocks of sheep, or fighting them for their city and their women?” So I spoke, and he answered me straightaway: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, it was not Poseidon who overcame me, raising the hateful blast of cruel winds against me: nor was it enemies on land who did me my harm. No, Aigisthos contrived my death and doom. He killed me, he and my accursed wife. He called me to his house and feasted me, then killed me as a man kills an ox at the manger. So I died the most pitiable death: and all around me my companions were killed in a welter, like white-tusked hogs slaughtered in the house of a rich and powerful man, killed for a marriage or a feast or a lavish festival. In your time you have experienced the deaths of many men, men killed alone or in the fury of battle: but this would have moved your heart to the greatest pity, if you had seen how we fell and lay there round the wine-bowl and the laden tables, and the whole floor running with blood. Most pitiable of all were the screams I heard from Priam’s daughter, Kassandra, as the treacherous Klytaimnestra killed her over me: and I lifted my hands and beat them on the earth as I lay dying there with the sword in me. And the bitch turned away from me: even though I was on my way to Hades she did not bring herself to shut my eyes with her hands and close my mouth. So for sure there is nothing worse or more shameless than a woman who can put her mind to such deeds – the way she plotted an outrageous act, contriving the killing of her own wedded husband. I had thought that my homecoming would be a joy to my children and my household: but she with the utter evil of her plans cast shame on herself and on all women to come, all of the female sex, even the virtuous.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “Oh, wide-seeing Zeus has shown special hatred for the family of Atreus, right from the beginning, and all through the plans of women. Many of us died for Helen’s sake, and then again Klytaimnestra laid this plot for you when you were far away.” So I spoke, and he answered me straightaway: “So you too should never be too kind even to your wife: and do not tell her all that you know – reveal some of any plan, but keep part hidden also. But for you, Odysseus, there is no danger of death at your wife’s hands. The good Penelope, daughter of Ikarios, is a woman of great sense and a loyal heart. She was just a young bride when we left her to go to the war, and there was a child at her breast, a baby boy who by now, I imagine, must be taking his seat with the men. Lucky man! His dear father will see him on his return, and he will be able to

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embrace his father. That is as it should be. But my wife did not even allow me to fill my eyes with sight of my son – before that could be she killed me. I tell you another thing, and you mark it well in your mind. When you bring your ship in to your dear native land, put in secretly, not in open view: women can be trusted no more. But come, tell me this, and tell me in clear truth. Have you men heard news of my son still alive somewhere, in Orchomenos perhaps, or in sandy Pylos, or perhaps with Menelaos in broad Sparta? Surely godlike Orestes is not yet dead on the earth.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “Son of Atreus, why do you ask me this? I have no knowledge whether he is alive or dead, and empty words are wind and nothing.” So we stood there in sorrow, exchanging these sad words with heavy tears falling. And there came the spirit of Achilleus, son of Peleus, and the spirits too of Patroklos and the noble Antilochos, and of Aias, who was the best of all the Danaans in body and looks after the noble son of Peleus. The spirit of Achilleus, the fast runner of Aiakos’ stock, recognised me, and in sorrow spoke winged words to me: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, you dear stubborn man, what deed will your mind plan yet greater than this? How could you dare to come down to Hades, where the dead live senseless, mere ghosts of men who have laboured their last?” So he spoke, and I answered him: “Achilleus, son of Peleus, far the greatest of the Achaians, I have come here in need of Teiresias, hoping for some word from him how I might reach rugged Ithaka. I have not yet come near the land of Achaia, I have not yet set foot in my own country – no, I have had trouble all the time. But you, Achilleus – no man before or after is more blessed than you. Before, while you still lived, we Argives held you in equal honour with the gods, and now in this place you are king among the dead. So do not be angry in your death, Achilleus.” So I spoke, and he answered me straightaway: “Do not talk to me lightly of death, glorious Odysseus. I had rather be above earth and a labourer for another, for a man without land of his own and little to live on, than be king over all the lifeless dead. But come, tell me now the news of my proud son – did he follow me to prominence in war, or not? And tell me too if you have heard anything of the noble Peleus, whether he is still held in honour among the host of Myrmidons, or whether they slight him now throughout Hellas and Phthia because old age has taken hold of his hands and feet. If only I were there under the light of the sun to protect him, the man I was when fighting for the Argives in the broad land of Troy and killing the best of the Trojan army. If I were to return like that to my father’s house, even for a short while, then I would give them cause to hate the strength of my invincible hands – any who are molesting him and trying to force him from his throne.”

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So he spoke, and I answered him: “Of the noble Peleus I have heard nothing, but as for your dear son Neoptolemos I can tell you all that you ask in truth – because I myself brought him from Skyros in my hollow balanced ship to join the well-greaved Achaians. Now whenever we were in council outside the city of Troy and laying our plans, he was always the first to speak and his words would not miss the mark: only godlike Nestor and I were his superiors. And then when we Achaians were fighting in the Trojan plain, he would never stay among the mass of men or the serried ranks, but was always charging out far ahead and yielding to no one in his fury. And there were many men he killed in the grim combat. I could not tell or name them all, all the enemy he killed when fighting for the Argives. But there was one above all whom he cut down with his bronze sword, the son of Telephos, the hero Eurypylos: and round him there were killed many of his Keteian companions, and all because of the bribes offered to a woman. Eurypylos was the handsomest man I saw, after the godlike Memnon. And then when the best of us Argives entered the horse which Epeios had laboured to build, and all was entrusted to me, to decide when to open this tight-packed trap or to keep it closed – then the other leaders and lords of the Danaans were wiping tears from their eyes with their legs trembling under them. But I never saw Neoptolemos at any point pale the handsome colour of his face or wipe a tear from his cheeks. No, such was his eagerness to be doing harm to the Trojans, he kept begging me to let him out of the horse, and his hand was ready on the hilt of his sword and his spear with its weight of bronze. And then when we sacked the high city of Priam, he took his share and a fine prize of honour, and boarded his ship quite unscathed, with no wound from the throw of the sharp bronze and no cut from close fighting, as in the usual way of war  – there are no exceptions when Ares rages.” So I spoke, and the spirit of swift-footed Achilleus went away striding long over the fields of asphodel, joyful that I had told him of his son’s glory. The other spirits of the departed dead still stood round in sorrow, and each asked after those dear to them. Only the spirit of Aias, son of Telamon, stood aloof, angry at the victory I had won over him by the ships in the judgement for the armour of Achilleus: his honoured mother had set the armour as a prize, and the judgement was given by the captive sons of the Trojans and Pallas Athene. How I wish that I had never won, when that was the nature of the prize! So great was the man that the earth took under because of that armour – Aias, who in looks and deeds was far the greatest of all the Danaans, after the noble son of Peleus. So I then spoke to him with gentle words: “Aias, son of noble Telamon, were you not even in death to forget your anger at me over that accursed armour? The gods set this as a punishment for the Argives, such was the

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tower of strength they lost in you. At your death we Achaians grieved for you constantly, no less than we did for the head of Achilleus, son of Peleus. And there is no man to blame, only Zeus who showed a fearful hatred for the army of Danaan warriors, and brought your fate on you. So come now, my lord, come closer to hear the words I have to speak to you – beat down your fury and the pride of your heart.” So I spoke, and he gave me no answer, but went away to Erebos, to join the other spirits of the departed dead. There, despite his anger, he might have spoken to me, or I to him: but the heart in my breast was eager to see the spirits of the others who were dead. There I saw Minos, the splendid son of Zeus, sitting with a golden sceptre in his hand and giving judgements for the dead. They were bringing their cases for his decision, sitting or standing around the king in the broad-gated house of Hades. And after him I caught sight of the huge Orion rounding up over the fields of asphodel the same beasts which in life he had killed in the lonely mountains: and in his hands he held a club made all of bronze, never to be broken. And I saw Tityos, son of the great goddess Earth, lying on the ground – and he covered nine acres. Two vultures were sitting by him, one on each side, tearing at his liver and reaching right through the caul: but he could not keep them away with his hands. This was because he had raped Leto, the glorious bed-fellow of Zeus, as she was on her way to Pytho through the beautiful spaces of Panopeus. And I saw Tantalos enduring his agony. He was standing in a lake which came up to his chin. He was thirsty and always ready to drink, but he could not reach the water. Every time the old man bent down in his urge to drink, the water would be sucked away and vanish: a god would dry all up, and the dark earth would show at his feet. And high leafy trees had fruit hanging from their tops – pears and pomegranates, bright-fruited apple-trees, sweet figs and flourishing olives. But whenever the old man reached up to take the fruit in his hands, the wind would toss it up towards the shadowing clouds. And I saw Sisyphos too enduring his agony, lifting up a huge stone with both hands. Then taking purchase with hands and feet he would push the stone up to the crown of the hill. But whenever it was just about to go over the top, its own force would turn it back again: and then the pitiless stone would go rolling back to the level. Once more Sisyphos would strain to push it up, the sweat dripping from his limbs and dust rising round his head. And after him I caught sight of the mighty Herakles – the phantom of him: he himself is with the immortal gods in the enjoyment of their feasting,

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with lovely-ankled Hebe as his wife, the daughter of great Zeus and Hera of the golden sandals. Around him the dead kept up a clamour like frightened birds, and fled away from him wherever they could: and he walked like black night, holding his bow at the ready and an arrow on the string, staring fearfully round him, as if always on the point of shooting. And there was a grim baldric round his chest, a golden belt with amazing scenes worked on it, bears and wild boars and staring lions, and fights and battles, slaughters and the killing of men. Whoever it was who encompassed that belt in his craft should never have made it, and may he never make another like it. Herakles recognised me at once, as soon as he saw me, and in sorrow spoke winged words to me: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, you poor man, have you too then had to carry some wretched fate with you, like that which burdened me under the light of the sun? I was a child of Zeus, son of Kronos, and yet I had misery without limit. I was bound in servitude to a man much my inferior, who set hard labour on me. And once he even sent me here to bring back the dog of Hades, thinking that no further labour could be harder for me than this. But I took the dog and brought him up out of Hades, with Hermes and bright-eyed Athene helping me on my way.” So speaking he went away back into the house of Hades, but I waited on there, in the hope that another of the long-dead heroes would come. And I could have gone on to see the men of an earlier time whom I wanted to meet  –  Theseus and Peirithoös, the glorious children of gods. But before that the countless company of the dead came gathering with an eerie noise, and terror took its pale grip on me – fear that queen Persephone might send against me out of Hades the head of the terrible monster Gorgon. So then without delay I went back to my ship and told my crew to get on board also and loose the stern-cables. They quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks. And the current of the stream carried the ship out along the river Ocean, first with our rowing, and then there came a fine breeze.

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In time the ship left the stream of the river Ocean, and came to the swell of the broad-wayed sea, and then to the island of Aiaia, where early-born Dawn has her house and her dancing-places and the Sun his risings. When we got there we beached the ship on the sands, and then jumped out ourselves where the surf breaks. And there we fell asleep and waited for the holy dawn. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, then I sent my companions out to Kirke’s house to bring back the body of dead Elpenor. We quickly cut logs, and there where the headland ran out furthest we gave him burial in distress of heart, with heavy tears falling. When the body was burned and the dead man’s armour with it, we piled a mound for him and hauled up a gravestone, and on the very top of the mound we fixed his well-balanced oar. So we carried out our task in each detail. Now Kirke had not failed to notice our return from Hades, and she got herself ready quickly and came to us. With her her maids brought bread and meat in plenty and gleaming red wine. The queen among goddesses stood in the middle of our company and spoke to us: “What amazing men you are, to have gone down alive into the house of Hades! Other men die once, but you will have had two deaths. But come now, stay here eating food and drinking wine all day long: and then with the showing of dawn you can set sail. And I will show you the way and tell you everything you must know, so that no dangerous mischief will bring you pain and misery to suffer either at sea or on land.” So she spoke, and our proud hearts were persuaded. So then we sat all day long till the setting of the sun feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine. When the sun set and darkness came on, they lay down to sleep beside the ship’s stern-cables, but she led me by the hand away from my dear companions, and sat me down and lay next to me, asking me about all that had happened: and I told her everything just as it was. And then queen Kirke spoke these words to me: “Well, all this is now over and accomplished – but listen now to what I tell you, and god himself will

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prompt you later. First of all you will come to the Sirens, who bewitch all men who come near them. If any man approaches in ignorance of the danger and hears the voice of the Sirens, then he will never return home to have his wife and young children crowd round him and take their joy in his homecoming, but the Sirens bewitch him with their clear-sounding song. They sit there in a meadow, and around them there is a great pile of rotting men’s bones, with the skin decaying on them. You must sail past, having stopped the ears of your companions with sweet wax kneaded and pressed into them, so that none of the others should hear. But if you yourself want to hear, then have your men tie you hand and foot in the fast ship, upright against the mastholder with the ropes attached to the mast itself  – thus you can take your pleasure in hearing the voice of the Sirens. And if you beg your companions and order them to release you, then they must put yet further ropes on you. Now when your companions have rowed you past the Sirens, I cannot tell you thereafter which of two ways you will follow. You yourself must decide in your own mind, but I will tell you about both. On the one side are overhanging cliffs, with the waves of dark-eyed Amphitrite dashing strong against them: the blessed gods call these rocks ‘The Wanderers’. Even the birds do not pass by here, not even the trembling doves which bring ambrosia to father Zeus, but the sheer rock always takes one even of these, and the Father sends another dove to make up their number. This way no ship of men that approaches has ever yet got clear, but a welter of ships’ planks and men’s bodies is tossed there by the waves of the sea and the storms of raging fire. Only one sea-going ship has indeed made the voyage past that way – the Argo that all men know of, when sailing back from the land of Aietes. But even she would have been quickly flung against the great rocks, if Hera had not ensured her passage, since Iason was dear to her. The other way there are two crags. One reaches up into the broad heaven with its sharp peak surrounded by dark cloud. This never leaves it: there is never clear sky round that peak either in summer or in autumn. And no mortal man could climb this crag or even set foot on it, even if he had twenty hands and twenty feet – the rock is sheer, like polished stone. Half way up the crag is a gloomy cave, facing west towards Erebos, and it is past here that you and your men will steer your hollow ship, glorious Odysseus. But from a ship not even a strong man could shoot an arrow high enough to reach that hollow cave. There lives Skylla, with her strange yelping. Her voice is no greater than that of a young puppy, but she herself is a hideous monster – no one would take any joy at the sight of her, not even a god meeting her. She has twelve legs all like tentacles, six long necks with a ghastly head on each, and in each head three rows of many close-packed teeth, all laden with black death. She is sunk up to her middle in her hollow cave, but she stretches her

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heads outside her fearful pit, and scavenges there round the crag, fishing for her prey – dolphins and sharks and any larger beast she can take of the myriads nurtured by Amphitrite, goddess of the resounding sea. No sailors have ever yet claimed to pass by there in their ship without loss: with each head she snatches a man from the dark-prowed ship and carries him off. The other crag is lower, as you will see, Odysseus, though they are close to each other, an arrow-shot apart. In this one there is a great fig-tree in full leaf: and beneath it the goddess Charybdis sucks down the dark water. Three times each day she gives it up again, and three times she sucks it down fearfully. May you not be there when she sucks it down  – then not even the Earthshaker could save you from disaster. No, you must steer close to Skylla’s rock, and drive your ship fast by there. It is much better to lose six companions from your ship than all together.” So she spoke, and I answered her: “Well tell me this, goddess, and tell me true – is there any way I can escape the deadly Charybdis while defending myself against the other, when she tries harm to my companions?” So I spoke, and the queen among goddesses answered me straightaway: “Foolish man, are you again thinking of warfare and the toil of battle? Will you not yield to the immortal gods? This creature, I tell you, is not mortal. She is a horror who cannot die – a fearful monster, impossible and savage, not one you can fight. There is no defence against her: best is to flee from her as you can. If you delay there by her rock arming yourself for a fight, I fear that she will strike again and find her prey with all her heads, taking that number of men once more. No, you must drive past her with all your strength, and call on Krataïs, the mother of Skylla, who gave birth to this bane of mankind – she will then stop her from a second attack. Then you will come to the island of Thrinakia, where there are pastured the many cattle and sturdy sheep of Helios the Sun. There are seven herds of cattle, and as many fine flocks of sheep, fifty in each. They have no offspring, and they do not die. Goddesses are their shepherds, the lovelyhaired nymphs Phaëthousa and Lampetië, borne to Hyperion the Sun by the goddess Neaira. Their honoured mother bore them and brought them up, then sent them to live far away in the island of Thrinakia, to look after their father’s sheep and twist-horned cattle. If you leave these beasts unharmed, and keep thinking only of your return, then you may all still reach Ithaka, despite much hardship. But if you harm them, then I warn you of destruction for your ship and your companions. And even if you yourself escape, you will come home late and luckless, all companions lost.” So she spoke, and soon after Dawn appeared on her golden throne. The queen among goddesses then went away across the island, and I went back to my ship and told my crew to get on board also and loose the stern-cables.

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They quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks: and, each sitting in his place, they struck into the grey sea with their oars. And now the lovely-haired Kirke, fearsome goddess with human speech, sent a favouring wind blowing for us behind the dark-prowed ship, a faithful companion to fill our sails. We worked at setting all the tackle throughout the ship, then took our seats while the wind and the helmsman held her on course. Then at last I spoke to my companions in distress of heart: “My friends, it is not right that only one or two should know the prophecies told me by Kirke, queen among goddesses. No, I shall tell you, and then it can be in full knowledge that we either go on to our deaths, or, it may be, avoid death and escape our doom. First she tells us to beware of the song the heavenly Sirens sing, and the flowery meadow where they live. She said that only I should hear their voice – but you must tie me with ropes pulled painfully tight, so that I stay fast where I am, upright against the mast-holder with the ropes attached to the mast itself. And if I beg you and order you to release me, then you are to tighten yet further ropes on me.” So I talked to my companions, explaining all in detail to them. Meanwhile the well-made ship came quickly to the Sirens’ island, sped by a safe wind. But then immediately the wind dropped and there came a windless calm, and god stilled the waves. My companions rose to their feet and furled the ship’s sails, then stowed them in the hollow ship: they sat to their oars, and began to whiten the water with their oars of polished fir. But I took a great wheel of wax and cut it into small pieces with the sharp bronze, then kneaded it in my strong hands. The wax quickly softened, forced by the great pressure of my hands and the rays of lord Helios, son of Hyperion. Then I used the wax to stop the ears of each of my companions in turn. And they tied me hand and foot in the ship, upright against the mast-holder, and attached the ropes to the mast itself. And they they sat down and struck into the grey sea with their oars. Now when we were as far away as a man’s shout will still carry, and running quickly on our course, the Sirens saw that a fast ship was speeding close, and they began their clear-sounding song: “Come here now, famed Odysseus, great glory of the Achaians, and stop your ship, to hear the song we sing. No man has yet passed by here in his black ship without hearing the honey-sweet voice from our lips. No, he has his pleasure in it and goes on a wiser man. We know all that the Argives and the Trojans suffered through the will of the gods in the broad land of Troy. We know all that happens on the nourishing earth.” So they sang, lifting up their lovely voices. And my heart was eager to hear more, and I urged my companions to release me, nodding to them with my eyebrows. But they fell to their oars and rowed on, and Perimedes and

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Eurylochos leapt to their feet and bound me with more ropes yet tighter. So when they had driven past the Sirens, and we could no longer hear the sound of their singing, my trusty companions took out the wax with which I had stopped their ears, and released me from my bonds. Now when we had left that island behind us, soon after I saw smoke and heavy waves and heard a deep crashing. My men took fright and the oars all dropped from their hands, clattering alongside in the flow: and the ship lost way, with none now plying his hands on the tapered oars. I went through the ship urging on my companions, coming up to each man in turn with words of encouragement: “My friends, we have had our experience of danger: and this danger before us is no greater than when the Cyclops kept us penned by force in his hollow cave. But even from there we escaped through my courage and planning and intelligence, and I warrant I shall not forget them now. So now come then, let us all do as I say. You must sit by the rowlocks and strike the deep surf with your oars, in the hope that Zeus will grant us escape and deliverance from destruction here at least. And for you, helmsman, I have these orders: and you put them in your mind, as it is you who control the rudder of our hollow ship. Keep the ship away from the smoke here and the breakers, and steer for the rock – otherwise you may find it pressing the other way and bringing us all into danger.” So I spoke, and they were quick to follow my words. Of Skylla, that impossible horror, I said no more, for fear that in their terror of her my men would stop their rowing and huddle away inside the ship. And then too I forgot Kirke’s galling instruction, when she told me not to arm myself. I put on my glorious armour and took two long spears in my hands, then went and stood on the deck at the ship’s prow. This is where I thought I would have first sight of Skylla, who was ready to bring disaster on my men from her cave – but I could not glimpse her anywhere, and my eyes became tired with gazing out all over at the misty rock. So with much lamentation we began sailing up the narrows. On this side was Skylla. On the other side the goddess Charybdis sucked the salt sea water down, a terrible sight. And then when she belched it up again, it foamed all the way up to the fill, seething like a cauldron over a great fire, and the spray fell high over the rocks on both sides. But when she drained the salt water down from the sea, then all the inside of the whirlpool could be seen in a maelstrom, the rock roared terribly all around, and far below the seabed appeared, dark with sand. Fear took its pale grip on my men, and we all looked at Charybdis in terror of destruction. And that was when Skylla took six of my companions from the hollow ship, and all of them among the best in the strength of their arms. When I looked back over the fast ship and my crew, I caught sight of their arms and legs already carried high above me:

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and in their anguish they were crying out to me, calling to me by name, for the last time. As when a fisherman sits on a jutting rock, throwing in tit-bits as bait for the small fish, then with his long rod he lets down into the sea an ox-horn covering the hook, and when he catches them he flicks them on land still struggling. So those men struggled as they were lifted up to the rock. And as she ate them there in her doorway they screamed and held out their hands to me in this ghastly combat. This was the most pitiable sight my eyes ever saw in all that I have suffered in my quest over the pathways of the sea. Now when we had escaped those rocks and the terrors of Charybdis and Skylla, we came quickly thereafter to the lovely island of the god. There were the fine broad-browed cattle and the many sturdy sheep of Hyperion the Sun. While still out at sea in my black ship I could hear the lowing of cattle being stalled and the bleating of sheep, and there came into my mind the words of the blind prophet, Theban Teiresias, and of Aiaian Kirke, who both warned me most insistently to keep clear of the island of the Sun, the god who brings gladness to mortals. So then I spoke to my men in distress of heart: “My companions, you have suffered much hardship, but listen now to what I say, so I can tell you the prophecies of Teiresias and Aiaian Kirke. They both warned me most insistently to keep clear of the island of the Sun, the god who brings gladness to mortals. They spoke of the most terrible disaster for us there. So you must keep the ship driving past this island.” So I spoke, and their hearts broke within them. At once Eurylochos answered me with bitter words: “You are a hard man, Odysseus. You have strength beyond other men and your body does not tire – indeed everything about you is made of iron. And now when your companions are worn out with exhaustion and lack of sleep, you will not let us set foot on land, here where we could once more make ourselves a pleasant supper on an island ringed by water. No, just like that you tell us to pass by the island and wander on in the hazy sea through the rush of night. After nightfall dangerous winds spring up, ruin for ships – and how could one escape sheer destruction, if perhaps there suddenly comes a storm of wind, from the south or the illblowing west? These are the winds that most easily smash a ship, whether the lord gods wish it or not. No, for the present we should give way to dark night and prepare our supper hard by our fast ship: and then in the morning we can board again and launch it on the wide sea.” So spoke Eurylochos, and my other companions applauded. And then it was I could see that god was planning disaster, and I spoke to him with winged words: “Well, Eurylochos, I can see that I am alone and you are all forcing me. But look, you must all now swear me a powerful oath, that if we find any herd of cattle or great flock of sheep, no one of you will have the

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disastrous folly to kill either cow or sheep. No, you must be content to eat the food which immortal Kirke gave us.” So I spoke, and they immediately swore as I asked. When they had sworn and completed their oath, then we anchored the well-made ship in an enclosed harbour near a source of sweet water, and my companions disembarked and then prepared their supper with experienced skill. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, then they began to mourn in memory of their friends whom Skylla had snatched from the hollow ship and eaten. So they wept for them until sweet sleep came over them. Now when it was the last third of the night, and the stars had passed over to their setting, Zeus the cloud-gatherer raised a wind blowing in a terrible storm, and covered earth and sea alike in cloud: and darkness rushed down from the sky. When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, we beached the ship, dragging it into a hollow cave where the Nymphs have their seats and their lovely dancing-places. I held a meeting of the men, and spoke to them all: “My friends, there is food and drink in our fast ship, so let us keep our hands away from the cattle here, so that we come to no harm. These cows and sturdy sheep belong to a fearsome god, Helios the Sun, who sees all things and hears all things.” So I spoke, and their proud hearts were persuaded. And for a whole month the south wind blew without ceasing; there was no other wind then but east and south. Now as long as they had food and red wine, they kept their hands away from the cattle, anxious to save their lives. And then when all the provisions were spent from the ship, they were forced to go out wandering in search of game, using bent hooks to catch fish or birds – anything that came to their hands – as hunger wore at their bellies. Then I walked out over the island to pray to the gods, in the hope that one of them would show me a way for our return. So when I was away across the island and had got clear of my companions, I washed my hands where there was a spot sheltered from the wind and began to pray to all the gods who hold Olympos: and they shed sweet sleep over my eyelids. Meanwhile Eurylochos was proposing a disastrous plan to the men: “My companions, you have suffered much hardship, so listen now to what I say. Any form of death is hateful to poor mortals, but starvation is the most pitiable way to die and meet one’s doom. So come, let us drive off the best of Helios’ cattle and sacrifice them to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven. And if we do reach our own native land of Ithaka, then we shall immediately build a rich temple to Hyperion the Sun, and we would put many fine offerings in it. But if in anger for his long-horned cattle he determines to destroy our ship, and the other gods go with him, then I would

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rather lose my life with one big gulp of the sea than be slowly worn to nothing here in this deserted island.” So spoke Eurylochos, and my other companions applauded. They then quickly drove off the best of Helios’ cattle. They were close by: it was not far from the dark-prowed ship where the herds of fine cattle were grazing, with their broad brows and curling horns. The men stood round them and began their prayers to the gods – they had plucked the delicate leaves from a tall oak-tree for the sprinkling, as they no longer had any white barley in the well-benched ship. Then when they had made their prayers they slaughtered the cattle and flayed them. They cut out the thigh-bones and covered them with fat, folding it twice over, and places pieces of raw meat on top. They had no wine to pour over the burning sacrifice, but with a libation of water instead they set about roasting all the entrails. Then when the thighs were burnt up and they had tasted the innards, they chopped the rest into pieces and threaded them on spits. And then it was that the sweet sleep fled from my eyes, and I went back towards my fast ship by the sea shore. And when I was coming close on my way to the balanced ship, the rich smell of the smoke from roasting meat came all round me. I groaned and called aloud to the immortal gods: “Father Zeus, and you other blessed ever-living gods – oh, it was to my harm then that you lulled me with that cruel sleep, while the companions I left behind have conspired to commit a terrible deed.” Quickly long-dressed Lampetië came to Hyperion the Sun with the news that we had killed his cattle. And he immediately spoke in fury to the immortal gods: “Father Zeus, and you other blessed ­ever-living gods, take vengeance now on the companions of Odysseus son of Laertes, who have monstrously killed my cattle  – which were my joy every time I climbed up to the starry sky and again when I turned from sky to earth. If they do not pay me proper requital for my cattle, I shall go down into the house of Hades and shine among the dead.” Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him: “Helios, you keep shining on among the immortals, and for mortal men over the grain-giving earth. As for them, I shall soon smash their fast ship with a vivid thunderbolt and shatter it in small pieces in the middle of the sparkling sea.” All this I heard from lovely-haired Kalypso: and she told me that she herself had heard it from Hermes the guide. When I reached the sea and the ship, I came up to each man in turn and berated him. But there was no remedy to be found: the cattle were dead already. And then the gods showed monstrous portents to my men. The hides began to creep on the ground, and the flesh mooed on the spits, both cooked and raw: and all around there was a noise as of cattle.

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For six days then my trusty companions feasted on the best of Helios’ cattle which they had driven off. But then when Zeus the son of Kronos brought about the seventh day, the wind at last stopped its stormy raging, and we went quickly on board and launched the ship on the wide sea, setting up the mast and spreading the white sails. But when we had left that island, and there was no other land in sight, only sky and sea, then the son of Kronos set a black cloud over the hollow ship, and the sea darkened under it. And she ran on only for a short while: because suddenly there came a screaming west wind raging in a great storm, and a blast of the wind snapped both the forestays, so the mast fell backwards and all the tackle was poured into the hold. At the stern of the ship the mast hit the helmsman on the head and smashed in all the bones of his skull. He fell from the deck like a diver, and the proud spirit left his bones. And then at one and the same time Zeus thundered and hurled a lightning bolt into the ship. She spun right round under the blow from Zeus’ bolt, filling with sulphur, and my companions were flung overboard. All round the black ship they bobbed in the waves like gulls, and god took away their homecoming. But I kept going up and down through the ship, until the force of the waves broke the ship’s sides away from the keel, and left the keel floating by itself: and the mast was torn from its socket and sent smashing against the keel. Now there was a backstay made of ox-hide still attached to it. With this I tied mast and keel together, and sitting on these two timbers I was carried on by the cruel winds. Then the west wind stopped its stormy raging, but soon after there came up a southerly, and this brought anguish to my heart, as I would have now to travel back towards the deadly Charybdis. All night long I was carried back by the wind, and with the rising of the sun I came to Skylla’s rock and terrible Charybdis. As she sucked the salt sea water down, I leapt up to the great fig-tree and held on to it clinging like a bat. There was no way I could find a firm foothold or climb higher: the roots were far below, and the great long branches which overshadowed Charybdis hung high out of reach. So I held on grimly, waiting for her to spew back up again the mast and the keel. And late in the day my desire was granted. At the time when a judge rises from his seat in the market-place and returns home for his supper, when he has been hearing many disputes from strong young men seeking justice, then it was that the timbers reappeared from Charybdis. I let go with both arms and legs and dropped down with a crash into the middle of the water, next to the long timbers, and then sat on them and rowed with my hands. And the father of gods and men did not allow Skylla to catch sight of me: otherwise I would not have escaped sheer destruction.

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From there I was carried on for nine days, and on the tenth night the gods brought me to the island of Ogygia, where the lovely-haired Kalypso lives, the fearsome goddess with human speech: and she welcomed me and looked after me. No need for me to tell the tale further – I told it all yesterday in this house to you and your noble wife, and I hate to tell again a story already told in full.’

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So he spoke, and they all stayed silent, held by the spell of his words in the shadowy hall. Then Alkinoös answered and spoke to him: ‘Odysseus, now that you have come to my bronze-floored house with its high roof, I do not think there will be any more wanderings before you return home, however much you have suffered in the past. And now I have these instructions for each one of you here who always drink the gleaming wine of kings in my palace and listen to the bard. Already our guest has clothes stored for him in a polished chest, and richly-worked gold, and all the other gifts which the counsellors of the Phaiacians brought here for him. But now let every man of us give him also a great tripod and a cauldron. We can later recompense ourselves with a collection from the people – it is hard for one man to lavish presents at his own cost.’ So spoke Alkinoös, and his words met with their favour. They then went each to his own home to sleep. And when early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, they all hurried to the ship, bringing with them the bronze which delights the hearts of men. Alkinoös, powerful king, went on board himself to stow the bronze gifts carefully under the benches, out of the way of the crew when they were at full stretch at their oars. Then they went back to Alkinoös’ house and set about preparing a feast. For them Alkinoös, powerful king, sacrificed an ox to Zeus the son of Kronos, the lord of the dark clouds who rules over all. They burned the thigh-bones and then joyfully began the glorious feast, while in their midst there sang the divine bard Demodokos, revered by his people. But Odysseus kept turning his head towards the shining sun, eager for it to set: he had long been yearning to be on his way. As when a man longs for his supper, when all day long his pair of wine-red oxen have been pulling the jointed plough through fallow land: it is a joy to him when the light of the sun goes down so he can return home for his supper, though his legs weaken as he goes. Such a joy it was to Odysseus when the light of the sun set.

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He then spoke without delay to the oar-loving Phaiacians, with his words directed most to Alkinoös: ‘Alkinoös, my lord, most illustrious of all men, now you should make libations and send me safe on my way – and I give my farewell to you all. Because now the desire of my heart has been realised – my passage home and these precious gifts (may the heavenly gods make them a blessing to me!). I pray that on my return I shall find my excellent wife still in our house, with my family safe and well. And you whom I leave here – may you bring gladness to your wedded wives and to your children; may the gods grant you prosperity in every way; and may no harm come to trouble your people.’ So he spoke, and they all applauded and urged safe passage for their guest: he had spoken as he should. Then king Alkinoös called to his herald: ‘Pontonoös, mix a bowl of wine and serve it to everyone in the hall, so that we can make a prayer to father Zeus before sending our guest home to his own native land.’ So he spoke, and Pontonoös mixed cheering wine, then went round them all, standing by each man to pour his cup. And they made libations to the blessed gods who hold the wide heaven, staying where they were in their seats. But godlike Odysseus stood up, and placed a two-handled cup in Arete’s hand and spoke winged words to her: ‘Farewell now, my queen, for all time – until the coming of age and death, which visit all men. I am leaving now: and I wish you all joy in this house, joy in your children and your people and in king Alkinoös.’ So speaking godlike Odysseus strode out over the threshold. King Alkinoös sent with him a herald to lead the way to the fast ship on the sea-shore. Arete sent along serving-women also – one with a clean cloak and a tunic, another charged to carry the tightly-fastened chest, and a third brought food and red wine. When they reached the ship and the sea, the proud Phaiacians who were to escort him quickly took over the goods and stowed them in the hollow ship, and with them all the food and drink. For Odysseus they spread a blanket and a sheet on the deck of the hollow ship, at the stern, so he could sleep without waking. He then boarded himself, and lay down in silence. They took their seats at the rowlocks, each in his proper place, and untied the cable from the hole in the stone bollard. While they leant back to the stroke and churned the sea with their oars, a sweet sleep fell over Odysseus’ eyelids, the most lovely sleep without waking, the closest image of death. And the ship ran on, as when four stallions are yoked together and race off over the plain, all responding at once to the lash of the whip, lifting their legs high and speeding over the course: so the ship’s stern stood high out of the water, and behind it the sounding sea seethed in a great swelling wave. She ran on safe and sure:

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not even a hawk could keep pace with her, and it is the quickest of all flying things. So she ran lightly over the sea cutting her way through the waves, carrying a man with a mind like the gods’, who before now had suffered many troubles in his heart, threading the wars of men and dangerous seas. But now he was sleeping at peace, forgotten all his sufferings. When the brightest of stars had risen, the star whose coming is the surest herald of the light of early-born Dawn, then it was that the sea-going ship came close to the island. Now in the land of Ithaka there is a harbour called after Phorkys, the old man of the sea. There two headlands jut out sheer to sea and crouch over the harbour, giving shelter from the great waves outside when the winds are blowing hard. Inside, well-benched ships coming in to anchorage at the end of their voyage can ride there safe without any cables. At the head of the harbour there is a long-leaved olive-tree, and near it a lovely misty cave sacred to the nymphs who are called Naiads. In this cave there are stone mixing-bowls and stone jars, and bees store their honey there. And there are great tall looms of stone, where the nymphs weave their cloth of sea-purple wool, a wondrous sight: and in it too there are springs of ever-flowing water. The cave has two entrances – one to the north, which is the way down for men, and another to the south, the gods’ entrance. Men do not go in that way: it is a path for the immortals. This is where the Phaiacians drove in, and they knew it from before. The ship then beached, pressing up to half of its whole length on the dry land, such was its speed and the force of the rowers’ hands. They disembarked from the well-benched ship onto land, then first lifted Odysseus out of the hollow ship, sheet and shining blanket and all, and set him down on the sand still deep in sleep. Then they took out the treasures which the proud Phaiacians had given him for his return home, at the prompting of great-hearted Athene. These they placed all together by the trunk of the olive-tree, away from the path, so that no passing highwayman should come and steal them before Odysseus woke. They then set off back again for their home. But the Earthshaker had not forgotten the threats he had made at the beginning against godlike Odysseus, and he now sought the will of Zeus: ‘Father Zeus, I shall no longer have my honour among the immortal gods, now that mortals are showing me no reverence  – the Phaiacians, that is, men who are of my very own stock. I had said that Odysseus would only come home after much suffering, though I was never going to stop his return altogether, once you had promised it and given your agreement. But now these people have carried him over the sea asleep in their fast ship and set him down in Ithaka, and they have given him countless gifts, bronze and

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gold in plenty, and woven clothing, more treasures than Odysseus would ever have brought out of Troy, if he had come home unharmed with his full share of the spoil.’ Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him: ‘Shame on you, mighty Earthshaker, for what you are saying! You have no loss of honour among the gods – indeed it would be hard to inflict dishonour on the oldest and the best of us. But if among men someone is following his own strength and power and denying you reverence, then you may always take vengeance afterwards. Do as you will, whatever is your heart’s desire.’ Then Poseidon the earthshaker answered him: ‘Lord of the dark clouds, I would have liked to act immediately, as you say – but I always have regard for your anger and look to avoid it. Now, though, my wish is to shatter the Phaiacians’ beautiful ship in the hazy sea as it returns from its mission, to make them stop now, and cease giving passage to men. And I intend also to surround their city with a great mountain.’ Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered him: ‘My dear brother, this is what seems best to my own heart. When all the people are looking out from the city and see the ship driving in, turn it into a rock close to land in the likeness of a fast ship, so that all men will wonder at it: and then surround their city with a great mountain.’ When Poseidon the earthshaker heard this answer, he went on his way to Scheria, where the Phaiacians live. There he waited. And now the sea-going ship, speeding lightly on its way, came in close. The Earthshaker went up to it, and with a blow from the flat of his hand he turned it into stone and rooted it to the sea-bed. Then he was gone. The Phaiacians, masters of the long oar and famed for their ships, began to speak winged words to each other. A man would glance at his neighbour and say: ‘Oh, who has stopped our fast ship out in the sea as she was speeding home? Just now she was in full view.’ That is what people said, but they did not know what had happened. Then Alkinoös addressed them and spoke thus: ‘Ah, the old prophecies told me by my father are now coming to visit me in fulfilment. He used to say that Poseidon resented us, for giving safe passage home to all men: and he said that one day when one of the Phaiacians’ beautiful ships was returning from such a mission, Poseidon would shatter it in the hazy sea and surround our city with a great mountain. That is what the old man said, and it is all now coming to pass. Now come, let us all do as I say. You must stop giving passage home to mortal men, whenever a man comes to our city. And let us sacrifice twelve chosen bulls to Poseidon, in the hope that he will have mercy on us and not surround our city with a high mountain.’

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So he spoke. They were struck with fear, and prepared the bulls for sacrifice. So there the leaders and lords of the Phaiacian people made their prayers to lord Poseidon, standing round the altar. Meanwhile, godlike Odysseus woke from sleep in the land of his fathers – but he did not recognise his country. He had been absent long, and the goddess Pallas Athene, daughter of Zeus, had poured a mist all round him. She wanted to keep him safe from recognition, so that she could tell him all that needed to be told, and he should not be recognised by wife or family or people before the suitors had paid in full for their crimes. So it was that everything in the land appeared different to its king  – the paths running through it, the harbours with their constant anchorage, the sheer cliffs, the luxuriant trees. He leapt up and stood there, looking out over his own native country. Then he groaned aloud and struck his thighs with the flat of his hands, and cried out in distress: ‘Oh, whose land have I come to this time? Are they violent, savage, and lawless people  – or hospitable folk with a god-fearing habit? And where am I now to take all these treasures? Where indeed should I turn to myself? How I wish these gifts had stayed with the Phaiacians where they were! Then I could have gone in supplication to another of the powerful kings there, and he would have welcomed me and given me passage home. But now I do not know where to stow these treasures, and I cannot leave them here, or others may steal them from me. Oh, they were not then so full of sense and scruple, those leaders and lords of the Phaiacians! They have taken me away to another land. They said they would bring me to clear-set Ithaka, and they have not done what they promised. May they be punished by Zeus the god of suppliants, who watches over all men and takes vengeance on any who offends. But now I should look over these treasures and count them, in case they have gone away taking something with them in their hollow ship.’ So speaking he began to count the beautiful tripods and cauldrons, the gold, and the fine woven clothes. He found nothing missing there: but he continued to grieve for his native land, dragging his steps up and down along the shore of the sounding sea in great distress. But now Athene approached him. She had taken the form of a young man, a shepherd, with the soft skin that the children of kings have. Over her shoulders there was a finely-made mantle in two folds: she had sandals on her shining feet, and a spear in her hands. Odysseus rejoiced to see her, and came forward to meet her, addressing her with winged words: ‘Friend, you are the first I have come across in this place, so my greetings to you, and I hope you meet me with no evil intent. No, I beg you to save these treasures and to save me also. I pray to you as to a god, and I come as a suppliant at your knees. And tell me this truly, so I may

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know. What is this land, who are the people, which men live here? Is this one of the clear-set islands, or are we on some coast where the fertile mainland slopes down to the sea?’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘You must be an idiot, stranger, or else have come from far away, if you ask these questions about this land. It is not that inglorious. Indeed very many men know of it, both those who live out towards the east and the sunrise, and those at the opposite end towards the western darkness. It is rough land, no good for horses: not very large, but by no means poor. Corn grows in it in abundance, and vines too – there is always rain and nourishing dew. It is good pasture for goats and cattle: and there are woods of every sort, and sources of water which never fail. So you see, stranger, the name of Ithaka has reached even to Troy, which they say is a long way from the land of Achaia.’ So she spoke, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus was overjoyed, rejoicing to be in his own native land and to hear its name from Pallas Athene, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis. He now spoke winged words to her – not the truth, though. His cunning mind was at its constant work in his breast, and he kept back the truth he might have told: ‘Yes, I used to hear of Ithaka even in the broad land of Crete, far away over the sea. And now I have come here myself with these treasures which you see. I left behind as much again for my children when I went into exile after killing the dear son of Idomeneus, swift-footed Orsilochos – he could beat all mortal men in the broad land of Crete with the speed of his legs. I killed him because he was trying to take away from me all that booty from Troy for which I suffered so much pain in my heart, threading the wars of men and dangerous seas. His complaint was that I would not bow to his father’s wishes and serve under him there in the land of Troy, but took command instead of my own company. So with a friend I lay in wait for him close by the path, and struck him with my bronze-tipped spear as he came home from the fields. There was a really dark night covering the sky, and no man saw us: I took away his life unseen. But then when I had killed him with the sharp bronze, I went straight to a Phoinician ship and begged the proud crew to take me – and I gave them enough of my booty to please them. I asked them to put me on board and land me at Pylos, or in holy Elis, where the Epeians hold power. But the strength of the wind drove them away from there  – much against their will, as they did not want to cheat me. So driven off course we came here at night. We rowed hard to get into harbour, and none of us had any thought for supper, much though we needed food: we just disembarked and lay there as we were. I was exhausted, and sweet sleep came over me: but they took my goods out

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of the hollow ship and set them down right next to where I myself was lying there on the sand. Then they boarded again and set off for the wellfounded city of Sidon. And I was left here in distress of heart.’ So he spoke, and the bright-eyed goddess Athene smiled and stroked him with her hand. She had now taken the form of a woman, tall and beautiful and skilled in fine work. She spoke winged words to him: ‘He would be a crafty rogue indeed who could surpass you in all forms of trickery  – even if it was a god who came against you. You strange man, with all your resource and your love of deceit – so even here in your own land you were not going to abandon your tricks and your lying tales! They are deep in your very nature. But come, no more of this talk: we are both well versed in wiles. You are far the best of all mortals in thought and word, and I am renowned among all the gods for my wisdom and my cunning ways. And yet you did not recognise me as Pallas Athene, daughter of Zeus. I am always there with you to watch over you in all your troubles, and it was I who ensured your welcome by all the Phaiacians. And now I have come here once more, to weave a plan with you – to hide all these treasures which the proud Phaiacians gave you for your journey home (that too was my plan and my devising), and to tell you all the troubles you are fated to endure in your own well-made house. You must hold fast even under duress, and not reveal to anyone – no man, no woman, no one – that you are in fact back from your wandering. No, you must suffer much pain in silence, accepting men’s insults.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘It is hard, goddess, for a mortal man to know you when he meets you, however knowledgeable he may be – because you can take on any form. I know full well that you were kind to me in the past, when we sons of the Achaians were fighting at Troy. But once we had sacked Priam’s high city and set off in our ships, and god scattered the Achaians, then I did not see you after that, daughter of Zeus: I was not aware of you boarding my ship to protect me from harm. No, I wandered on all the time with my heart and mind cut with despair, until the gods released me from hardship: and then it was, in the rich land of the Phaiacians, that you spoke to me with heartening words and led me into the city yourself. But now I beseech you in your father’s name – I do not believe I have come to clear-set Ithaka. No, this is some other land I am treading, and I fear you are saying all this to mock me and cheat my mind – tell me if in truth I have come to my dear native land.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene answered him: ‘That is just the way of your thinking – always the same! And that is why I cannot abandon you in misfortune – you are so sharp and shrewd and cautious. Any other man coming back from his wanderings would be looking forward with joy to

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seeing his wife and children in his house. But you – it is not your way to ask yet or find out about your wife, until you can test her yourself. I can tell you she stays there in your house just as she was, and all the time her nights and days of misery are spent in tears. Now I myself never doubted it – I knew in my heart that you would return, though with all your companions lost. But you see I did not want to come into conflict with my uncle Poseidon, who had lodged anger against you in his heart, in fury at your blinding of his dear son. But look now, I shall show you the lie of Ithaka, so you can be sure. Here is the harbour of Phorkys, the old man of the sea, and there the longleaved olive-tree at the head of the harbour. There too the wide arching cave, where you would often make full sacrifices to the nymphs. And this tree-clad mountain is Neriton.’ As she spoke the goddess dispersed the mist, and the land came into view. Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus was overjoyed, rejoicing in his own country, and he kissed the grain-giving earth. And then he lifted up his hands and prayed to the nymphs: ‘Nymphs, Naiads, daughters of Zeus, I had thought that I would never see you again. But now I greet you with these humble prayers: and there will be gifts for you, as in earlier times, if Athene the daughter of Zeus, the goddess of spoil, is pleased to grant me life and my dear son growth to manhood.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘Do not worry – neither of these things should concern your mind. No, let us right now stow your treasures in a corner of the great cave, so they can stay there safe for you: and then the two of us can plan for the best outcome.’ So speaking the goddess went down into the misty cave, looking for hiding-places along its length, while Odysseus carried all the Phaiacians’ gifts up there, the gold and the unwearying bronze and the finely-made clothes. He then stowed them all away carefully, and Pallas Athene, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis, set a stone against the entrance. Those two then sat down by the trunk of the sacred olive-tree and began to plan death for the insolent suitors. The bright-eyed goddess Athene spoke first: ‘Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, you must think how to lay your hands on the shameless suitors, who for three years now have been lording it in your house, courting your godlike wife and offering marriage-gifts for her. Her heart is always yearning in sorrow for your return, but she keeps them all hopeful, making promises to each of them and sending them messages, while her intention is far different.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Oh, I would then for sure have met the wretched fate of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and died like him in my

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own house, if you had not told me all this, goddess, and the truth as it is. So now weave me a plan for my vengeance on them: and stand by me yourself, giving me strength and confidence, as you did when we were breaking Troy’s shining crown of towers. If you were to be by my side, bright-eyed goddess, with that same urge for battle, then I would fight against three hundred men with you, my lady, ready to help me.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene answered him: ‘Oh yes, I shall be with you – I shall not forget you – when in the end we are at this work: and I think that some of those suitors who are consuming your substance will splash the broad earth with their blood and brains. But now I must make sure that you cannot be recognised by any man. I shall shrivel the fine skin all over the flex of your body, I shall vanish the fair hair from your head, I shall clothe you in rags to disgust any man seeing them on you, and I shall blear those once bright eyes, so that you appear a sorry figure to all the suitors, and to your wife and to the son you left in your house. Now you must first go to the swineherd who has charge of your pigs: his loyalty to you is as constant as his love for your son and for faithful Penelope. You will find him sitting by the pigs where they are at pasture by Raven’s Rock and at the spring Arethousa – here they can eat the mast they love and drink the dark water, and this grows a pig’s fat good and thick. Sit down and stay with him there, asking him everything. Meanwhile, Odysseus, I shall go to Sparta where the women are handsome, to call back Telemachos, your own dear son. He is gone to the broad land of Lakedaimon to see Menelaos for news of you, hoping to learn if you were still alive.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Why then did you not tell him yourself, since your mind knows everything? Was it that he too should suffer misery wandering over the harvestless sea, while others consume his substance?’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene answered him: ‘Concern for him should not weigh too heavily on your heart. I myself escorted him on his way, so that he would win good repute by travelling there. He is in no trouble: he is staying at his ease in the son of Atreus’ palace, with luxury all round him. True, young men are lying in wait for him in their black ship, intent on killing him before he can reach his native land. But I fancy they will not succeed: before that the earth will have closed over some of these suitors who are consuming your substance.’ So speaking Athene touched him with her wand. She shrivelled the fine skin all over the flex of his body, she vanished the fair hair from his head, she gave him on all his limbs the wrinkled flesh of an old man, and she bleared those once bright eyes. To cover him she gave him different clothes – foul

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rags and a foul tunic, all torn and filthy and smeared with ugly soot: over these she put the great skin of a fast-running deer, worn bare and smooth. And she gave him a stick and a sorry knapsack full of holes, with a twist of rope to hang it by. With these plans made, the two parted. She then went on her way to holy Lakedaimon to find Odysseus’ son.

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Odysseus and Eumaios

Odysseus meanwhile went up from the harbour along a rough path through wooded country between the hills, making for the place where Athene had told him the excellent swineherd was. Of all the servants owned by godlike Odysseus, this was the one who took the greatest care of his master’s substance. He found him sitting at the entrance of his hut, where he had a fine large yard with a high wall built to fence it: it was in a sheltered spot, with open space all round it. The swineherd had himself built his enclosure for the pigs while his master was away, independent of his mistress and the old man Laertes, walling it with quarried stones and a hedge of wild pear on top. Outside, he had split oak to its dark centre and driven a continuous palisade of close-set stakes all round the yard. Inside he made twelve sties in a row, to bed the pigs. In each sty there were penned fifty wallowing pigs – these were the sows with their farrows. The boars were bedded outside, and they were many fewer. Their numbers were constantly reduced by the appetite of the godlike suitors, as the swineherd was always sending them the best of his fattened hogs: and there were now three hundred and sixty in all. Near these there always lay four dogs, fierce as wild beasts, which the swineherd, leader of his men, had bred himself. Now he was making a pair of sandals to fit his feet, cutting the leather out of a fine ox-hide. His men were gone this way and that with their herds of pigs – three of them. The fourth he had sent to town with a hog demanded by the violent suitors, so they could slaughter it and have their hearts’ fill of meat. Suddenly the barking dogs caught sight of Odysseus, and rushed at him in a clamour. But Odysseus was cunning enough to sit down and let the stick drop from his hand: otherwise he would have suffered gross injury there at his own farm. But the swineherd dropped the leather from his hands and came running after them at speed through the gate, shouted at his dogs and scattered them with a volley of stones. Then he spoke to his master: ‘Old man,

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my dogs came close to tearing you apart in an instant, and that would have covered me with shame – on top of the other grievous troubles the gods have given me. I sit here mourning the loss of a godlike master, while I have to fatten his hogs for others to eat – and he is doubtless short of food, wandering through foreign lands and cities, if indeed he still lives and sees the light of the sun. But come, follow me and let us go to my hut, old man, so that you too can have your heart’s fill of food and wine, and then tell me where you are from and the story of your own troubles.’ So speaking the excellent swineherd led the way to his hut and showed Odysseus in and made a seat for him, spreading bushy brushwood on the floor and covering it with the skin of a shaggy wild goat, a great thick pelt which was his own bedding. Odysseus was delighted by this welcome, and spoke to him, saying: ‘Stranger, may Zeus and the other immortal gods grant you your greatest desire, for welcoming me so kindly.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘Stranger, it would be wrong for me not to honour any guest who comes here, even one in lower state than you: because all strangers and beggars come from Zeus, with his protection. What we can give is small but kind. This is the way with servants, who are always in fear when the young are masters over them. Because my real master has his return home blocked by the gods. He would have shown me all due favour and granted me property of my own – a house and a lot and a wife that many were courting – all that a kind master gives to one of his servants who labours hard for him with god prospering his work, as this work of mine prospers under my constant charge. Oh yes, my master would have done me much good, if he were living out his life here. But he has perished – how I wish that the whole tribe of Helen had perished utterly instead, since it was she who collapsed the strength of so many men in war. My master too went to Ilios, the city rich in horses, to fight against the Trojans and win revenge for Agamemnon.’ So speaking he quickly tied his tunic together with his belt and went out to the sties where the families of young porkers were penned. He fetched out two and slaughtered them both, then singed them and chopped them up and threaded the pieces on spits. When he had roasted it all he brought it in and served it to Odysseus, hot and still on the spits, with a sprinkling of white barley-grains on top. He mixed honey-sweet wine in an ivy-wood bowl, then sat down opposite his guest and urged him to eat: ‘Come now, friend, eat the food which we servants have to offer. These are piglets. The full-grown fat hogs go to the suitors, who eat them without any thought in their minds of sympathy or fear of vengeance from the gods. And yet the blessed gods do not look with favour on wicked deeds: they honour justice and men who do what is right. Even men of ill will and hostile intent,

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who invade another people’s land and are granted their prey by Zeus, so they sail home again with their ships filled with booty – even their minds are visited by a powerful fear of the gods’ vengeance. But these men here must have heard some word from god, convincing them that my master is miserably perished  – the way they will not make their courting in proper fashion or return to their own property. No, at their pleasure they wantonly devour another man’s goods, and there is no restraint. Every night and every day that Zeus sends, they do not slaughter just one beast nor even two: and the wine they are drawing off with abandon, and depleting the store. My master’s substance, I tell you, was immense. None of the heroes had so much, either on the dark mainland or here in Ithaka: twenty men together cannot equal that wealth. I shall list it for you. On the mainland twelve herds of cattle: as many flocks of sheep, as many droves of pigs, as many ranging flocks of goats, all tended either by hired hands or by his own herdsmen. And here in all eleven ranging flocks of goats are pastured in the marches, with good men watching over them: each of them drives in a beast from his flock for the suitors every day, whichever seems the best of their fattened goats. And then I myself keep these sows here and look after them, and choose the best of the hogs to send to the suitors.’ So he spoke, and Odysseus eagerly set to eating the meat and drinking the wine with ravenous appetite – he ate in silence, but he was sowing the seeds of doom for the suitors. Then when he had had his meal and satisfied his heart with food, he filled the cup he had been drinking from and offered it full of wine to Eumaios. He took it with delight in his heart, and Odysseus spoke winged words to him: ‘Friend, who is this man then who bought you with his own riches, a man with all the wealth and power you speak of? You said that he perished in the cause of revenge for Agamemnon. Tell me who he is, in case I know anything of a man like that. Zeus and the other immortal gods doubtless know if I have seen him and can give news of him – I have wandered far over the world.’ Then the swineherd, leader of his men, answered him: ‘Old man, no man who comes here on his wanderings with news of my master is likely to convince his wife and his dear son. Vagrants will lie as they will to secure their comforts, and they have no interest in telling the truth. Any man who comes wandering to the land of Ithaka goes to my mistress and tells her empty stories  – and she welcomes him and looks after him well and asks him every detail: and then she lets the tears of grief flow from her eyes, as a woman will when her husband has died away from home. You too, old man, you would quickly work up a false tale if someone were offering you a cloak and a tunic to wear. No, by now the dogs and the quick birds will have ripped the skin from his bones, with the life gone from him: or the fish have eaten

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his body in the sea, and his bones lie on some coast covered deep in sand. So he is dead there: and grief is now the lot of all who loved him, and for me most of all. I shall never find another master as kind as he, wherever I might go – not even if I came back to my own father’s and mother’s house, where I was born and where they brought me up. Not even for them is my grief as strong, much though I long for my eyes to see them in my own native land. No, it is yearning for the lost Odysseus that possesses me. It awes me to speak his name, stranger, even though he is not with us – he looked after me so well and cared for me in his heart. Though he is far away, I still call him my friend.’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus said to him: ‘Friend, since you utterly reject the thought, and say that he will never come home now, with your heart fixed in disbelief – well, I shall tell you now, and not mere words, but on oath, that Odysseus is on his way. And I shall claim my reward for that good news only when he comes and enters his own house: then you can give me those fine clothes for my back, the cloak and the tunic. Before that, great though my need is, I will accept nothing. I hate like the gates of Hades the man who lets poverty drive him to tell lies. But now may Zeus first be my witness among the gods, and then this table of your welcome, and the hearth of the great Odysseus where I am bound: I swear that all this will be accomplished as I tell you. This very month Odysseus will come here. As one moon wanes and another rises, he will return home, and he will take vengeance on any man here who is dishonouring his wife and his glorious son.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘Old man, I shall not be paying you that reward – Odysseus will not now return to his home. No, you drink your wine in peace, and let us talk of something else besides that: do not remind me of these things, as the heart in my breast is pained whenever any man speaks of my dear master. And let us have no more swearing of oaths – though I wish that Odysseus would come back in answer to my desire and that of Penelope and the old man Laertes and the godlike Telemachos. But now I cannot forget my grief for this boy whom Odysseus fathered, Telemachos. The gods raised him like a young sapling, and I thought that when he was a man among others he would be the equal of his dear father, admired for his build and his looks. But now one of the immortals has knocked the mind within him from its steadiness, or it may be some man that has done it – but he has gone off to holy Pylos after news of his father. And the proud suitors are lying in wait for him on his return journey, so that the race of godlike Arkeisios should be wiped out of Ithaka and perish nameless. Well, let us talk no more of him, whether he will be caught or may escape, with Zeus the son of Kronos holding out his hand to protect him. No, come now, old man, you tell me about your own troubles. And tell me this truly

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too – I want to know. Who are you and where are you from? Where is your town and your parents? What sort of ship did you come on? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaka, and who did they say they were? – since I imagine you did not come here on foot!’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘So then I will tell you all that you ask in clear truth. Had we two food and sweet wine enough to stay on here in your hut for ever, feasting at our ease while others saw to the work – then I could easily spend a whole year and still not finish telling the troubles of my heart, the full tale of all the misery I have endured through the gods’ will. I am proud to call myself a Cretan – born in broad Crete, the son of a wealthy father. Many other sons were born and bred in his house, true sons of his wife. The mother who bore me was a concubine my father had bought, but I was held in equal honour with his true-born sons by Kastor, son of Hylax, and I am proud to call him my father. At that time he was honoured like a god among the people of Crete for his prosperity and wealth and the glory of his sons. But the fates of death carried him away to the house of Hades. His arrogant sons divided his substance among them, casting lots for their shares, and to me they gave very little besides a house. But I took to wife the daughter of parents who owned much property – and that was through my own qualities, since I was neither a fool nor a coward. All this is now gone, and a whole heap of misery has covered me since then: even so, I think you can judge the crop there was from the stubble you see now. Oh, I had courage given me by Ares and Athene, and the power to break the ranks of men. Whenever I chose our best men for an ambush, sowing defeat for our enemies, my proud heart never had any thought of death, but I was always far the first to leap out and take with my spear any of the enemy who could not match my speed of foot. That is the man I was in war. Farming was never to my taste, nor the tendance of house and household which brings up fine children. No, my love was always oared ships and battles and smooth-polished spears and arrows – fearful things which make others shudder. What I loved was what, I suppose, god had put in my mind: different men take their pleasure in different things. Before the sons of the Achaians ever set foot at Troy I had had nine commands of men and speedy ships against the people of foreign lands, and much booty came my way. From this I would choose what I wanted, and much fell to me later by lot. The wealth of my house fast increased, and I came to be feared and respected among the Cretans. But when wide-seeing Zeus determined that hateful expedition which collapsed the strength of so many men, then the people urged me and the renowned Idomeneus to lead our ships to Ilios. There was no means of refusing – we were constrained by the insistent voice of the people. So we

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sons of the Achaians fought a war there for nine years. In the tenth year we sacked the city of Priam and set off home in our ships, but god scattered the Achaians over the sea. For me Zeus the counsellor planned further trouble to my misery. I stayed only a month at home in enjoyment of my children and my wedded wife and my possessions: and then my heart urged me to fit out ships and sail to Egypt with my godlike companions. I fitted out nine ships, and the crews were quickly gathered. For six days then my trusty companions feasted – I gave them many beasts for sacrifice to the gods and for their own feasting. On the seventh day we embarked and sailed away from broad Crete, with a good strong north wind carrying us on easily, as if we were following a current. And none of my ships came to grief, but we sat there without harm or sickness while the wind and the helmsmen kept them on course. On the fifth day we reached the lovely waters of the Nile, and I moored my balanced ships in the river Nile. Then I ordered my trusty companions to stay there by the ships and guard them, and I sent look-outs up to watching-places. But they gave way to their own violent impulses, and began immediately to plunder the Egyptians’ lovely farms – they carried off the women and the little children, and killed the men. The clamour quickly reached the city, and when they heard the cry for help the people came out at the showing of dawn: and the whole plain was filled with foot-soldiers and horses and the flash of bronze. Zeus who delights in thunder put a cowardly panic among my companions, and none had the courage to stand and face the attack – there was indeed danger set all round us. Then they killed many of us with the sharp bronze, and others they took back alive, to work for them in slavery. As for me, Zeus himself put a thought in my mind – though I wish I had died there and met my fate in Egypt, as further misery was awaiting me. So I put down the well-made helmet from my head and the shield from my shoulders, and let the spear drop from my hand: and then I went straight for the king’s chariot and clasped his knees and kissed them. He took pity on me and rescued me: he set me in his chariot and took me back in tears to his house. There were many who rushed at me with their ash spears, intent on killing me – such was the depth of their anger – but he kept them away from me, fearing the wrath of Zeus the god of guests and strangers, who is the great punisher of wicked deeds. I stayed there in that same place for seven years, and amassed great wealth from among the men of Egypt, who all gave me gifts. But when the eight year came rolling on, then there came a Phoinician – a lying rogue, a cheat of a man, who had done much harm in the world already. He talked me round in his cunning, and took me with him, all the way to Phoinicia,

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where he had his house and property. I stayed with him there for a year’s full circle. But when the days and the months were accomplished as the year turned and the seasons came round, he put me on board a sea-going ship for Libya. His purpose was deceitful: he wanted me to help him transport the cargo, but once there he intended to sell me and win a great price for me. I went with him on board: I was suspicious, but I had no choice. The ship was running on before a good strong north wind over the open sea beyond Crete, but meanwhile Zeus was planning destruction for the men on board. When we had left Crete behind us, and there was no other land in sight, only sky and sea, then the son of Kronos set a black cloud over the hollow ship, and the sea darkened under it. And then at one and the same time Zeus thundered and hurled a lightning bolt into the ship. She spun right round under the blow from Zeus’ bolt, filling with sulphur, and all the men were flung overboard. All round the black ship they bobbed in the waves like gulls, and god took away their homecoming. As for me, I was in great distress of heart, but Zeus himself put in my hands the massive mast of the darkprowed ship, to save me from disaster this time too. I wrapped myself round it, and was carried on by the cruel winds. For nine days I was carried thus, and on the tenth dark night a great rolling wave brought me in to the land of the Thesprotians. There the king of the Thesprotians, the hero Pheidon, took me in and looked after me with no thought of recompense. His own son came upon me where I was, overcome with cold and exhaustion, lifted me up by the hand, and led me back to his home: and when we reached his father’s house he gave me a cloak and a tunic to wear. And there I heard news of Odysseus. The king told me that he had welcomed him and entertained him on his way home to his native country, and he showed me all the wealth which Odysseus had amassed, bronze and gold and iron laboriously worked – enough to keep a house for ten successive generations, so many were the treasures stored for him there in the king’s palace. He told me that Odysseus himself had gone to Dodona, to hear from the god’s tall leafy oak-tree what Zeus advised: how should he return to the rich land of Ithaka after such long absence – should it be openly or in secret? And the king swore in my very presence, as he poured libations in his house, that a ship was launched and the crew ready to convey Odysseus to his own native land. But he gave me my passage before that. A ship belonging to some Thesprotian men happened to be going to Doulichion and its wheatlands, and he told them to take good care of me and escort me there to king Akastos. But they had other thoughts for me, and agreed a wicked plan which would bring me yet further into the depths of misery. When the sea-going ship had sailed a good way from land, they quickly set about their plot to bring the day of slavery on me. They stripped

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me of my clothes, my cloak and tunic, and gave me instead foul rags and a foul tunic, all torn and tattered, the clothes you yourself can see on me now. At evening they came to the fields of clear-set Ithaka. There they bound me fast with a plaited rope in the well-benched ship, while they themselves disembarked and eagerly took their supper along the sea-shore. Then the gods themselves easily untied the knots that bound me. I wrapped my ragged clothes round my head, slid down the smooth lading-plank and breasted the sea: then I struck out with both arms and swam away, and soon I was out of the water and away from them. I went up to where there was a copse of flowering trees, and crouched down there, while they searched to and fro with loud cries of anguish. But when they could see no point in looking for me any further, they went back and reboarded their hollow ship. So the gods themselves had hidden me with ease, and they have now brought me to the homestead of a man of knowledge and experience. It must be, then, that I am fated to live on yet.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘Poor stranger, you have moved my heart with this tale of all your sufferings and all your wanderings. But one part of your story is not right, I think, and you will not convince me – where you speak of Odysseus. Why should you, in the state that you are, tell such empty lies? I know full well about my master’s homecoming. I know that he was hated utterly by all the gods. They did not bring him down among the Trojans, nor in the arms of his family once the thread of war was spun. Then all the Achaians together would have made him a funeral mound, and he would have won great glory for his son as well thereafter – but now the storm-winds have snatched him away in obscurity. As for me, I live here in isolation with my pigs. I do not go into town, unless good Penelope asks me to come, whenever news has arrived from somewhere. Other people flock round any newcomer and question him in detail – both those who are saddened by the long loss of their master, and those who are happy to consume his substance without redress. But I have no taste for questions and enquiries, ever since a man from Aitolia deceived me with his story. He had killed a man and wandered far over the earth before he came to my house, and I welcomed him with all kindness. He said that he had seen Odysseus in Crete, staying with Idomeneus and mending his ships which the storms had battered: and he said that he would be coming either in summer or in autumn, laden with wealth, and his godlike companions with him. Now you too, old man, you have suffered much and god has brought you here to me – but do not use lies to seek favour from me or flatter me. This is not why I shall respect and welcome you: no, it is because I fear Zeus the god of guests and strangers, and because I feel pity for you as a man.’

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Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Oh, you have a very unbelieving heart in your breast! Look, I have sworn an oath, but even so I have not won your mind or convinced you. Well, let us now make a bargain, and our witnesses hereafter can be the gods who hold Olympos. If your master comes back to this house of yours, then you are to give me a cloak and a tunic to wear and send me on my way to Doulichion, where it is my heart’s wish to be. And if your master does not come as I say, then set your men on me to throw me over some great cliff, to deter any other beggars from telling lies.’ The excellent swineherd answered him: ‘Friend, that would indeed set my good name and worth high among men, not only then but for all time too, if after taking you in to my hut and giving you the hospitality due to strangers, I was then to kill you and take the dear life from you! I could then make my prayers to Zeus the son of Kronos with such an easy mind! No, it is time for supper now. Any moment now my companions will be back, so we can make ourselves a nice meal here in the hut.’ Such were their words to each other. And now the pigs came in home together with the men who herded them. They penned the sows to sleep in their sties, and a huge noise arose from the herd as they were driven in to the yard. Then the excellent swineherd called out to his companions: ‘Bring the best of our hogs, for me to slaughter in honour of our guest who has come from far away. And we too shall enjoy it, after all the trouble we have long taken over these white-tusked hogs, while others devour the result of our labours and pay no redress.’ So speaking he set to splitting firewood with the pitiless bronze, while his men brought in a big fat hog, five years old, and held it by the hearth. Now the swineherd, man of good sense that he was, did not forget the immortal gods, but he began the sacrifice by cutting hairs from the head of the white-tusked hog, and as he threw them in the fire he prayed to all the gods that resourceful Odysseus would return to his own home. Then he took a log of oak which he had left unsplit, swung it high for the blow, and stunned the victim so it fell senseless. They they cut its throat, singed it, and quickly jointed it. The swineherd took the sacrificial cuts of raw meat from each of the joints, wrapping them in rich fat, then threw them on the fire with a sprinkling of barley-meal. Then they chopped the rest into pieces and threaded them on spits, roasted them carefully, and then drew all the meat off and heaped it on trenchers. The swineherd stood up to carve, fair-minded as always, and he divided it all into seven equal portions. One he set aside, with a prayer, for the nymphs and for Hermes, son of Maia: and the others he served to each of the men. He honoured Odysseus with the whole length of the chine, giving joy to his master’s heart, and resourceful Odysseus said to him: ‘Eumaios, may

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father Zeus love you as much as I do now, for honouring me, such as I am, with these good things.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘My strange friend, eat and enjoy the food that we can offer. God will grant or withhold his gifts according to his pleasure. He has the power to do all things.’ So speaking he offered the first pieces to the ever-living gods, then made libation and put a cup of gleaming wine in the hands of Odysseus, the sacker of cities. Odysseus sat down beside his portion, and Mesaulios served them bread. He was a man whom the swineherd had bought on his own initiative, while his master was away, independent of his mistress and the old man Laertes: he had purchased him from men of Taphos with his own possessions. So they put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, Mesaulios cleared the food from their tables, and they were ready to go to bed, well filled with bread and meat. The night that came on was a foul one, dark and moonless. The rain from Zeus was to last all night, with a strong west wind blowing wet throughout. Odysseus now spoke to them – he was testing out the swineherd, to see if his care for his guest was great enough for him to take off his own cloak and offer it to him, or ask one of his men to do so: ‘Listen now, Eumaios and all my other friends, I am going to boast and tell you something. It is the fuddling wine which impels me – wine which makes even the wisest man sing or giggle or dance, and prompts words which were better left unsaid. Well, since I have started to blurt it out, I shall not hide it now. I wish that I was as young now, and the strength was still in me, as when we set up an ambush party and led it up to the walls of Troy. The leaders were Odysseus and Menelaos, son of Atreus, and I was the third in command with them, at their own request. When we came close to the city and its steep wall, we settled down, crouched under our shields, in the thick growth of a reedy marsh, while a foul night came on. The north wind dropped, and it was freezing cold. Snow fell down on us like frozen rain, and ice formed thick on our shields. The others there had cloaks and tunics, and could sleep without discomfort, their shields sloped over their shoulders. But when I set out I had foolishly left my cloak with my companions: I had not thought that I would be cold even so, and I had joined them with only my shield and my shining skirt-piece to cover me. But when it was now the last third of the night, and the stars had passed over to their setting, I nudged Odysseus with my elbow – he was lying close to me – and he was quick to listen as I spoke to him: “Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, you will not have me long among the living. The cold is killing me. I have no cloak – some god

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tricked me into coming here with no more than my tunic. And now I can see no way out.” So I spoke, and he immediately had a plan in his mind – that was the way he was in both council and battle. He kept his voice low and whispered to me: “Quiet now, or one of the other Achaians may hear you.” Then he lifted his head on his elbow, and called out: “Listen, friends. God sent me a warning dream in my sleep – we have come too far away from the ships. Can I have a man to take word to Agamemnon, son of Atreus, shepherd of his people? He might send more men from the ships to come out here.” So he spoke, and there quickly jumped up Thoas, the son of Andraimon. He cast off his purple cloak and set out for the ships at the run. I then happily settled down wrapped in his cloak until Dawn came bright on her golden throne. How I wish that I was as young now, and the strength was still in me! Then one of the herdsmen on the farm would give me a cloak – not only in kindness, but also out of respect for his better. But they will not honour me as I am now, with these foul clothes on my body.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘Old man, that was an excellent story you told – a well-aimed tale that is not wasted on us. So you will not go short of clothing, or anything else which is due on the approach of a suppliant who has suffered much. For now, that is – in the morning you must throw on your own rags again, because there are not many cloaks or changes of tunic for people to wear here, just one for each man. But when the dear son of Odysseus comes, he will give you a cloak and a tunic to wear, and send you on to wherever your heart and spirit calls you.’ So speaking he jumped up, and made a bed for him near the fire, covering it with the skins of sheep and goats. Odysseus lay down there, and Eumaios put over him a great thick cloak which he kept as a spare, for wearing in the worst stormy weather. So Odysseus lay down to sleep there, and the young men bedded down near him. But the swineherd would not take a bed there in the hut and sleep away from his pigs. He armed and went outside, and Odysseus was happy to see the care he took of his absent master’s property. First he slung a sharp sword over his strong shoulders, then put on a cloak thick enough to keep out the wind, and he took also the fleece of a goat fed well to full size: and then he took a sharp spear, to keep away dogs or men. He went out then to lie where the white-tusked hogs were sleeping, under the hollow of a rock and sheltered from the north wind.

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Telemachos Returns

Now Pallas Athene had gone to the broad land of Lakedaimon, to prompt the glorious son of great-hearted Odysseus about his return and urge him on his way. She found Telemachos and the excellent son of Nestor lying in their beds in the portico of famous Menelaos’ house. Nestor’s son was deep in soft sleep: but sweet sleep did not have its hold on Telemachos – throughout the immortal night anxious thought for his father was keeping him awake. Bright-eyed Athene came close and spoke to him: ‘Telemachos, it is not right for you to be still abroad and far from your home, leaving behind your property and such high-handed men in your house – they may share out your goods and devour them all, and then your journey here would be in vain. No, you must ask Menelaos, master of the war-cry, to send you on your way at once, so you may find your excellent mother still in the house. Already her father and her brothers are urging her to marry Eurymachos, because he is outstripping all the other suitors with his gifts to her, and his offers for her marriage have grown ever higher. Take care then that she does not ignore your interest and carry away some treasure from your house. You know how a woman’s heart is in her breast. She wants to prosper the house of the man who marries her when her first dear husband is dead, and then she has no thought or question in her mind for him or for her earlier children. So you must go back and give each of your possessions into the keeping of whichever maid-servant you think the best, until the time when the gods reveal a noble wife for you. I tell you another thing, and you mark it in your mind. The leaders of the suitors have planned an ambush for you, setting it in the strait between Ithaka and rocky Samos – they are intent on killing you before you can reach your native land. But I fancy they will not succeed: before that the earth will have closed over some of these suitors who are consuming your substance. So you must keep your well-built ship clear of the islands, and sail by night as well: the immortal god who guards and protects you will send a fair wind behind you. When you make landfall in Ithaka, send your ship and all its

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crew on to the city: but you yourself must first go to the swineherd who has charge of your pigs – his loyalty to you is constant. Spend the night there, then send him into town to tell good Penelope the news that she has you safe and back from Pylos.’ So speaking she went away to the heights of Olympos. Telemachos stirred Nestor’s son out of his sweet sleep with a kick of his foot, and spoke to him: ‘Wake up, Peisistratos, son of Nestor! Bring up the strong-footed horses and yoke them to our chariot, so we can be on our way.’ Then Peisistratos, Nestor’s son, answered him: ‘Telemachos, however urgent the journey it is not possible to drive in the dark of night. Dawn will soon be coming, so wait until the hero son of Atreus, the great spearman Menelaos, brings gifts to stow in the chariot and sends us on our way with kind words of encouragement. That is the man a guest remembers for all his days – a generous host, who shows him kindness.’ So he spoke, and soon after Dawn appeared on her golden throne. Menelaos, master of the war-cry, then rose from his bed beside lovely-haired Helen and came to meet his guests. When the dear son of Odysseus saw him coming, he hurried to clothe himself in a shining tunic, and threw a great cloak over his strong shoulders. Then the hero Telemachos, dear son of godlike Odysseus, went out to meet his host, and spoke to him: ‘Lord Menelaos, son of Atreus, leader of your people, it is time now to send me back to my dear native land: my heart is now set on return home.’ Then Menelaos, master of the war-cry, answered him: ‘Telemachos, I will not keep you here for long if you are eager for your return. I deplore a host who is over-zealous or over-grudging to his guest: moderation is best in all. The two things are just as bad – to press his going on a man who wants to stay, and to detain a man who wants to leave. One should welcome the present and speed the parting guest. But wait now until I bring gifts to stow in your chariot – fine gifts for your own eyes to see – and until I tell the women to prepare a meal in the house from our ample stores. It is both an honour and glory, as well as their benefit, that guests should dine before setting out to journey far over the earth. And if you wish to extend your travels over Hellas and all of Argos, then I shall harness a chariot to go with you myself and be your guide to the cities of men. None will send us on empty-handed: they will all give us one present at least, either a tripod or cauldron of fine bronze, or a pair of mules, or a gold cup.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Lord Menelaos, son of Atreus, leader of your people, I would rather return straightaway to my own house, because when I set out I did not leave behind anyone to watch over my property: and my fear is that while searching for my godlike father I may lose my own life, or have some fine treasure lost from my house.’

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When Menelaos, master of the war-cry, heard this answer he called immediately to his wife and maid-servants to prepare a meal in the house from the ample stores. Then Eteoneus, son of Boëthoös, rose from his bed – his quarters were nearby  – and came up to him. Menelaos, master of the war-cry, told him to light a fire and roast some meat: he heard and obeyed. Menelaos himself went down into the sweet-smelling storeroom, not alone, but Helen and Megapenthes went with him. When they came to where his treasures were stored, the son of Atreus picked up a two-handled cup, and told his son Megapenthes to bring out a silver mixing-bowl. Helen went to the chests where her robes were kept – the intricate work of her own hands. The queen among women lifted out one of the robes and took it with her. It was the finest in its woven decoration and the largest, gleaming like a star, and it lay beneath all the others. They then walked back through the house to rejoin Telemachos, and fair-haired Menelaos said to him: ‘Telemachos, may Zeus, loud-thundering husband of Hera, grant you the journey home which your heart desires. Now of all the treasures that lie stored in my house for gifts, I shall give you the finest and the most precious. I shall give you a mixing-bowl crafted in metal. It is solid silver throughout, with the rim finished in gold. Hephaistos made it: it was given me by the hero Phaidimos, king of the Sidonians, when his house gave me hospitality as I came there on my journey home. Now I wish to present it to you.’ So speaking the hero son of Atreus put the two-handled cup in Telemachos’ hand, while strong Megapenthes carried the shining silver mixing-bowl and placed it in front of him. And the beautiful Helen came up to him with the robe in her hands and spoke to him, saying: ‘I too have a present for you, dear child. Here, take this gift, a keepsake of Helen’s own handiwork. It is for the time of your loving marriage, for your wife to wear. Until then your dear mother should store it in the house. And now I wish you a joyful return to your well-founded home and your own native land.’ So speaking she put the robe in his hands, and he received it with delight. The hero Peisistratos then took the gifts and stowed them in the luggagebasket, gazing at them all with admiration. Fair-haired Menelaos led the company into the house, and they took their seats on the chairs and benches. A maid brought water in a beautiful golden jug, and poured it out over a silver basin, for them to wash their hands: and she set a polished table beside them. The honoured housekeeper brought bread and placed it before them, and served them many kinds of food, generous with her store. At their side the son of Boëthoös carved the meat and gave them their portions: and the son of glorious Menelaos poured the wine. They put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. When they had put away their desire for eating

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and drinking, then Telemachos and the excellent son of Nestor yoked the horses and mounted the decorated chariot, and drove out through the yard and the echoing portico. The son of Atreus, fair-haired Menelaos, went out after them, holding cheering wine in a gold cup in his right hand, so they could pour a libation before their journey. He stood in front of the horses, and raising the cup to them said: ‘Farewell, young men, and take my greeting to Nestor, shepherd of the people – he was kind as a father to me, when we sons of the Achaians were fighting the war in Troy.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘My lord, we shall indeed do as you say. Nestor will certainly hear from us all that has happened here, as soon as we arrive. How I wish the same would be true of my return to Ithaka – that I would find Odysseus at home, and be able to tell him too that I am back after meeting with every kindness at your hands, and bringing with me many fine treasures.’ As he spoke these words a bird flew by him on the right. It was an eagle, carrying in its talons a great white goose, a tame one from the yard, and pursued by men and women screaming at it. The eagle came close by and swept across to the right in front of the chariot. They were all delighted when they saw it, and their hearts warmed within them. The first to speak was Nestor’s son, Peisistratos: ‘Think now, lord Menelaos, leader of your people, whether this was an omen sent by god for us two or for you.’ So he spoke, and the warrior Menelaos pondered how to understand the omen and interpret it rightly. But before he could answer long-dressed Helen spoke out: ‘Listen to me: I will make you a prophecy, the way the immortal gods have put it in my mind and the way I think it will be. Just as this eagle came down from the mountain where he and his offspring were born, and snatched a goose fed fat in the house, so, after suffering much and wandering far, Odysseus will come home and take his vengeance – or he may be home already, and sowing their doom for all the suitors.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Oh, may Zeus, loudthundering husband of Hera, now make it so! Then, even there in Ithaka, I would pray to you like a god!’ So speaking he laid the whip on the horses, and they pulled eagerly, speeding out through the city towards the plain at full stretch. And all day long they kept the yoke rattling between them. Now the sun set and all the paths grew dark. And they came to Pherai, to the house of Diokles the son of Ortilochos, who was a son born to Alpheios. There they slept the night, and he gave them gifts of friendship. When early-bom Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, they yoked the horses and mounted the decorated chariot, and drove out through the yard and the echoing portico. Telemachos whipped the pair on, and they flew

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eagerly on their way. Soon they were approaching the steep city of Pylos. Then Telemachos spoke to the son of Nestor: ‘Peisistratos, would you promise me something and do what I say? We are friends – we have that privilege through the years from our fathers’ friendship – and we are of the same age too: and this journey we have shared will bring us yet more closely together. Do not take me beyond my ship, but leave me there, my fellow prince. Otherwise the old man will be eager to entertain me and keep me in his house, and I do not want that – I must get home as soon as I can.’ So he spoke, and Nestor’s son considered in his mind how he might meet this promise in the proper way. As he thought it over, this seemed the best plan to him. He turned the horses towards the fast ship by the sea shore, then took out the fine presents given by Menelaos, the clothing and the gold, and stowed them in the ship’s stern, and spoke winged words to speed Telemachos on: ‘Hurry now, board your ship and give your orders to all your crew, before I reach home and bring the news to the old man. I know this well in my heart and mind: such is his overmastering spirit, he will not let you go, but he will come here himself to invite you, and I do not think he will go back alone. He will in any case be very angry.’ So speaking he whipped on the lovely-maned horses back to the city of Pylos, and quickly came to his own home. Telemachos called to his companions and gave them their orders: ‘Get all the tackle ready, friends, in our black ship, and then let us embark and be on our way.’ So he spoke, and they listened well and obeyed: they quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks. Now while Telemachos was busied about his departure, and making prayer and sacrifice to Athene beside the stern of his ship, there came up to him a man from a far country, in exile from Argos for killing a man there. He was a seer, by birth a descendant of Melampous. Melampous had first lived in Pylos, the mother of flocks, and he was a wealthy man with the greatest house of all the Pylians. But the time came when he moved to another land, fleeing from his own country and from the great-hearted Neleus, the most dread of all living men, who had seized all his property and kept it for a whole year. All this time Melampous was imprisoned in the house of Phylakos, in painful chains and suffering agonies, because of Neleus’ daughter and the grievous folly which the grim goddess Erinys had sent on his mind. But in the end he escaped death, drove the lowing cattle from Phylake to Pylos, took vengeance on godlike Neleus for his crime, and brought Neleus’ daughter home as bride for his brother. Then he moved to another land, to the horse-pasture of Argos: it was his destiny to live there and rule over many Argives. There he married a wife, and built himself a high-roofed house, and had two strong sons, Antiphates and Mantios. Antiphates fathered great-hearted Oïkles, and Oïkles fathered

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Amphiaraos the rouser of armies. Both Zeus who holds the aegis and Apollo loved Amphiaraos beyond other men and gave him every mark of their affection. Yet he did not reach the edge of old age: he was killed at Thebes, all because of the bribe offered to a woman. The sons born to him were Alkmaon and Amphilochos. And Mantios fathered Polypheides and Kleitos: but Kleitos was snatched away by Dawn of the golden throne because of his beauty, to live among the immortals. As for great-hearted Polypheides, Apollo made him far the best seer on earth after Amphiaraos had died. He quarrelled with his father and migrated to Hyperesia, where he lived on, giving prophecies to all men. It was his son, Theoklymenos by name, who now came up to Telemachos and stood by him. He found Telemachos making libation and prayer beside his fast black ship, and spoke to him with winged words: ‘Friend, since I find you making sacrifice in this place, I beseech you by your sacrifice and the god to whom you offer it, and then by your own head and the heads of the companions who are with you – give me a truthful answer to what I ask, and do not hide it from me. Who are you and where are you from? Where is your town and your parents?’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Well, stranger, I will tell you what you ask in clear truth. I am from Ithaka by birth, and my father is Odysseus – or so it was: by now he will have perished by a miserable death. That is why I have taken a black ship and a crew, to come seeking news of my long-absent father.’ Then godlike Theoklymenos said to him: ‘I too am away from my country, because I killed a man there from my own clan. He has many brothers and kinsmen throughout the horse-pasture of Argos, men of great power among the Achaians. So it is to escape death and black doom at their hands that I am a fugitive. My fate is now to go wandering through the world. So please take me on board your ship – I am an exile and your suppliant – or they will kill me. I fear they are after me.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘If this is your wish, I shall not turn you away from my ship. No, come with us: and in Ithaka you will have such hospitality as we can give.’ So speaking he took the man’s bronze-tipped spear from him and laid it flat on the deck of the balanced ship. Then he himself boarded the sea-going vessel and went to take his seat at the stern, giving a place to Theoklymenos beside him, while the men cast off the stern-cables. Telemachos then ordered his companions to set to the rigging, and they eagerly followed his command. They raised the pine mast and set it in the hollow mastbox, then made it fast with forestays and hoisted the white sails with welltwisted ropes of oxhide. And bright-eyed Athene sent them a favouring

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breeze, a brave wind rushing strong through the sky, to speed the ship on its run over the salt sea water. And they passed Krounoi and the lovely stream of Chalkis. Now the sun set and all the paths grew dark. But the ship kept speeding on before a fair wind from Zeus, and neared Pheai, then passed by holy Elis, where the Epeians hold power. From there Telemachos steered for the Needle Islands, uncertain whether he would find escape or meet capture and death. Meanwhile Odysseus and the excellent swineherd were at supper in his hut, with the other men eating beside them. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, Odysseus spoke to them – he was testing out the swineherd, to see if he would still offer him full hospitality and ask him to stay there at the farm, or send him on to the city: ‘Listen now, Eumaios, and all you other friends too. Tomorrow morning I wish to leave for the city and beg there, so I am not an expense to you and your men. So give me your best advice, and a good guide to take me there. Once there in the city, I shall have to wander to and fro, hoping that someone will give me a cup and a sup. I could even go to the house of godlike Odysseus to tell my news to the good Penelope, and mix with the high-handed suitors – they could give me a meal from their limitless store of provisions. Then I could work for them – I would be good at all the jobs they want. I tell you – and you mark my words and listen to me – through the gift of Hermes the guide, who gives grace and value to the work of all men, no other man could match me in the tasks I do, piling a good fire, splitting dry logs, carving and roasting meat and pouring wine: all the work that lesser men do for their betters.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him in great indignation: ‘Oh, my friend, why on earth have you taken this thought into your head? Or are you quite set on meeting your end there – if you are thinking to mix with the gang of suitors? Their arrogance and their violence reach right up to the iron heaven. Their servants are not the likes of you  – no, they are young men, well dressed in cloaks and tunics, with their heads and handsome faces kept shining with oil, those who wait on the suitors: and the tables are well polished, heavy with bread and meat and wine. No, you must stay here: none of us is troubled by your presence, neither I nor any of the companions here with me. But when the dear son of Odysseus comes, he will give you a cloak and a tunic to wear, and send you on to wherever your heart and spirit calls you.’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus answered him: ‘May father Zeus show you the same love that I feel for you, Eumaios  – you have given me relief from the dreadful misery of begging my way. There is nothing worse for mortals than life as a vagrant: and yet men have to suffer this pain and indignity all for their wretched belly’s sake. But now, since you will have me

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stay and wait for Odysseus’ son, tell me about the mother of godlike Odysseus, and the father he left at the edge of old age when he set off for Troy. Are they perhaps still alive under the light of the sun, or are they dead by now and down in the house of Hades?’ Then the swineherd, leader of his men, answered him: ‘Well, my friend, I will tell you what you ask in clear truth. Laertes is alive still, but he prays constantly to Zeus for the life to be extinguished from his body there and then in his house. He mourns deeply for his lost son and for the wise wife of his marriage: her death was the greatest blow to him and made him an old man before his time. She died of grief for her glorious son – it was a wretched death, which I would not wish on any of my friends or kindly neighbours here. While she was alive – though her life was one of sorrow – I used to like to ask after her, because she had brought me up herself along with her fine daughter, long-dressed Ktimene, the youngest of the children she bore. So we two were brought up together, and her mother’s regard for me was almost as great as for her own daughter. And then when the two of us came to the lovely prime of youth, they gave her in marriage to a man in Same and received a huge bride-price for her. As for me, the queen gave me fine clothes to wear, a cloak and tunic and sandals for my feet, and sent me out to the farm. She always showed a great kindness to me, and this is something I now miss. But the blessed gods have prospered my own labours – I am still at the same work – and from it I have had enough to eat and drink and give to those who deserve charity. But from my present mistress there is no kind word or deed to be had, ever since these high-handed men came to plague the house. The servants much miss their talks with the mistress, their opportunity to ask all the news, to eat and drink in the house and then take something back to the farm – all the things which warm a servant’s heart.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Oh, you must then have been a small boy, Eumaios, when you were brought so far from your country and your parents! So come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. Was it war – the sacking of your people’s broad-wayed city, where your father and honoured mother lived? Or did pirates capture you alone, out tending your sheep or cattle, and carry you off in their ships to sell you here for a good price at your master’s house?’ Then the swineherd, leader of his men, answered him: ‘Friend, since you ask me all these questions, listen now and enjoy my tale, sitting quietly and drinking your wine. These nights are tremendously long: there is time for sleep, and time too for enjoying a story told. No need for you to go to bed before the hour comes: too much sleep is bad. Any one of the others whose heart and mind bids him so may leave and sleep. Then with the showing of dawn he can have his breakfast and go out to tend our master’s pigs. But let

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us two stay here in the hut, eating and drinking and taking pleasure in each other’s sorry story, as we each recall the troubles of our life – after it all a man can take pleasure even in his pain, when he has suffered much and wandered far. So I will tell you now what you ask and want to know. There is an island called Syrië – you may have heard of it – out beyond Ortygia, where the sun rises at the solstice. Not too many people live there, but it is a good island, with fine grazing for cattle and sheep, and rich in wine and wheat. Famine never comes to that land, nor do any hateful diseases afflict poor mortals there. No, when these people grow old, Apollo of the silver bow and Artemis come to visit them with their gentle arrows and bring their death. There are two cities there, sharing the whole island between them. My father was king over both cities: he was Ktesios son of Ormenos, a man like the immortal gods. A crew of Phoinicians came to this island: they are famed for their shipping, but these men were rogues, with a huge cargo of trinkets in their black ship. Now there was a Phoinician woman in my father’s house, tall and beautiful and skilled in fine work, and these cunning Phoinicians set about seducing her. First, when she was out there washing clothes, one of them lay with her beside their hollow ship in the union of love – and this can lead astray even the best of the female sex. He then asked her who she was and where she came from. She pointed out immediately my father’s high-roofed house, and said: “I can claim to come from Sidon, the city rich in bronze. I am the daughter of Arybas, who is a man of very great wealth. But Taphian pirates kidnapped me as I was coming in to town from the fields, and brought me here to sell me for a good price at my master’s house.” Then the man who had seduced her said: “Would you like now to come back home with us, to see your parents’ high-roofed house and your mother and father themselves? They are still alive and known for their wealth.” Then the woman said in reply to him: “Yes, that could be – if you sailors are prepared to bind yourselves with an oath to take me home unharmed.” So she spoke, and they all swore as she asked. When they had sworn and completed their oath, the woman spoke to them again: “Well, keep it quiet now. None of your men should talk to me if they meet me in the street or perhaps at the well. Otherwise someone may go to the house and tell the old man, making him suspicious: and then he might imprison me in painful chains and plan death for all of you. No, you must keep our agreement secret in your hearts, and hurry about buying your home-freight. Then when your ship is full of goods, have a message sent quickly to me at the house. I shall bring all the gold that comes to hand: and there is something else I would gladly give for my fare. I am nurse in the palace to the great man’s son – such a smart little boy, who runs along with me when I go out. I would bring him

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on board with me, and he would win you a huge price, wherever you sell him in a foreign land.” So speaking she went away to the fine house. They stayed with us for a whole year, gathering a great quantity of traded goods in their hollow ship. But when at last the ship was laden and ready for their departure, they sent a messenger to let the woman know. This crafty man came to my father’s house bringing a golden necklace strung with amber beads. There in the hall the maids and my honoured mother passed the necklace from hand to hand and kept their eyes fixed on it, eager to give the price he asked: meanwhile he nodded silently to the woman. The signal given, he went back to the hollow ship, and she took me by the hand and led me with her out of the house. In the portico she came across the cups and tables from the meal of the men who attended my father – they had now gone out to a session of the town parliament. She quickly hid three goblets in the fold of her dress and carried them away: and I followed her in my innocence. Now the sun set and all the paths grew dark. We walked quickly to reach the famous harbour, where the Phoinicians’ fast ship was waiting. They put us on board, then boarded themselves and set sail over the paths of the water: and Zeus sent a favouring breeze. For six days we sailed on, day and night alike. But when Zeus the son of Kronos brought the seventh day, then Artemis the archer-goddess struck down the woman: she fell like a sea-tern diving, and crashed into the hold. They threw her overboard to be sport for the seals and fish, and I was left by myself, in distress of heart. Wind and water carried them on and brought them to Ithaka, and here Laertes bought me with his own possessions. So that is how I came to set eyes on this land.’ Then royal Odysseus answered him: ‘Eumaios, you have moved my heart with this tale of all your sufferings. Yet even so Zeus has given you good to match the bad: after much hardship you have come to the house of a kindly master, who takes care that you have food and drink. You live a good life – whereas I am a wanderer still, and have come here in my roving from land to land across the world.’ Such were their words to each other. And then they slept for a short while, not very long, as the throned Dawn came quickly. Meanwhile Telemachos had neared the coast, and his crew were striking sail: they quickly took down the mast, and rowed the ship in to mooring. They dropped the anchor-stones and made her fast with stern-cables. Then they jumped out themselves where the surf breaks, and began to prepare a meal and mix the gleaming wine. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, Telemachos, good man of sense, was the first to speak: ‘You now row the black ship on to town, while I go to visit my farms and the herdsmen. I shall come down to town in the evening, when I have looked

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over my estates. Then tomorrow morning I shall give you a reward for your journey – a noble feast of meat and sweet wine.’ Then godlike Theoklymenos said to him: ‘And where, dear child, am I to go? Of all the princes in rocky Ithaka, whose house should I come to? Or should I go straight to where your mother lives, your own home?’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘If it were otherwise I would of course invite you to come to our own house – there is no shortage there of what a guest needs. But it would not be in your own best interest – I shall be away, and you will not see my mother. She does not often show herself to the suitors in the house, but keeps away from them in her room upstairs, weaving at her loom. But I tell you of another man you could go to: he is Eurymachos, the splendid son of wise Polybos, and regarded now like a god by the people of Ithaka. He is far the highest-born of the suitors, and the one most hopeful of marrying my mother and taking for himself the royal rights of Odysseus. But as for that, Olympian Zeus who dwells in heaven knows if before any marriage he will bring the day of doom on them.’ As he spoke these words a bird flew by him on the right. It was a hawk, Apollo’s swift messenger. It had a dove in its talons and was tearing it, scattering the feathers on the ground between the ship and Telemachos. Theoklymenos called him aside from his companions, took him by the hand, and spoke to him: ‘Telemachos, there was god’s will, you know, in that bird’s flight on the right of you. As soon as I looked on it I knew it for a bird of omen. There is no family more kingly than yours in the land of Ithaka – no, yours is the sovereign power for ever.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Friend, how I wish that what you say will indeed prove true! Then you would quickly find a loving welcome and gifts a-plenty from me, so much so that any man meeting you would bless your fortune.’ So he spoke, and then turned to Peiraios, his trusted companion: ‘Peiraios, son of Klytios, you have always been the most loyal of the companions who went with me to Pylos. So now too please take this stranger in to your own house, look after him well, and show him full honour, until I come myself.’ Then Peiraios the famous spearman answered him: ‘Telemachos, even if you were to stay out here for a long time, I shall still give him hospitality, and he will find no shortage of what a guest needs.’ So speaking Peiraios boarded the ship, and told the crew to get on board also and loose the stern-cables. They quickly boarded and sat by the rowlocks. Telemachos bound his fine sandals under his feet, and took up from the deck his strong spear, sharp-edged with pointed bronze. They then untied the

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stem-cables, pushed the ship off, and set sail for the city, following the orders of Telemachos, the dear son of godlike Odysseus. He himself set out on foot, striding quickly on until he reached the yard where his countless droves of pigs were kept, and where the swineherd, faithful man, would sleep among them, ever loyal to his masters.

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Now with the coming of dawn Odysseus and the excellent swineherd were both in the hut preparing the morning meal. They had lit a fire, and sent the drovers out with their herds of pigs. As Telemachos approached, the noisy dogs did not start their barking, but came fawning all round him. Godlike Odysseus realised the dogs were fawning in welcome, and at the same time the sound of feet came to his ears. He quickly spoke winged words to Eumaios: ‘Eumaios, one of your companions is clearly on his way here, or someone else you know. The dogs are not barking, but fawning all round, and I can hear the tread of feet too.’ He had not finished speaking when his dear son stood there in the gateway. The swineherd leapt up in astonishment, and the bowls he was using to mix the gleaming wine dropped from his hands. He went straight to greet his master, and kissed his head and both his handsome eyes and both his hands: and the tears fell heavy from him. As a father greets with love his son who returns in the tenth year from a far country  – his only son, late-born, for whom he has suffered much anxiety  – so then the excellent swineherd covered godlike Telemachos with kisses, as if he were just escaped from death. In tears he spoke winged words to him: ‘You have come, Telemachos, sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I would see you again, once you went away in your ship to Pylos. So come, come inside now, dear child: let me enjoy the sight of you, just back from abroad and in my own house! It is not often you visit your farms and your herdsmen. No, you stay there in town – that must be your heart’s pleasure, to watch that hellish crew of suitors.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Certainly, old friend – I shall do as you wish. You are the reason for my coming out here, so that I can see you with my own eyes and hear the news from you – is my mother still in the house, or has some other man married her now? Perhaps Odysseus’ bed lies there fouled with cobwebs, with no one to sleep in it?’

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Then the swineherd, leader of his men, answered him: ‘Oh, she is certainly staying on steadfast in your house: but all the time her nights and days of misery are spent in tears.’ So speaking he took the bronze spear from Telemachos’ hands, and Telemachos stepped over the stone threshold and went inside. As he entered, Odysseus his father rose to offer him his seat, but from across the room Telemachos stopped him, saying: ‘Stranger, please sit down. We can find a seat somewhere else in our own farmhouse: and here is the man who will make it.’ So he spoke, and Odysseus went back and sat down. For Telemachos the swineherd spread a pile of green brushwood and a fleece on top, and there the dear son of Odysseus then took his seat. Now the swineherd served them plates of the roast meat left from their meal on the previous day, and quickly heaped bread in baskets and mixed honey-sweet wine in an ivy-wood bowl: then he took his own seat facing godlike Odysseus. So they put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, then Telemachos said to the excellent swineherd: ‘Old friend, where has this guest of yours come from? How did sailors bring him to Ithaka, and who did they say they were? – since I imagine he did not come here on foot!’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘Well, child, I shall tell you the truth in all you ask. He claims himself a Cretan, born in broad Crete, and says that his wanderings have driven him through many cities of the world: such is the fate that god has spun for him. This time he has just escaped from the ship of some Thesprotians, and come here to my farm. I shall put him in your hands now, for you to do as you wish: remember, he has the claim of a suppliant.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Eumaios, what you have said is a great embarrassment to me. How can I give this stranger a welcome in my house? I am still young, without the confidence yet in my own strength to defend against a man who starts a fight. And my mother’s heart is torn between two thoughts – should she stay at home with me and look after the house, out of respect for her husband’s bed and the voice of the people, or should she now go with the noblest and the most generous of the Achaian suitors who are in the house bidding for her hand? But as for this stranger, I promise you, since he has come to your house, I shall give him fine clothes for his back, a cloak and tunic, and I shall give him also a two-edged sword and sandals for his feet, and send him on to wherever his heart and spirit calls him. Or if you wish, you can keep him here at the farm and look after him yourself – I shall send clothes here and all the food he needs to eat, so he will not be an expense to you and your men. But I would not have him

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going there among the suitors: they are quite outrageous in their insolence, and I fear they would mock and insult him – and that would be pain and grief to me. When against greater numbers even a strong man can hardly achieve much – their strength is far beyond his.’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus said to him: ‘Friend, I am sure I am permitted to make my response too. My heart is quite devastated when I hear you both telling of the outrage done by the suitors in your house – and you, such a fine man as you are, unable to help it. Tell me, do you consent to this subjection, or is it that the people throughout your country have come to resent you, following some word from a god? Or do you blame your brothers for failing you? A man relies on his brothers to fight for him, however serious a feud has arisen. How I wish I could match this anger in my heart with youth like yours, or that I was a son of the noble Odysseus or even Odysseus himself (and may he return from his wandering: there is yet room for hope)! Then let some stranger cut the head straight from my body if I did not go to the house of Odysseus son of Laertes and bring destruction on them all! And if they brought me down, one against too many of them, then I would rather be killed and meet my death in my own house than see this outrage continued for ever – guests beaten about, serving women molested shamefully all over the fine house, wine drawn to waste, and food consumed in utter abandon, all to no end, all for an aim that will never be met.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Well, stranger, I shall tell you all in clear truth. No, the people at large are not angry or resentful at me. Nor can I blame any brothers for failing me – though a man will rely on his brothers to fight for him, however serious a feud has arisen. That is because Zeus the son of Kronos has made our family a line of only sons. Laertes was the only son born to Arkeisios, and then he was father to an only son, Odysseus: I am the only son of Odysseus, who fathered me in his house but has had no joy of me. That is why there are such crowds of enemies now in the house. All the leading men who have power in the islands, in Doulichion and Same and wooded Zakynthos, and all who are princes in rocky Ithaka, all these are suitors for my mother’s hand, and they are wasting our house. She can neither refuse the marriage she hates, nor bring it to an issue: and they are wasting away my substance with their eating. Soon enough they will tear me apart myself. But these things lie in the lap of the gods. Now Eumaios, old friend, you must go quickly and tell the faithful Penelope that she has me safe and back from Pylos. I shall stay here, and you come back when you have given the news to her and her alone. None of the other Achaians must hear of it – there are many who plan me harm.’

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Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘I see and agree: your orders are understood. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. Should I on the same journey take the news to Laertes also? The poor man, for all his great sorrow for Odysseus, used before now to keep an eye on his farm and eat and drink there in the house with his farmhands whenever the heart in his breast urged him. But now, ever since you went in your ship to Pylos, they say he has barely eaten or drunk, or gone out to look over his farm, but sits there in tears of grief and mourning, with the flesh shrinking on his bones.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘The more the pity, but we must let him be, for all our distress. If mortals could somehow take all that they desired, then our first choice would be the day of my father’s return. No, you take your message and come back: do not go out in the fields looking for Laertes. But tell my mother to send her housekeeper out there as soon as she can, but secretly: she can take the news to the old man.’ With these words he sent the swineherd on his way. Eumaios took up his sandals, bound them under his feet, and set off for the town. Now Athene did not fail to see Eumaios leaving the farm, and she drew near, taking the form of a woman, tall and beautiful and skilled in fine work. She stood at the gate opposite the door of the hut and made herself visible to Odysseus. Telemachos could not see her there in front of him, and realised nothing – the gods do not make themselves manifest to the sight of all men. But Odysseus saw her, and so did the dogs: they did not bark, but cowered away whimpering to the other side of the farm. Athene signalled to Odysseus with her eyebrows. Godlike Odysseus saw the sign, came out from the room and walked past the long yard wall until he stood facing her. Athene said to him: ‘Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, now you must tell your son the truth and hide it no longer, so that the two of you can plan the suitors’ death and destruction and then both go back to the great town. And I myself shall not be long away from you: I am eager for the fight.’ So speaking Athene stroked him with her golden wand. First she put a clean cloak and tunic over his chest, then made him taller and younger in looks: his skin took back its bronze, his cheeks filled out, and the beard grew dark on his chin. This work done, Athene went away. Odysseus returned to the hut, and his dear son was astonished at the sight of him. He turned his eyes aside in the fear that this might be a god, and spoke winged words to him: ‘You are changed now, stranger, from what I saw before – you have other clothes on you, and the colour of your skin is not what it was. You must surely be one of the gods who hold the wide heaven. Be merciful, and we shall give you sacrifices to please you and gifts of worked gold. Only spare us.’

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Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus answered him: ‘No, be sure I am not a god  – why do you liken me to the immortals? I am your father, for whose sake you have long been suffering pain and grief, and accepting men’s insults.’ So speaking he kissed his son, and the tears rolled from his eyes to the ground – before then he had kept them in constant check. But Telemachos could not yet believe this was his father, and answered him once more, saying: ‘You are not Odysseus, my father – but some god is tricking me, to cause me yet greater grief and misery. No mortal man could achieve this change of his own will: only a god coming in person could easily make a man young or old, just as he pleases. A moment ago you were an old man and dressed in wretched clothes. But now you are like the gods who hold the wide heaven.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Telemachos, you should not show such great surprise and wonderment to see your own father home. You will have no other Odysseus come here, but I am he, just as you see me, returned after much wandering and hard suffering to my native land in the twentieth year. What you see now is the work of Athene, goddess of spoil. She transformed me thus: she has the power to change me at her will, sometimes to look like a beggar, and sometimes like a young man with fine clothing on him. For the gods who hold the wide heaven it is easy to raise a mortal man to glory or cast him down.’ So speaking he sat down. Telemachos flung his arms around his noble father and began to sob, letting his tears fall. In both of them there rose the desire for weeping, and they wept with loud cries, more intense than the crying of birds of prey robbed of their young, vultures or hook-taloned eagles whose children country folk have stolen before they were fledged. So they let the piteous tears stream from their eyes. And now the light of the sun would have gone down on their weeping, if Telemachos had not suddenly said to his father: ‘Yes, but what ship was it, dear father, that brought you here to Ithaka, and who did the sailors say they were? – since I imagine you did not come here on foot!’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus said to him: ‘Well, my child, I shall tell you the story in truth. It was the Phaiacians who brought me here – men famous for their ships, who when any man visits them give him passage to his country. Me too they carried over the sea, asleep in their fast ship, and set me down in Ithaka: and they gave me splendid gifts, bronze and gold in plenty, and woven clothing. These gifts, through the gods’ help, are stored safe in the caves, and I have come here now at Athene’s urging so that we can plan together for the death of our enemies. So tell me now the numbers of the suitors and list them for me – I want to know how many and who these

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men are. Then I can ponder it well in my mind and decide whether we two could take them on by ourselves unaided, or whether we should seek the help of others.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Father, I have always heard of your great renown, how your hands are strong in the fight and your mind wise in counsel. But this you suggest is too much  – I am amazed that you say it. Two men could not possibly fight the number and strength against us. There are not simply ten suitors, or just twice ten, but many more tens than that. Listen, you can have the count here and now. From Doulichion there are fifty-two, the choice of its youth, and six servants with them; from Same there are twenty-four men; from Zakynthos twenty sons of the Achaians; from Ithaka itself twelve leading men in all, and with them Medon the herald, the god-inspired bard, and two serving-men skilled in carving. If we come against all these there in the house, then I fear that the vengeance for their crimes which you seek on your return will have the most bitter and terrible end. No, you must think hard if you can find some helper, someone whose heart will be eager to come to our aid.’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus said to him: ‘Well, I shall tell you – and you mark my words and listen to me. Think now yourself whether Athene together with her father Zeus will be aid enough for us – or should I find some other helper?’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Yes, these two you mention would certainly be an excellent pair of helpers – sitting up there in the clouds and ruling the whole world, men and immortal gods alike!’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus said to him: ‘I tell you those two will not be long away from the fierce din of battle, when in my own house we and the suitors come to the test of our fighting strength. Now – when dawn shows you must go back to the house and join the high-handed suitors: as for me, the swineherd will take me to the town later in the day, and I shall be looking like a wretched beggar and an old man. If they abuse me in the house, the heart in your breast must bear with it, for all the indignities I suffer, even if they drag me by the feet through the hall and throw me out, or if they start hurling things at me: you must look on and hold your peace. Yes, speak to them gently and tell them to stop their senseless behaviour – but they will not listen to you, because the day of their doom is close on them. I tell you one thing more, and you mark it well in your mind. When Athene in her wisdom gives me the thought, I shall nod my head to you. When you see this, you should gather up the battle-gear lying there in the hall – all of it – and stow it away in the back of the high store-room. And when the suitors miss the weapons and ask you about them, calm their questions with soothing words. Say: “I have put them away out of the smoke.

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They are not now as they were left by Odysseus when he went to Troy long ago: they are all tarnished where the fumes from the fire have got at them. And further, there is a more important thought which Zeus has put in my mind – the fear that you might start a drunken quarrel among yourselves and do each other injury, bringing shame on your feasting and your wooing. By its very presence iron draws a man on.” But leave for the two of us alone two swords and two spears and a pair of oxhide shields ready to hand, where we can make a dash to seize them – Pallas Athene and Zeus the counsellor will bewilder the suitors at the time. I tell you one further thing, and you mark it well in your mind. If you are truly my son and one of our blood, then let no one hear that Odysseus is home. So Laertes must not know, nor the swineherd, nor any of the servants, nor Penelope herself. But you and I alone will discover the way the women have gone, and we should test the men servants also, to find out where there is honour and reverence for us in the men’s hearts, and who is careless of his duty and has no respect for your position.’ Then his glorious son answered him: ‘Father, you will come to learn my courage soon enough, I think: there is nothing feeble-minded about me. Yet I do not think that what you have just said will bring any advantage to the two of us: I ask you to consider again. You would waste a long time going round all the farms and questioning every man – and meanwhile at their pleasure the suitors are wantonly devouring your substance in your own house, and there is no restraint. I do agree that you should learn about the women, finding out which are being disloyal to you and which are blameless. But as for the men, I would not want us to test them out farm by farm. No, that can be work for afterwards – if indeed you do know some sign of his will from Zeus who holds the aegis.’ Such were their words to each other. Meanwhile the well-built ship that had brought Telemachos and all his companions back from Pylos was putting in to the port of Ithaka. When they had come inside the deep harbour, they dragged the black ship up on land. Eager servants carried out their weapons for them, and took the lovely gifts straight to the house of Klytios. They then sent a messenger to Odysseus’ house to tell good Penelope the news that Telemachos was in the countryside, and had told them to sail the ship round to the town: this was so that the great queen should not take alarm in her heart and let her soft tears fall. This messenger and the excellent swineherd met each other on the same errand, both bringing the news to Penelope. When they reached the house of their godlike king, the messenger spoke out in front of all the maid-servants, saying: ‘Queen, your dear son is now returned!’ But the swineherd went close to Penelope and told her all that her dear son had asked him to say. Then when he had delivered the whole

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message commanded of him, he left the house and its grounds and set off back to his pigs. But the suitors were aghast and their hearts sank. They came out of the hall and past the long yard wall, to hold a meeting there in front of the gate. Eurymachos, son of Polybos, was the first to speak to them: ‘Friends, this is a great coup for Telemachos! The insolence of it, to bring off this voyage when we all thought he could never succeed! Well, we must now launch a black ship, the best there is, and gather a crew of seamen to row it, to let our friends out there know as soon as can be that they should make speed for home.’ He had not finished speaking when Amphinomos, turning round from his seat, saw the ship inside the deep harbour, and men taking in the sails and putting hands to the oars. He laughed out happily and said to his companions: ‘No need now to send any message – here they are inside the harbour. Either some god has given them word, or they themselves saw the other ship passing and could not catch it.’ So he spoke, and they stood up and went down to the sea-shore. There they quickly dragged the black ship up on land, and eager servants carried the weapons out of the vessel. The suitors went all in a body to the assemblyplace, and would not let any other man, young or old, join their session. There Antinoös, the son of Eupeithes, spoke to them: ‘Oh, the way the gods have saved this man from harm! All through the hours of day we had lookouts posted along the wind-swept mountain peaks, with constant reliefs: and when the sun set we never spent the night on land – we would wait for the holy dawn out at sea in our fast ship. We were setting an ambush for Telemachos, to catch him and kill him – but meanwhile some god brought him home. So let us here and now plan a miserable end for Telemachos. He must not escape us, because with this man alive I doubt that our business here will ever be concluded. He himself is a skilful planner and thinker, and the people are no longer wholly in our favour. So come on, then, before he calls the Achaians to gather in assembly. I am sure he will not let it go. No, he will give full force to his anger, he will stand up in the middle of them and tell them all how we plotted his sheer destruction but could not catch him: and they will not approve when they hear of this wickedness. I fear they may do us some harm and drive us out of our own country, so we may have to go in exile to a foreign people. So let us move first – let us take him in the country, away from the city, or on his path here. Then we can keep his wealth and substance for ourselves, sharing it out properly among us: and the house we could leave for his mother and the man who marries her. If you do not favour this proposal – if you wish Telemachos to live and retain all his inheritance – then we should not continue to gather in his house here and consume his goods to our hearts’ content. No, each of us should ply for Penelope’s hand

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from his own house, and seek to win her with gifts. She can then marry the man who gives most and is fated to win her.’ So he spoke, and they all stayed silent. Then Amphinomos addressed the assembly. He was the glorious son of king Nisos, son of Aretes, and the leader of the suitors from the wheatlands of grassy Doulichion: he was the one whose talk was most to Penelope’s liking, since he was a man of good sense. In all good will he addressed the assembly and said: ‘Friends, for myself I would not favour killing Telemachos. It is a fearsome thing to kill royal stock. No, we should first seek the will of the gods. If the edicts of great Zeus give approval, I shall kill him myself and bid all others join me. But if the gods are against, I say we should stop.’ So spoke Amphinomos, and his words met with their favour. They then rose and made their way to the house of Odysseus, where they came in and took their seats on the polished chairs. Now the good Penelope had in mind a further plan, to confront these suitors with their reckless violence. She had heard in the house of the intended murder of her son  – the herald Medon had learnt of their plans and told her. So with her serving maids she went down to the hall. When the queen among women had reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar that held the strong-built roof, holding her shining veil across her cheeks. Then she called to Antinoös by name and spoke angrily to him: ‘Antinoös, you violent man, you evil schemer – and you are the one they say is the best of your age in all Ithaka for good judgement and good speaking! Well, you have turned out far from that. You greedy fool, why are you plotting his death and doom for Telemachos? Have you no regard for the rights and duties of suppliants, to which Zeus himself is witness? It is sacrilege for one to plot the harm of another. Or have you forgotten that your father came running here for refuge, in fear of the people? They were greatly angered, because he had joined pirates from Taphos to molest the Thesprotians, and they were joined to us in friendship. The people wanted to destroy him, to dash out his heart, and devour all his enviable substance, but Odysseus held them back and stopped them, for all their passion. And this is the man on whose house you are now feeding free, whose wife you are wooing, and whose son you mean to kill – and on me you are bringing deep anguish. Stop, I tell you, and stop the others too.’ Then Eurymachos, son of Polybos, answered her: ‘Good Penelope, daughter of Ikarios, do not worry  – these things should not concern your mind. There is no man now, or in future, or yet to be born, who will lay hands on your son Telemachos while I live and see the light upon earth. I tell you this, and it will certainly be done as I say – in an instant that man’s dark blood will drip from my spear, because there were many times when Odysseus the

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sacker of cities would sit me too on his knees and put the roast meat in my hands and hold red wine to my lips. So Telemachos is to me far the dearest of all men, and I can tell him to have no fear of death from us suitors – though death from the gods no man can escape.’ So he spoke – comforting words, while he himself was planning her son’s destruction. Penelope went up to her bright rooms above and then began weeping for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athene cast sweet sleep over her eyelids. At evening the excellent swineherd returned to Odysseus and his son. They had slaughtered a yearling hog, and were stood there preparing it for supper. Now Athene came close to Odysseus son of Laertes and struck him with her wand, to turn him back into an old man and put wretched clothes on his body, so that the swineherd should not see the real man and recognise him – then he might not keep the knowledge in his heart, but go and tell it to faithful Penelope. Telemachos greeted him first: ‘You are back, Eumaios, excellent man! What news now in the town? Are the proud suitors home now from their ambush, or are they still there looking out for my return?’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘It was not in my mind to enquire and ask all these questions as I came to town. My heart’s wish was to give my message and then come back here as soon as possible. But I did meet with a messenger hurrying on his way from your own crew, and he was the first to give the news to your mother. One other thing I do know – I saw it with my own eyes. I was on my way back, above the town by Hermes’ Hill, when I saw a fast ship putting in to our harbour. There were many men in it, and it was laden with shields and double-pointed spears. I took them to be the men you speak of, but I do not know.’ So he spoke. Strong Telemachos smiled and looked at his father, hiding his glance from the swineherd. So when they had finished their work and prepared the meal, they set to eating, and no man’s desire went without an equal share in the feast. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, their thoughts turned to bed and they took the benison of sleep.

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Odysseus Comes to his House

When early-born Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, then Telemachos, dear son of godlike Odysseus, bound his fine sandals under his feet and took up a strong spear, well fitted to the grip of his hand. He was ready to go to the town, and said to his swineherd: ‘Old friend, I am on my way now to the city, so my mother can see me: I doubt that she will cease from her tears of lamentation and the misery of grief until she sees me there in person. Now these are my instructions for you. You must take this poor stranger to the city, so he can beg for his meals there – and those who want to will give him a cup and a sup. I myself cannot support every man in the world, and I have troubles enough in my own heart. If the stranger is angry at this, then it will be so much the worse for him. I like to speak the plain truth.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Friend, I myself have no wish either to be kept here. A beggar is better off in town than in the country when it comes to begging meals – people will give me there what they want. And I am not of the age now to stay on a farm, carrying out all the tasks that a master assigns me. So you go – and this man here, as you tell him, will take me into town, as soon as I have warmed myself at the fire and there is some heat in the sun. These are wretchedly thin clothes that I have, and the early morning frost could defeat me: and it is a long way, you say, to the town.’ So he spoke, and Telemachos went out through the yard and on his way, striding fast and plotting doom for the suitors. When he reached his own pleasant house, he stood the spear he carried against a tall pillar outside, then crossed the stone threshold and went into the house. Far the first to see him was his nurse Eurykleia, where she was spreading fleeces over the finely-worked chairs. She burst into tears and rushed straight to him: and the other maid-servants of his enduring father gathered round him, covering him with love and kissing his head and shoulders. And good Penelope came down from her room, looking like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. She too fell to weeping and flung her arms round her dear

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son, and kissed his head and both his handsome eyes. In tears she spoke winged words to him: ‘You have come, Telemachos, sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I would see you again, once you went away in your ship to Pylos for news of your dear father – and all in secret, without me knowing. But come, tell me all – did you meet sight of him?’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Mother, do not bring me to tears or stir the heart in my breast, when I have just escaped sheer destruction. No, you should go upstairs with your serving-women, and after bathing and taking fresh clothes, pray to all the gods, and promise them full sacrifices, if Zeus will some day bring us recompense. I myself will go to the assembly-place, to invite a guest here, a stranger who came with me on my return from Pylos. I sent him ahead with my godlike companions, and told Peiraios to take him to his own house, and to look after him well and show him full honour, until I come myself.’ So he spoke, and she took his words without answer. She then bathed and took fresh clothes, and prayed to all the gods, promising them full sacrifices, if Zeus would some day bring them recompense. Telemachos then went out through the house and on his way: he held a spear in his hand, and two quick dogs went with him. Athene shed miraculous beauty over him, and all the people gazed in admiration as he approached. The proud suitors gathered round him, speaking words of welcome  – but with treachery planned in their hearts. He kept away from the main throng of them, and went to sit where Mentor was seated, and Antiphos and Halitherses, friends of his father from the beginning: and they asked him about all that had happened. Now the famous spearman Peiraios approached them, bringing his guest through the city to the assembly-place. Telemachos was not slow to turn his attention to the stranger, and rose to stand beside him. Peiraios spoke first, saying: ‘Telemachos, send some of your maids quickly now to my house, to bring back the gifts which Menelaos gave you.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘No, Peiraios – we do not know how this business will end. If the proud suitors trap me and murder me in the house, and then divide out all our family goods, I would want you to keep these gifts and enjoy them, rather than any of these men. But if I can sow their death and destruction for these suitors, then bring the gifts to my house, to your joy and mine.’ So speaking he led the much-troubled stranger as a guest to his own home. When they reached the pleasant house, they laid their cloaks on the chairs and benches and went and bathed in polished baths. When the serving-women had washed them and rubbed them with oil, and dressed them in woolly cloaks and tunics, they stepped out of the baths and took their seats on chairs. A maid brought water in a beautiful golden jug, and poured it out over a

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silver basin, for them to wash their hands: and she set a polished table beside them. The honoured housekeeper brought bread and placed it before them, and served them many kinds of food, generous with her store. Telemachos’ mother sat opposite them, leaning back in her chair against a pillar in the hall, and spinning wool fine on her distaff. They put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. When they had put away their desire for eating and drinking, the good Penelope began to speak: ‘Telemachos, I shall now go up to my room above and lie down on the bed which has become my bed of sorrow, constantly wet with my tears, ever since Odysseus went with the sons of Atreus to Ilios – and you have not even told me, before the proud suitors come back into the house, you have not told me clearly if you have any news of your father’s return.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Well, mother, I shall tell you the truth. We went to Pylos to visit Nestor, shepherd of his people. He received me kindly in his high house, and showed me all the loving care a father would to a son just returned after years abroad – such was the warmth of the welcome he and his glorious sons gave me. But as for enduring Odysseus he said he had never heard any news of him, alive or dead, from any man on earth. He sent me on, though, with horses and a strongly-made chariot to the son of Atreus, the great spearman Menelaos. And there I saw Argive Helen, for whose sake the Argives and the Trojans suffered long through the will of the gods. Then Menelaos, master of the war-cry, asked me straightaway what my purpose was in coming to holy Lakedaimon, and I told him the whole truth. He then answered me and said: “Oh, it is a mighty man whose bed they want to sleep in, and they are cowards and weaklings! Just as when a deer leaves her two new-born suckling fawns to sleep in a mighty lion’s den, while she goes looking for pasture over the mountain spurs and grassy glens, and then the lion comes back to his lair and brings a horrible fate on both the fawns  – so Odysseus will bring a horrible fate on those men. Oh, father Zeus and Athene and Apollo, would that he were the man he was long ago in well-founded Lesbos, when he accepted the challenge and wrestled with Philomeleïdes, and brought him down with a mighty throw, to the joy of all the Achaians. If only Odysseus, the man he was then, could meet these suitors! They would all find a grim marriage and a quick death. As for what you ask and beg of me, I shall tell you without wandering or evasion: I shall not deceive you. No, of all that I was told by the old man of the sea, the unerring prophet, I shall not hide or conceal a word from you. He said that he had seen Odysseus on an island, suffering great distress. He was in the house of the nymph Kalypso, and she was holding him against his will. He could not reach his own native land – he had no oared ships with him and no

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crew to take him over the broad back of the sea.” That is what was said to me by the son of Atreus, the great spearman Menelaos. With all this done, I set off home. The immortals gave me a following wind, and quickly brought me back to my own dear country.’ So he spoke, and his words moved his mother’s heart in her breast. Then the godlike Theoklymenos spoke to them: ‘Honoured lady, wife of Odysseus son of Laertes – Menelaos, I tell you, has no clear knowledge: but you mark well the words I have for you. I shall give you a true prophecy and hide nothing. May Zeus first be my witness among the gods, and then the table of your welcome and the hearth of the great Odysseus where I have now come: by all these I swear that Odysseus is already in his native land, sitting or walking, learning of the crimes done here, and sowing their doom for all the suitors. Such was the bird of omen I marked from where I sat in the wellbenched ship, and I called it out loud to Telemachos.’ Then good Penelope answered him: ‘Friend, how I wish that what you say will indeed prove true! Then you would quickly find a loving welcome and gifts a-plenty from me, so much so that any man meeting you would bless your fortune.’ Such were their words to each other. Meanwhile the suitors, with their usual insolence, were enjoying their sport in front of Odysseus’ house, throwing discus and javelins on the levelled ground there. But when it was meal-time and the flocks came in, driven home from the various pastures by their familiar herdsmen, Medon then spoke to the suitors – he was the herald they favoured most, and the attendant at their meals: ‘Young sirs, you have all enjoyed your games now, so please come into the house and we can get your supper ready. It is no bad thing to dine on time.’ So he spoke, and they stood up and followed his summons. When they came into the pleasant house, they laid their cloaks on the chairs and benches and set about preparing their supper, slaughtering full-grown sheep and fat goats, fattened hogs too and a cow from the herd. Meanwhile Odysseus and the excellent swineherd were getting ready for the journey from farm to town. The swineherd, leader of his men, was first to speak: ‘Friend, you are eager now to go into town today, as my master instructed  – though I myself would prefer to leave you here to guard the farm. But I am loyal to him and fear he may be angry with me later: a master’s rebuke is a painful thing. So we should be on our way now. The day is largely gone, and it will soon be colder towards evening.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘I see and agree: your orders are understood. Let us be going then, and you take the lead all the way from now. And if there is somewhere a club ready cut, let me have it to lean on – the path, you say, is very slippery.’

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So speaking he slung over his shoulders his sorry knapsack, full of holes, with a twist of rope to hang it by: and Eumaios gave him a staff to his liking. So the two of them set off, leaving behind the dogs and the herdsmen to guard the farm. Eumaios then led to the town his own master, looking like a wretched beggar and an old man, leaning on a staff, and dressed in foul rags. Now as they neared the town along the rocky path they came to the fountain built there: from its fine stream the townspeople drew their water. Ithakos and Neritos and Polyktor had built this fountain. In a ring all round it there grew a copse of poplars, fed by the moisture. The water streamed down cold out of a rock high above: and on top there had been built an altar to the Nymphs, where all travellers would make their offering. Here they were met by Melantheus, the son of Dolios, driving in goats – the finest in all the flocks  – for the suitors’ dinner: and two herdsmen were with him. At sight of them he called out and insulted them with gross abuse, which stirred Odysseus’ heart to anger: ‘Oh, well now, here we really have the low leading the low  – how god always brings like to like! Now where are you taking this swine, you miserable pig-keeper – this revolting beggar, this lickplate at the feast? There’ll be many a doorpost rubbed by his shoulders, with him lounging there in hope of scraps – no swords or cauldrons for him! If you gave him to me to watch over the farm, clean out the pens, and bring fodder to the kids, then he would have whey to drink and could put flesh on his thigh. But he has learnt bad ways now, and he won’t want to do a job of work – no, he prefers to fill his gluttonous belly by cringing and begging round the town. Well, I tell you this, and it will certainly be done as I say. If he comes to the house of godlike Odysseus, there will be many stools flung at his head and broken on his ribs as men pelt him up and down the hall.’ So he spoke, and as he passed he foolishly aimed a kick at Odysseus on the hip. He failed to drive him from the path, and Odysseus stood there unshaken, wondering whether to spring on the man with his club and take the life from him that way, or to lift him by the middle and dash his head on the ground: but even so he endured and checked the impulse of his heart. The swineherd, though, cursed the man to his face, and lifting up his hands prayed out loud: ‘You nymphs of the fountain, daughters of Zeus, if ever Odysseus made you burnt offerings, thigh-bones of lambs and kids wrapped in rich fat, grant this my prayer – may that man come back, and a god bring him home! Oh, he would strip you then of all these fancy airs you now flaunt so proudly, parading all the time in town, while feckless herdsmen are the ruin of your flocks.’ Then the goatherd Melantheus answered him: ‘Well now, what a speech from a vicious dog! Some day I shall take him on a well-benched black ship to

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a land far from Ithaka, where he will earn me the price for a good living. How I wish that this very day Telemachos will die in the house, shot by Apollo’s silver bow or brought down by the suitors, as surely as the day of Odysseus’ return is lost and gone in a far country!’ So speaking he left them there to journey slowly on their way, while he strode on and quickly came to his master’s house. He went straight inside and sat down with the suitors, opposite Eurymachos, who always showed him particular favour. The servants placed a helping of meat beside him, and the honoured housekeeper brought the bread for him to eat and set it by him. Odysseus and the excellent swineherd now approached and stopped outside, where the sound of a hollow lyre came to their ears – Phemios was striking up for his song. Odysseus gripped the swineherd’s hand and said to him: ‘Eumaios, now this fine house is surely Odysseus’ palace. Just to look at it you can easily tell it apart from all the others you might see. One building leads in to another, the yard is complete with wall and coping, and there are stout double doors to it – no man could force his way through there. And I can tell that many men are at their feast inside: the smell of roasted meat is in the air, and I can hear the sounding of the lyre, which the gods have made the companion to the feast.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘You have guessed right – easy enough for one like you who is no fool. But look, we must think now how things are to be. Either you go into the palace first and mingle with the suitors, while I stay out here: or else, if you wish, you stay here and I will go on ahead. But do not be long, or someone may see you outside and throw things at you or drive you away. Be careful, I tell you.’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus answered him: ‘I see and agree: your orders are understood. Now you go ahead, and I will stay out here. I am no stranger to blows and missiles, and mine is a hardy spirit: I have suffered many troubles in wave and war, and this can join the others. But there is no hiding the urge of the belly, that wretched thing which brings so much suffering to men. It is for the belly’s sake that well-benched ships are rigged for travel over the harvestless sea, carrying grief to our enemies.’ Such were their words to each other. Now there was a dog lying there who lifted his head and pricked his ears. This was Argos, hardy Odysseus’ own dog. He himself had reared him long ago, but had no joy of him before he went away to sacred Ilios. In earlier times the young men would take him out to hunt wild goats and deer and hares. But now that his master was gone he lay there neglected, lying on the great heap of dung from mules and cattle piled outside the doors until the farmhands would carry it away to manure Odysseus’ broad estate. There lay the dog Argos, full of ticks. But now, as he recognised Odysseus close by, he wagged his tail and dropped his ears,

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but was unable now to move any nearer to his master. Odysseus turned his head aside and wiped away a tear, hiding it from Eumaios, and then hastily questioned him: ‘Eumaios, how strange to see a dog like this lying on a dungheap! He’s a fine-looking dog, but I can’t tell for sure whether he had speed too to match his looks – or was he only like those table-dogs whose masters keep them just for show?’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘Yes, the fact is that this dog belonged to a man who has died far away. If he still had the looks and the skill, the way he was when Odysseus went to Troy and left him, then you would be quick to marvel at his speed and strength. No creature he chased would ever escape him in the thick of the wood, because he excelled at tracking too. But now he is in poor state. His master has perished away from home, and the women are careless of his welfare. When servants have no masters to command them, they are no longer willing to do their proper work. Half the good of a man is taken away by wide-seeing Zeus when the day of slavery comes over him.’ So speaking he entered the palace and went straight through the hall to join the proud suitors. And the fate of black death now took Argos, once he had seen Odysseus again in the twentieth year. Godlike Telemachos was the first to see the swineherd coming through the hall, and with a nod he quickly invited him to join him. Eumaios looked around and picked up a stool that was lying there – the stool where the carver always sat at his work, cutting up all the meat for the suitors at dinner in the house. He carried this over to Telemachos’ table and set it down opposite him. There he took his seat, and a herald brought a portion of meat and bread from the basket, and served him at his place. Close after him Odysseus entered the house, looking like a wretched beggar and an old man, leaning on a staff, and dressed in foul rags. He sat down on the ashwood threshold inside the door, leaning against a pillar of cypress wood, which a craftsman long ago had skilfully smoothed and made true to the line. Telemachos called the swineherd across and spoke to him, taking a whole loaf from the fine basket and all the meat he could hold in his two hands: ‘Take this and give it to the stranger there: and tell him that he should then go himself round all the suitors and beg from every one of them. Shame is no good companion for a man in need.’ So he spoke, and the swineherd went as he was told. He came up to Odysseus and spoke winged words to him: ‘Here, stranger, Telemachos gives you this food, and tells you to go round all the suitors begging from every one of them. Shame, he says, is no good thing for a beggar.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Lord Zeus, I pray your blessing on Telemachos, and may all that his heart desires be fulfilled for him.’

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So speaking he took the food in both hands and put it down there in front of his feet, on top of his sorry knapsack. Then he set to eating, while the bard sang his tale in the hall. When he had finished his meal, and the divine bard ended his song, the suitors broke out in chatter throughout the hall. Now Athene came up to Odysseus, son of Laertes, and urged him to go round the suitors begging crusts from them, and finding out which of them were decent men and which unjust: but even so she was not going to protect any of them from their doom. So Odysseus set off to beg from every man in turn, working round the hall from left to right, holding his hand out in every direction – all as if he had long been a beggar. They gave to him out of pity, and wondered about him, asking each other who he was and where he came from. Then Melanthios the goatherd spoke up and said to them: ‘Listen to me, you suitors of our famous queen. I can tell you about this stranger. I have seen him before – the swineherd was guiding him here. But as for the man himself, I do not know where he claims his birth.’ So he spoke, and Antinoös began to berate the swineherd: ‘You notorious wretch, swineherd, why did you want to bring this man into town? Do we not have enough vagrants of our own – revolting beggars, lick-plates at our feasts? Do you think it nothing that men already gather here and eat your master’s substance – so you have invited this fellow in too?’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered him: ‘Antinoös, you are a man of noble birth but your words disgrace you. Now who would go deliberately and invite in a stranger from elsewhere? Anyone else, that is, other than one of those whose craft is for the public good – a seer, or a healer of sickness, a builder in wood, or indeed an inspired bard to give pleasure with his singing. These are the men who are sought all over the limitless earth. But a beggar – no one would invite a beggar in to waste his own substance! No, of all the suitors you are always the harshest to Odysseus’ servants, and to me most of all: but this is no concern to me, as long as we still have faithful Penelope alive in the house, and godlike Telemachos.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, said to him: ‘Quiet now, Eumaios, I don’t want you bandying many words with this man. It is always Antinoös’ evil way to provoke with insulting talk, and then he leads on the others too.’ So speaking he turned to Antinoös with winged words: ‘Antinoös, how you care for me so much like a good father for his son, giving your stern orders to chase this stranger from the house! God forbid it! Take, and give to him yourself. I do not grudge it: no, I insist on it. And don’t fear either that your charity will offend my mother or any of the servants in godlike Odysseus’ house. But the thought in your heart is nothing like that: all you want is to eat yourself, not give to others.’

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Then Antinoös answered him: ‘Telemachos, you loud mouth, you passionate fool, what is this you are saying? If all the suitors offered him this sort of gift, the house would be free of him for a good three months!’ So speaking he lifted and showed from under the table the footstool lying there, where he rested his shining feet at his carousing. Now all the others gave Odysseus food, and filled his knapsack with bread and meat: and he was on the point now of returning to his place at the threshold with his trial of the Achaians completed at no cost. But he stood now by Antinoös, and spoke to him saying: ‘Give, friend. You do not seem to me the worst of the Achaians, but rather the noblest – you have the look of a king. So you should give me food yet more generously than the others: and then I shall praise your name over the limitless earth. I too, you see, once lived among men in a wealthy house. I was a rich man, and I would often give to a vagrant such as you see now, whoever he was and whatever need brought him. In those days I had countless servants and all the other comforts of life which men call prosperity. But Zeus the son of Kronos wrecked all this – such must have been his will for me – inciting me to go with wandering pirates to Egypt: a long voyage, and my doom. So I moored my balanced ships in the river Nile. Then I ordered my trusty companions to stay there by the ships and guard them, and I sent look-outs up to watching-places. But they gave way to their own violent impulses, and began immediately to plunder the Egyptians’ lovely farms  – they carried off the women and the little children, and killed the men. The clamour quickly reached the city, and when they heard the cry for help the people came out at the showing of dawn: and the whole plain was filled with foot-soldiers and horses and the flash of bronze. Zeus who delights in thunder put a cowardly panic among my companions, and none had the courage to stand and face the attack – there was indeed danger set all around us. Then they killed many of us with the sharp bronze, and others they took back alive, to work for them in slavery. As for me, they gave me to a stranger passing that way, to take with him to Cyprus: he was Dmetor, the son of Iasos, and the powerful king of Cyprus. It is from there that I have come here now in the distress you see.’ Then Antinoös answered and said: ‘What god brought this pain here to spoil our feast? Stand out there in the middle, away from my table, or I’ll give you a hard Egypt and Cyprus to come to next! What a bold and shameless beggar you are! You have come up to each of us in turn, and all the others give to you recklessly – no holding back, no concern at making presents of other people’s goods, since they all have plenty there before them.’ Resourceful Odysseus moved back, and said to him: ‘Oh well, I see there is no sense there after all to match your looks. You would not even give

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salt from your house to your own foreman! Here you sit feasting at others’ expense, and you cannot bring yourself to break a piece of bread to give me, and so much there in front of you.’ So he spoke, and Antinoös grew yet more angry in his heart, and scowling at Odysseus spoke winged words to him: ‘I don’t think now you will have an easy way back through the hall – now you are giving insults too!’ So he spoke, and took up his footstool and hurled it at Odysseus, hitting him on the back, high by the right shoulder. Odysseus stood there firm as a rock  – the blow from Antinoös did not shift him  – but shook his head without a word, brooding revenge. He went back to the threshold and sat down there, placing his full knapsack beside him. Then he spoke to the suitors: ‘Listen to me, you suitors of the famous queen, so I can tell you what my heart within me urges. There is no grief or resentment in a man’s mind when he is hit fighting for his own possessions, for his cattle or his white sheep. But Antinoös hit me because of my poor belly, that wretched thing which brings so much suffering to men. But if beggars have gods and Furies to protect them, then before any marriage may the end of death come on Antinoös.’ Then Antinoös, son of Eupeithes, said to him: ‘Just sit there quietly, stranger, and eat your food – or take yourself elsewhere. Otherwise for this sort of talk the young men here will take you by hand or foot and drag you through the hall till all the skin is flayed from you.’ So he spoke, but all the others took this with deep indignation, and this is what one of the proud young men would say: ‘Antinoös, you did wrong to strike this unfortunate beggar – to your cost, if he turns out to be a god from heaven. Yes, the gods do take the form of strangers from other lands, any shape they wish, and they go about the world to observe both men’s violence and their fair dealing.’ So spoke the suitors, but Antinoös paid no heed to their words. And Telemachos kept his great grief for the attack on his father swelling in his heart: no tears dropped to the ground from his eyes, but he shook his head without a word, brooding revenge. Now when good Penelope heard that the man had been struck in the house, she said to the maids with her: ‘May Apollo of the famous bow strike you as you struck him!’ And her housekeeper Eurynome added: ‘Oh, if all our prayers were granted! Then not one of these men would see the throned Dawn!’ Then good Penelope said to her: ‘Nanny, they are all hateful, because they plan us harm. But Antinoös is the worst, he is black as death. There is a poor stranger begging there in the house – poverty compels him to go

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asking from man to man. Now all the others gave him his fill of food, but this man threw a stool at him and hit him on the back, high by the right shoulder.’ So she talked with her serving-women, sitting in her room, while godlike Odysseus ate his meal. Penelope then sent for the excellent swineherd and said to him: ‘Good Eumaios, go and ask that stranger to come to me. I want to welcome him and ask him if perhaps he has heard anything of enduring Odysseus or set eyes on him. He looks like a man who has wandered far.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered her: ‘Queen, if only these Achaians in the hall would fall silent! Such are the tales this man can tell, he would charm your very heart. I have had him with me over three nights and three days in my hut – I was the first he came to after jumping ship – and he has not yet completed the tale of his suffering. As when a man gazes intently at a bard, one taught by the gods to sing songs to the delight of men, who would happily listen to him for ever, once he starts to sing: such was the spell that man cast over me as he sat with me in the house. He says that he is a guest-friend of Odysseus from his father’s time, and his home is in Crete, where the race of Minos lives. It is from there that he has come here now like this, with much suffering, rolling on from place to place. But he insists that he has heard of Odysseus nearby, in the rich land of the Thesprotians – alive and coming home with much treasure.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Go then, and call him here, so he can tell me his own story face to face. And these others can entertain themselves either outside or sitting here in the hall. They are in good enough spirits – their own goods lie there untouched in their homes, all their food and sweet wine, eaten only by their servants, while they themselves keep coming to our house day after day, slaughtering cattle and sheep and fat goats, making their great feasts and drinking the gleaming wine with no regard: and our property is largely consumed. Because there is no man at home such as Odysseus was, to defend the house from ruin. But if Odysseus were to come back and return to his own country, then together with his son he would quickly take vengeance for these men’s crimes.’ As she spoke, Telemachos gave a great sneeze which made the house ring loud. Penelope laughed, and straightaway spoke winged words to Eumaios: ‘Go now, and call the stranger here to meet me. Do you not see how my son sneezed just now to cap my words? So there may well be death brought to the suitors after all – to every one of them: none will escape his death and doom. I tell you another thing, and you mark it well in your mind. If I judge that the man’s story is all true, I shall give him fine clothes for his back, a cloak and a tunic.’

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So she spoke, and the swineherd went as he was told. He came up to Odysseus and spoke winged words to him: ‘Old friend, good Penelope, the mother of Telemachos, is calling for you. Her heart urges her to ask you a question about her husband, for all the grief she has suffered. And if she judges that your story is all true, she will give you clothing, a cloak and a tunic, your greatest need. Food you can beg through the town to fill your belly – people will give you what they want.’ Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus said to him: ‘Eumaios, I would be glad to tell all the truth straightaway to the daughter of Ikarios, good Penelope. I know well about her husband, and we have shared the same misery. But I am fearful of this gang of cruel suitors – their arrogance and their violence reach right up to the iron heaven. Just now, when I was walking back through the hall having done no harm and this man dealt me a painful blow, Telemachos could not prevent it, neither he nor anyone else. So tell Penelope now, eager though she is, to wait in the house until sunset, and then she can ask me about her husband and his homecoming – and she can sit me closer by the fire: the clothes I have on me are thin rags, as you know well, since I came to you first for help.’ So he spoke, and the swineherd went as he was told. As soon as he crossed the threshold Penelope said: ‘What, he’s not with you, Eumaios? What can have come into his head? Is there perhaps someone the beggar is especially frightened of, or some other reason to make him shy in the house? A shy beggar is a bad beggar.’ Then, swineherd Eumaios, you answered her: ‘What he says is right enough, and others would have the same thoughts: he is wary of the violence of arrogant men. He asks you to wait until sunset. And this is much better for you also, queen, to be alone when you speak to the stranger and hear his news.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘And there is sense in the stranger’s thinking, however it turns out. There cannot be any other mortal men who behave like these, with such violence, such deliberate outrage.’ These were her words, and then the excellent swineherd, his message given, went back to join the throng of suitors. Quickly he spoke winged words to Telemachos, holding his head close to him, so the others should not hear: ‘Friend, I must be away now, to look after the pigs and all out there – your livelihood and mine. Everything here must be your concern. Look to your own safety first of all, and take care that nothing happens to you. Many of these Achaians have evil intent – may Zeus destroy them before they can do us harm.’

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Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘So be it, old friend. You go now, after your meal. Come back in the morning, bringing some fine animals for sacrifice. All here will be my concern – and the gods’. ’ So he spoke. Eumaios sat down again on his polished stool, satisfied his heart with food and drink, then left the house and its grounds and set off back to his pigs. The house was still full of men at the feast, enjoying themselves now with dancing and song, as the day had moved on to evening.

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Now there came up the local beggar, who used to beg around the town of Ithaka, and was known for the gluttony of his belly and his constant eating and drinking. He had no strength or power in him, though in body he was a very big man to look at. His name was Arnaios. That was the name given him at birth by his honoured mother, but all the young men used to call him Iros, because he was a messenger – he would run errands wherever people sent him. So he now came up to Odysseus and tried to drive him from his own house, speaking to him with quarrelsome words: ‘Get away from the door, old man, or you’ll soon find yourself dragged away by the foot. Can’t you see that they are all now giving me the wink, egging me on to haul you out? I don’t want to, though. So up with you, or soon we’ll come to blows as well as words.’ Resourceful Odysseus scowled at him and said: ‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong and saying you no wrong. I do not grudge it if people take food to give you, however large the portion. This threshold here has room for us both, and you should not resent what others do with their own. I take you for a beggar just as I am – but men’s fortunes are the gift of the gods. Now do not press me too hard to a challenge of fists, or you will anger me, and then old though I am I shall bloody your chest and lips. And then it will be a quieter time for me tomorrow: I don’t think you will come back again to the house of Odysseus, son of Laertes.’ Then Iros the beggar spoke to him in anger: ‘Oh, how this swine rattles on when he starts talking, just like an old oven-woman. Well, I could fix him! A punch from each fist, and I could knock all the teeth out of his jaws onto the ground, as you do with a sow caught eating the crop. So tuck up your clothes now, and all those here can see our fight – but I wonder if you can stand up to a younger man.’ So there on the polished threshold in front of the great doors the two of them roughened their quarrel in earnest. The powerful lord Antinoös realised what was between them, and with a happy laugh called out to the

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suitors: ‘Friends, here is something new! Such sport as this god has never yet brought us in this house. The stranger and Iros are challenging each other to a fight. Let’s set them at it, quick.’ So he spoke, and they all jumped up and gathered laughing round the ragged-clothed beggars. Then Antinoös, son of Eupeithes, spoke to them: ‘Listen to me, proud suitors: I have a proposal to make. We have some goats’ paunches here in the fire, which we filled with fat and blood and put there to roast for our supper. Whichever of these two is the better man and comes out the victor, let him go straight and choose for himself the paunch he would like. And in the future he will always dine with us, and we shall not let any other beggar come inside to beg among us.’ So spoke Antinoös, and his words met with their favour. Resourceful Odysseus then spoke to them with crafty intent: ‘Friends, there is no way an old man, worn out with hardship, can stand up to a younger man in a fight. Yet my belly, that constant source of trouble, presses me on to take a punishing. But look, you must all now swear me a powerful oath, that none of you will cheat in support of Iros and deal me a heavy blow himself, and so beat me down in his favour.’ So he spoke, and they all swore as he asked. When they had sworn and completed their oath, strong Telemachos spoke in turn among them all, saying: ‘Stranger, if your heart and proud spirit urge you to defend yourself against this man, then have no fear of any other of the Achaians here: any man who strikes you will find himself outnumbered by others to take him on. I am the host of this household, and these two princes add their support, Antinoös and Eurymachos, both men of sense.’ So he spoke, and they were all in agreement. Odysseus then tucked his rags round his waist, revealing his fine stout thighs: revealed too were his broad shoulders and chest, and his strong arms. And Athene stood by the shepherd of his people and filled out his limbs. All the suitors were greatly astonished, and one would glance at his neighbour and say: ‘Iros will soon be Iros no more. He’ll get the punishment he’s brought on himself, by the looks of the thigh the old man shows under his rags.’ So they spoke, and Iros’ heart shuddered in cowardice. Even so, the servants forced him to tuck up his clothes for the fight and pushed him forward, the flesh trembling in fear all over his body. Antinoös called to him with words of contempt: ‘Now, you great lubber, you should never be alive – never have been born – if you are in such fear and trembling of this man, an old man, worn out with the hardship that has come his way. Well, I tell you this, and it will certainly be done as I say. If this man here beats you and comes out the better man, I shall put you on a black ship and send you to the mainland, to king Echetos the ogre. He will cut off your nose

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and ears with the pitiless bronze, and rip out your testicles as raw meat for his dogs.’ So he spoke, and yet greater trembling came over Iros’ limbs. But they brought him forward into the middle, and the two of them put up their fists. Then much-enduring godlike Odysseus pondered whether to fell him with a blow that would take the life from him there and then, or to hit him lightly, just so as to stretch him on the ground. As he thought it over, this seemed the best plan to him, to give him a light blow, so the Achaians should not recognise his true nature. So then they swung back, and Iros struck Odysseus on the right shoulder: but Odysseus drove a blow to Iros’ neck below the ear, and smashed the bones inside. Red blood came straight out of his mouth, and he fell screaming in the dust, crushing his teeth together and flailing the earth with his feet. The proud suitors threw up their arms and died of laughter. Then Odysseus took Iros by the foot and dragged him out through the porch into the yard and all the way to the portico gates. There he propped him up against the yard wall, put his stick in his hand, and spoke winged words to him: ‘Now you sit here to keep away the dogs and the pigs. Poor creature that you are, don’t you try to be king of strangers and beggars, or something worse could well come over you.’ So speaking he slung over his shoulders his sorry knapsack, full of holes, with a twist of rope to hang it by, and went back to the threshold and sat down there. The suitors went inside, laughing happily and greeting him as they passed. And this is what one of the arrogant young men would say: ‘Stranger, may Zeus and the other immortal gods grant you your greatest desire, all that is dear to your heart, for putting an end to this glutton’s scavenging in our town. We shall soon ship him off to the mainland, to king Echetos the ogre.’ So they spoke, and godlike Odysseus rejoiced at the omen of their words. Then Antinoös brought him a great paunch full of fat and blood, and Amphinomos took two loaves of bread from the basket and set them beside him, then drank to him from his golden cup, saying: ‘Your health, old stranger! I wish you good fortune for the future, even though now many troubles are pressing you.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Amphinomos, you seem to me a man of good sense. Such was your father too  – I used to hear good talk of him, how Nisos of Doulichion was a fine man and a rich man too. They say you are his son, and you look like a courteous man. So I will tell you something, and you mark my words and listen to me. Earth nourishes nothing frailer than man among all the creatures that breathe and move on earth. As long as the gods give him prosperity and there is lift in his knees, he thinks there can never be hardship to come: and then when the blessed gods bring misery on him, he bears this too with an enduring heart, much

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though he would wish it otherwise. You see, the outlook of men on earth is governed by what the father of gods and men brings them day by day. I too was once set to have good fortune among men, but my own strength and power tempted me to commit many wicked acts, trusting in my father and my brothers to protect me. So no man should ever be utterly lawless: rather he should quietly accept whatever gifts the gods bring him. Here now I see the suitors carrying out these crimes, wasting the wealth and dishonouring the wife of a man who, I tell you, will not be long now away from his home land – he is very close by. As for you, I hope that some god will steal you away to your own house, so you do not face this man when he returns to his dear native land: because I think there will be blood spilt in the issue between him and the suitors, once he is under his own roof.’ So he spoke, and after pouring a libation he drank the honey-sweet wine and gave the cup back into the hands of the prince. And Amphinomos went back through the hall troubled in spirit and shaking his head: his heart was now full of foreboding. Even so, he was not to escape his doom. Athene had shackled him too to the fate of a violent death under the hands and spear of Telemachos. And so he sat down again in the chair from which he had risen. Now the bright-eyed goddess Athene put a thought into the mind of good Penelope, the daughter of Ikarios. She wanted her to show herself to the suitors, to open their hearts to full generosity, and to increase her own esteem in the eyes of husband and son. So with an empty laugh Penelope called to her housekeeper: ‘Eurynome, it is my heart’s wish now  – though never before  – to show myself to the suitors, much as I hate them. And I would speak a word to my son, for his own good, telling him not to keep such constant company with these high-handed suitors. They speak well to his face, but they intend him harm in the future.’ Then the housekeeper Eurynome answered her: ‘Yes, all that you say, my child, it right and true. So go now and speak to your son  –  hide nothing from him. But first you should wash yourself and anoint your cheeks. Do not go down like this with your face all stained with tears – there is no good in ceaseless mourning. And remember that your son is now of the age you hoped he would reach, when your greatest prayer to the immortal gods was to see him with the beard grown on him.’ Then good Penelope said to her: ‘Eurynome, I know you mean me well, but do not persuade me to wash and anoint myself with oil. All brightness was taken from my beauty by the gods who hold Olympos on the day when he went away in his hollow ships. But tell Autonoë and Hippodameia to come to me: I want them to accompany me in the hall. I will not go in among the men by myself – I would be ashamed.’

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So she spoke, and the old woman went through the hall to take the message to the maids and hurry them on their way. Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene thought of one more plan. She shed a sweet sleep over the daughter of Ikarios. Penelope sank back there on the bed and slept, and all her limbs were relaxed. Meanwhile the queen among goddesses bestowed divine gifts on her, so the Achaians should marvel at her beauty. First she cleansed her lovely face with the ambrosial oil used by Aphrodite herself, the fair-crowned goddess of Kythera, when she prepares to join the delightful dance of the Graces. Then she made her taller and fuller to look at, and her skin whiter then fresh-sawn ivory. This work done, the queen among goddesses went away. And now the white-armed maids came up from the hall, chattering as they approached: and the sweet sleep left her. She rubbed her cheeks with her hands and said to them: ‘Oh, poor me, such a gentle sleep came over me! How I wish that chaste Artemis would deal me a death as gentle as this, and bring me that death right now. Then I would be free from wasting away my life with grief at my heart, remembering all the qualities of my dear husband, who was unmatched among the Achaians.’ So speaking she went down from her bright room  – not alone, but the two maids went with her. When Penelope, queen among women, had reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar that held the strong-built room, holding her shining veil across her cheeks, and a loyal maid stood on either side of her. At the sight of her the suitors weakened at the knees, and their hearts were stolen by desire, every one voicing his hopes to lie beside her in her bed. But she now spoke to Telemachos, her dear son: ‘Telemachos, your sense is not what it was, nor your thinking. As a child you could think better than this. But now that you are grown and have reached your manhood, and someone looking at you so tall and handsome would think you the son of a great man – someone who didn’t know you, that is  – you have lost your good sense and good thinking. Look at what has happened here in the hall, how you have let this stranger be abused in this way. How would it be if a guest of ours, sitting in our own house, were to come to grief after such rough handling? It would be a shame and disgrace to you among all men.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Mother, I do not blame your anger at this, though I do note everything in my heart and can tell what is good and what is bad – before now I was still a child. But you must see that I cannot plan everything the way of good sense. I am pressed by these men sitting all round me, all intending us harm, and there are none to help me. Yet, I tell you the fight between Iros and the stranger did not fall out the way the suitors wished – the stranger proved the stronger man. Oh, father Zeus and Athene and Apollo, would that the suitors were now beaten

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like that in our house, all lying out there in the yard or inside the hall with their heads lolling and the strength sapped from their bodies – just as that Iros is slumped now at the yard gates, lolling his head like a drunkard, and unable to stand on his feet or get back home where he should go: the strength has collapsed in him.’ Such were their words to each other. And now Eurymachos spoke to Penelope: ‘Daughter of Ikarios, good Penelope, if all the Achaians throughout Ionian Argos were to see you now, then there would be more suitors dining in your house tomorrow. Since you are the best of all women in beauty, in stature, and in the steady mind within you.’ Then good Penelope answered him: ‘Eurymachos, all my worth, my beauty, and my looks were destroyed by the immortal gods when the Argives set sail for Ilios and my husband Odysseus went with them. If he were to return and look after this life of mine, then my repute would be the greater and the fairer. But as it is I live in grief – so many are the miseries that god has sent on me. When Odysseus was about to go and leave his native land, he took me by the right hand at the wrist and said to me: “Dear wife, listen. I do not think that all of the well-greaved Achaians will return from Troy safe and unharmed. The Trojans too are said to be good fighters. They have their spearmen and their archers, and they too know how to drive their chariotteams of swift-footed horses, which can most quickly decide the contest of levelling war. So I do not know whether god will bring me through or whether I will be taken there in Troy. Everything here must now be your concern. Look after my mother and father in the house as you do now, or perhaps even more when I am far away. And when at length you see our son with the beard grown on him, then you must marry whom you will, and leave your home.” That is what he said then, and it is all now coming to pass. There will be a night when a hateful marriage will face me, cursed creature that I am, all my happiness robbed by Zeus. But now here is a particular grief that touches my heart and spirit with pain. This is not the way it used to be with suitors. Before now when men rivalled each other to court a noble lady and the daughter of a wealthy house, the way has been that they themselves bring oxen and sturdy sheep from their own flocks to feast the girl’s family, and they give splendid gifts besides. They do not consume another man’s substance with no redress.’ So she spoke, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus was glad at heart to see her drawing gifts out of them and lulling their minds with soft words, while her own intention was far different. Then Antinoös, son of Eupeithes, answered her: ‘Daughter of Ikarios, good Penelope, as for gifts, those that any of us Achaians may wish to bring

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you here are yours to keep: it would be wrong of us to refuse you generosity. But we shall not return to our own estates or anywhere else until you have married whichever of the Achaian nobles is the best.’ So spoke Antinoös, and his words met with their favour. They each then sent a herald to bring back gifts. For Antinoös his herald brought a beautiful great robe, all embroidered, with twelve golden clasps fitted with rounded sheaths: and for Eurymachos a finely-worked necklace, made of gold and strung with amber beads, gleaming like the sun. His two servants brought Eurydamas a pair of ear-rings with triple mulberry clusters, shining with great beauty. And from the house of his master Peisandros, son of Polyktor, his servant brought a necklet, a most beautiful piece of jewellery. One after the other the Achaians each brought a fine present, and Penelope, queen among women, then went back up to her room, and the maids with her carrying the lovely gifts. The suitors then turned to take their pleasure in dancing and the delight of song, waiting for evening to come: and they were still at these pleasures when the darkness of evening came on. They quickly set up three braziers in the hall to give them light. They packed them with dry wood, long seasoned and well parched and now fresh split with the bronze, and added slips of kindling among the logs: and the maids of enduring Odysseus took turns to keep the fires burning brightly. And now resourceful Odysseus himself, their king, spoke to them, saying: ‘You go now, you maids of Odysseus, your master who is so long gone. Go to the room where your honoured queen is, and sit with her to cheer her spirit, spinning thread from the distaff or carding wool. I shall see to giving light to all these men here. Even if they want to stay on till the throned dawn, they will not wear me out – I can endure all things.’ So he spoke, and they laughed and glanced at each other. But one of them, the lovely-cheeked Melantho, began to abuse him. She was the daughter of Dolios, but Penelope had taken her in and raised her like her own child, giving her toys to please her heart. But even so she felt no sympathy for Penelope, and she had become the lover and concubine of Eurymachos. She then abused Odysseus with insulting words: ‘You there, stranger  – so insistent, your wits must have been knocked out of you! You won’t go and sleep in the smithy or any other place for loungers. No, you keep blathering on here, bold as brass among all these men and not a bit of respect in you. The wine must have got to your wits, or perhaps you are always like this, talking this empty stuff. Or are you out of your mind because you beat that beggar Iros? Well, watch out that a better man than Iros doesn’t come against you, someone to batter your head with his strong fists and send you out of the house all covered in blood.’

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Then resourceful Odysseus scowled at her and said: ‘You shameless bitch, any minute now and I shall go over there and tell Telemachos the way you are talking, and he’ll hack you limb from limb on the spot.’ With these words he scared away the women. They went off through the hall, all weak at the knees with terror, thinking that he meant what he said. He then took his stand beside the burning braziers, keeping up light for the suitors and watching them all: but the heart within him was turning over other thoughts, which were not to fail of fulfilment. But Athene would not let the suitors hold back from further hurtful insults: she wanted the anger to sink yet deeper into the heart of Odysseus son of Laertes. Eurymachos, the son of Polybos, was the first to speak, mocking Odysseus and raising a laugh in his friends: ‘Listen to me, suitors of our famous queen, so I can tell you what my heart within me urges. There must be a god at work in this man’s coming to Odysseus’ house. At any rate the light of these fires seems to come from the man himself – straight from the top of his head: not a hair there to stop it!’ So he spoke, and turned then to speak to Odysseus himself, the sacker of cities: ‘Stranger, would you want to work for me, if I were to take you on, out there on the borders of my farm, collecting stones for the walls and planting tall trees? The pay will be good enough for you. I would provide you with plenty of food, and give you clothes to wear and shoes for your feet. But no – you have learnt bad ways now, and you won’t want to do a job of work. No, you prefer to go cringing round the town to get enough to fill your gluttonous belly.’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Eurymachos, I would like to see a contest in farm-work between us, in the spring season, when the days come round long, and on grassland. Let me have a fine curved sickle in my hands, and you likewise. Then we could test ourselves in the work – no food till it is quite dark, and grass still there to cut. Or again ploughing with oxen – the best oxen, large and tawny, both with their fill of hay, same age and same pull, a strength to reckon with. And let it be a four-acre field, with the earth giving nicely to the plough. Then you would see if I could drive a straight furrow through and through. Or again if the son of Kronos were to start a war somehow today, and I had a shield and a pair of spears and a bronze helmet fitting closely round my temples, then you would see me up among the fighters at the front, and there would be no more sneering talk about my belly. No, you are an offensive man with a cruel mind. You probably think you are someone great and powerful, because you keep company here with just a few men of no worth. But if Odysseus were to come back and return to his own country, then suddenly those doors there, wide as they

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are, would be too narrow for you in your rush to get out through the porch and run away.’ So he spoke, and Eurymachos grew yet more angry in his heart, and scowling at Odysseus spoke winged words to him: ‘You poor creature, I shall soon make you pay for this, for this talk of yours bold as brass among all these men, and not a bit of respect in you. The wine must have got to your wits, or perhaps you are always like this, talking this empty stuff. Or are you out of your mind because you beat that beggar Iros?’ So speaking he picked up a stool. But Odysseus crouched down by the knees of Amphinomos from Doulichion, fearful of Eurymachos’ throw. The stool hit the wine-pourer on the right hand: his jug dropped clanging on the ground, and he gave a cry and fell on his back in the dust. The suitors were in uproar throughout the shadowy hall, and one would glance at his neighbour and say: ‘If only this stranger had perished somewhere else on his wanderings before coming here! Then he would not have caused such a hubbub as this. We are quarrelling now over beggars, and we shall have no pleasure in the excellent feast, since unworthy things will be foremost.’ Then strong Telemachos spoke to them all: ‘You are strange men, out of your senses! All that food and drink is showing now in your behaviour: some god must be leading you on. But now that you have dined well you should go home to bed – whenever your desire prompts you: I am not chasing anyone away.’ So he spoke, and they all bit hard on their lips, amazed at Telemachos and his bold speech. Then Amphinomos, the glorious son of king Nisos, son of Aretes, spoke and addressed them all: ‘Friends, when a fair word is spoken, no man will resent it or quarrel with the speaker. So let us have no beating about of this stranger, or any of the servants in godlike Odysseus’ house. Come now, we shall have the wine-pourer give us a drop in our cups so we can make libation and go home to bed. As for the stranger, let us leave him here in Odysseus’ house for Telemachos to see to him: his is the house he came to.’ So he spoke, and his words found favour with them all. Then the hero Moulios mixed a bowl of wine for them: he was a herald from Doulichion, and the servant of Amphinomos. He went round them all, standing by each man to pour his cup. They made libation to the blessed gods, then drank the honey-sweet wine. When they had made their libations and drunk what their hearts desired, they set off to go to bed, each to his own home.

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Godlike Odysseus was left then in the hall, plotting death for the suitors with Athene’s aid. Quickly he spoke winged words to Telemachos: ‘Telemachos, we must remove the battle-gear and store it inside  – all of it. And when the suitors miss the weapons and ask you about them, calm their questions with soothing words. Say: “I have put them away out of the smoke. They are not now as they were left by Odysseus when he went to Troy long ago: they are all tarnished where the fumes from the fire have got at them. And further, there is a more important thought which god has put in my mind – the fear that you might start a drunken quarrel among yourselves and do each other injury, bringing shame on your feasting and your wooing. By its very presence iron draws a man on.” ’ So he spoke, and Telemachos did as his dear father said. He called out his nurse Eurykleia and said to her: ‘Nurse, I would like you now to keep the women in their rooms, until I have put my father’s fine armour safe in the storeroom. I have left it uncared for round the house, and tarnished by the smoke, after my father went away. I was still a child then, but now I want to store it away, where the fumes from the fire will not get at it.’ Then his dear nurse Eurykleia answered him: ‘Yes, child. I would like to see you at long last taking responsibility for the care of the house and the protection of all your goods. But look, in that case who will fetch a light and carry it for you? The maids would have given you light, but you won’t let them come out.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘The stranger here will do it. I will have no man idle here who has eaten my bread, even if he comes from far away.’ So he spoke, and she took his words without answer. She then locked the doors leading to the great hall. The two of them, Odysseus and his glorious son, then leapt to their feet and began carrying into the storeroom all the helmets and bossed shields and beech-shafted spears: and Pallas Athene went before them, carrying a golden lamp and spreading a most beautiful light. At

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this, Telemachos spoke quickly to his father: ‘Father, this is an astonishing sight I have before my eyes! The walls of the hall, the fine cross-beams, the pine rafters, the pillars rising high – they all look to my eyes just as if they are lit by blazing fire. There must be a god in the house, one of the immortals who hold the wide heaven.’ Resourceful Odysseus said in reply: ‘Quiet now, keep your thoughts to yourself and ask no further. This is the way of the gods who hold Olympos. No, you go to bed now, and I shall stay behind here to provoke more questions from the maids and your mother – she will ask me tearfully about everything.’ So he spoke, and Telemachos, with torches lighting his way, went out through the hall to go to bed in his own room, where he always lay down when sweet sleep came over him. So there he went to his bed on this night too, and waited for the holy dawn. Godlike Odysseus was left then in the hall, plotting death for the suitors with Athene’s aid. Now good Penelope came down from her room, looking like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. Her maids brought up to the fire the chair she would always sit in. It was inlaid with whorls of ivory and silver, and the craftsman who made it long ago, Ikmalios, had added a footstool below which was part of the chair itself. A great fleece was put over it, and here good Penelope now took her seat. The white-armed serving-women came out of their quarters, and began to clear away the tables, all the remains of food and the cups from which the arrogant company had been drinking. They raked out the fires in the braziers onto the floor and piled them full with new logs, to give both light and heat. And now Melantho began to abuse Odysseus for the second time: ‘Stranger, are you still here? Are you going to plague us throughout the night, roaming around the house and eyeing the women? No, outside with you now, you persistent wretch, and be thankful for your dinner. Otherwise you’ll soon be out there with a firebrand flung to chase you away.’ Resourceful Odysseus scowled at her and said: ‘What has got into you, woman? Why do you keep on at me with so much spite? Is it because I am dirty, my clothes are rags, and I go begging in the town? Need gives me no choice – and this is the way it is with all beggars and vagrants. I too once lived among men in a wealthy house. I was a rich man, and I would often give to a vagrant such as you see now, whoever he was and whatever need brought him. In those days I had countless servants, and all the other comforts of life which men call prosperity. But Zeus the son of Kronos wrecked all this – such must have been his will for me. So take care, woman, that one day you too don’t lose all the finery which now sets you above the other maids. Your mistress may have cause for anger and fall out with you, or Odysseus may

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come – there is yet room for hope. But if he has perished as you think, and is never now to return, then thanks to Apollo there is a son by now his equal, Telemachos – and he will not fail to note misbehaviour by any woman in his house: he is old enough now.’ So he spoke, and good Penelope heard what he said. She then called to her maid and spoke angrily to her: ‘Oh yes, you bold girl, you shameless bitch, I can well see what you are doing – and this is a deed which will be on your own head. You knew perfectly well – you heard it from my own lips  – that in all my deep distress I was going to question this stranger about my husband, here in my own hall.’ So she spoke, and then said to the housekeeper, Eurynome: ‘Eurynome, bring a stool now and a fleece to cover it, so this stranger can sit here and we can speak and listen to each other. I want to ask him questions.’ So she spoke, and Eurynome hastened to bring a polished stool and set it down, throwing a fleece over it. Much-enduring godlike Odysseus now took his seat there, and good Penelope was the first to speak: ‘Stranger, I have questions for you first of all. Who are you and where are you from? Where is your town and your parents?’ Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘My lady, no man in the limitless earth could find fault with you. Your fame reaches the wide heaven, like that of some excellent king, who in his rule over a strong and numerous people fears the gods and holds to justice: in his kingdom the black earth yields wheat and barley, the trees are heavy with fruit, the flocks bear young without fail, and the sea is rich in fish – all because of his good rule, and the people prosper under him. So now ask me any other questions here in your house, but do not enquire into my family or the land of my birth, or you will fill my heart yet fuller of painful memories. I am a man of many sorrows, and I should not sit here in another’s house weeping and lamenting – there is no good in ceaseless mourning. Your servants might be angry, or you yourself, and think that the wine had fuddled my wits to a wash of tears.’ Then good Penelope answered him: ‘Stranger, all my worth, my beauty, and my looks were destroyed by the immortal gods when the Argives set sail for Ilios and my husband Odysseus went with them. If he were to return and look after this life of mine, then my repute would be the greater and the fairer. But as it is I live in grief – so many are the miseries that god has sent on me. All the leading men who have power in the islands, in Doulichion and Same and wooded Zakynthos, and those who live in clear-set Ithaka itself, all these are forcing their suit on me and wasting our house. So I pay no attention to strangers or suppliants in the house, or even to messengers coming on public business. I just pine away in my heart’s longing for Odysseus.

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Meanwhile they press for marriage, and I spin them ruses. The first inspiration god gave me was the robe. I set up a great web on my loom in the house – a fine thread, and very wide – and began to weave a robe on it. And then I said to them: “Young men, you who are my suitors, now that godlike Odysseus is dead, you are eager for this marriage with me, but wait until I finish this robe, so that my weaving is not wasted in vain. It is a burialshroud for the hero Laertes, for when the cruel fate of death’s long sorrow takes him – so that none of the Achaian women in the town should think wrong of me, that a man of many possessions should lie there without a shroud.” That is what I said, and their proud hearts believed me. Then in the daytime I would weave away at the great web, but at nights I would undo the work, with torches set by the loom. So for three years I fooled and convinced the Achaians. But when the fourth year came, as the seasons progressed once more and the months passed and the long days came round again, then it was that through the help of my maids – shameless, disloyal bitches – the suitors came on me and caught me at it and protested angrily. So I was forced to finish it against my will. And now I cannot escape marriage or think of any further ploy. My parents are pressing me to marry, and my son resents this eating away of our substance. He knows how it is: he is a man now, and well able to manage a great house to which Zeus has granted glory. But, however that may be, tell me now of your own family, and where you come from – you are not sprung from the proverbial tree or rock!’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Honoured lady, wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, will you still persist in asking about my birth? Well, I shall tell you – but you will cause me even more distress than grips me now. This is how it is, when a man has been away from his country for as long as I have, roving in pain and misery from land to land across the world. Even so, I shall tell you what you ask and want to know. There is a land called Crete, far out in the sparkling sea, a beautiful and fertile land, a sea-girt island. There are many men in the land, countless numbers of men, and ninety cities. There is a mixture of peoples, and each speak their own language. There are Achaians, there are great-hearted True Cretans, there are Kydonians, Dorians in their three tribes, and noble Pelasgians. Among the cities of Crete is the great city of Knossos, where Minos was king and every nine years would talk with great Zeus himself. He was the father of my father, great-hearted Deukalion. Deukalion had two sons, myself and lord Idomeneus – who left in his beaked ships for Ilios with the sons of Atreus. I was born the younger, and the name I am known by is Aithon. My brother is both the older and the better man. Well, I met Odysseus there in Crete and gave him gifts of friendship. The strength of the wind had driven him down to Crete, blowing him off

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his course for Troy as he rounded Maleia. He moored his ships at Amnisos, where the cave of Eileithyia is – a difficult harbour, and he only just escaped the storm. He went straight up to the town and asked for Idomeneus, saying that he was a close and honoured guest-friend of his. But it was now the tenth or eleventh day since he had gone away in his beaked ships to Ilios. So I took him to our house and gave him full hospitality, making him welcome to all the riches of the house. And for the companions who came with him I made a collection from the people and gave him grain and gleaming wine and cattle for slaughter, enough to satisfy their hearts. These noble Achaians stayed with me for twelve days. Some cruel god had raised a great wind from the north which penned them there, so strong that even on land a man could not keep his footing. But on the thirteenth day the wind fell, and they set sail.’ As he spoke he made all these lies seem like the very truth. And as Penelope listened to him her tears flowed and her face melted in grief. As the snow melts on the peaks of high mountains, when the west wind has piled it there and the east wind brings the thaw, and the rivers flow full with the melting snow: so her lovely cheeks melted in tears as she wept for the husband who was sitting beside her. Odysseus’ heart was moved to pity at his wife’s distress, but his eyes within their lids stayed firm as horn or iron: he was still hiding the truth, and kept back his own tears. When Penelope had had her pleasure in weeping and lamentation, she spoke again and answered him: ‘Well, stranger, I want to test you now, to find the truth of your claim that you entertained my husband and his godlike companions in your house. Tell me, what clothes was he dressed in? And what did he look like? Tell me too about the companions who were with him.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘My lady, it is hard to say after such a long time apart – it is now the twentieth year since he left there and went away from my country. Nevertheless, I shall tell you the image I have in my mind. Godlike Odysseus was wearing a purple cloak of wool – a double cloak, with a brooch on it made of gold. The brooch had twin sockets, and the face of it was decorated with a device – a dog holding a dappled fawn in its forepaws, gripping it while it struggled. Everyone would admire this work of art, how the dog was throttling the fawn in its grip and the fawn scrabbling with its legs in the effort to get away – and both of them worked in gold. I noticed too the tunic he was wearing, shiny and soft as the skin of a dried onion, and gleaming like the sun. Many were the women, indeed, who were entranced by the sight of it. I tell you another thing, and you mark it well in your mind. I do not know whether these were the clothes which Odysseus wore at home, or whether they were given to him by one of his companions when he boarded his fast ship, or perhaps by some guest-friend – few Achaians could match him in the number of men he could count as friends. I myself gave him a

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bronze sword and a double cloak of fine purple cloth and a fringed tunic. I paid him every honour when I saw him off in his well-benched ship. And there was a herald with him, a little older than he. I will tell you what he looked like. He was round-shouldered, dark-skinned, with woolly hair, and his name was Eurybates. Odysseus regarded him more highly than any of his other companions, since they were both of like mind.’ So he spoke, and roused in her yet further desire for weeping, as she recognised as solid proof the details he had told her. When Penelope had had her pleasure in weeping and lamentation, she finally said in answer to him: ‘Stranger, before this you were someone to be pitied: but now you will be a friend and honoured guest in this house of mine. It was I who gave the clothes you describe. I myself took them from our store-room and folded them, and I pinned on that shining brooch to make him so handsome. And now I shall never welcome him home again to his own dear native land. It was under an evil fate that Odysseus went away in his hollow ship to visit Ilios – a curse on that unspeakable name!’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Honoured lady, wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, do not now spoil your fair cheeks any more or waste away your heart with weeping for your husband. And yet of course I cannot blame you. Any woman mourns for the husband she has lost – the partner of her marriage and her bed, whose children she has borne – even though he is a lesser man than Odysseus: he, they say, is a man like the gods. But no, stop your tears now and listen to what I have to say. I shall tell you the truth and hide nothing. Just recently I have heard of Odysseus and his return. He is nearby, in the rich land of the Thesprotians – alive, and bringing much fine treasure with him, gathering gifts up and down the land. But he lost his trusty companions and his hollow ship in the sparkling sea, on his way from the island of Thrinakia. Zeus and Helios the Sun were angered at him, because his companions had killed the cattle of the Sun. All his men perished there in the waves of the sea, but he held on to the keel of his ship and was washed ashore in the land of the Phaiacians, who are a people close to the gods. They honoured him like a god with all their hearts and gave him many gifts, and they were ready to offer him safe passage home in their own care. And so Odysseus would have been here long ago: but in fact he thought to himself that there was more gain to be had from travelling on further through the world, wheedling gifts and amassing wealth as he went. Such is Odysseus’ mastery of every form of cunning: in this he surpasses all mortal men – no other man could rival him. This is what Pheidon, the king of the Thesprotians, told me. And he swore in my very presence, as he poured libations in his house, that a ship was

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launched and the crew ready to convey Odysseus to his own native land. But he gave me my passage before that: a ship belonging to some Thesprotian men happened to be going to Doulichion and its wheatlands. He showed me all the wealth which Odysseus had amassed, enough to keep a house for ten successive generations – so many were the treasures stored for him there in the king’s palace. He told me that Odysseus himself had gone to Dodona, to hear from the god’s tall leafy oak-tree what Zeus advised: how should he return to his own native land after such long absence – should it be openly or in secret? So you can see he is safe, and will be coming now very close  – he will not be far from his family and his homeland for much longer. Nevertheless I shall give you my oath on this too. May Zeus first be my witness, highest and greatest of gods, and the hearth of the great Odysseus where I am now come: I swear that all this will be accomplished as I tell you. This very month Odysseus will come here, as one moon wanes and another rises.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Friend, how I wish that what you say will indeed prove true! Then you would quickly find a loving welcome and gifts a-plenty from me, so much so that any man meeting you would bless your fortune. But in my own heart this is how I think it will be. Odysseus will never now come back to his house, and you will not meet with your passage home, since there are no masters now in the house with the power among men that Odysseus had – if ever those times were real – to welcome honoured guests and speed them on their way. But come now, maids, wash this man’s feet and spread a bed for him – mattress, blankets, and shining rugs, to keep him warm through to the coming of dawn on her golden throne. And early in the morning bathe him and rub him with oil, so he can be ready for the meal in the house and take his place in the hall next to Telemachos. And it will be the worse for any of those suitors who shows malice to this guest of ours and causes him pain – that will be the end of his hopes of any success here, however he may rant and rage. For how can you come to know my character, friend, and see whether I surpass other women in good sense and right thinking, if you sit to a meal in my house all unwashed and dressed in rags? Men’s life is only a brief span. When a man is unfeeling in mind and deed, all people call down curses on him, wishing him misery for as long as he lives, and when he is dead all revile him. But when a man is generous in mind and deed, his guests carry his fame far and wide through the world, and many men speak of his virtues.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Honoured lady, wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, as for blankets and shining rugs I have no taste for them, ever since I left behind the snow-covered mountains of Crete and set off in my

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long-oared ship. I shall lie down now as I have lain for sleepless nights in the past. Many a night before now I have spent in a wretched place for sleep, waiting for the holy dawn to come on her lovely throne. Nor are foot-baths to my heart’s liking. None of the women you have to serve you here in the house will touch a foot of mine, unless there is some old woman of loyal heart, one who has endured as much as I have. I would not object to one such as that touching my feet.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Dear friend  – so I call you, since of all the strangers from abroad to visit my house you are the wisest and the most welcome: all that you say is so wise and well spoken. Yes, I have an old servant-women of great sense and discretion. She brought up my poor husband, and reared him in all kindness, taking him straight into her arms when his mother gave birth to him. She shall wash your feet, though she is frail now. So come, good Eurykleia, up now and wash the feet of your master’s equal in age. Odysseus himself may well by now have hands and feet like these: hardship ages men quickly.’ So she spoke, and the old woman covered her face with her hands and let her warm tears fall, sobbing as she said: ‘Oh, my child, how powerless I am to help you now! Zeus must have hated you above all men, and yet yours was a god-fearing heart. No mortal man has ever yet burnt for Zeus who delights in thunder so many fat-wrapped thigh-bones or choice hecatombs as you used to offer him, praying that you would reach a rich old age and bring up a glorious son. But now from you alone he has utterly taken away the day of your return. Perhaps Odysseus too was mocked by the serving-women in the great houses he came to when men abroad were his hosts, the way all these shameless bitches mock you here – and it is to avoid their abuse and all their insults that you will not let them wash you. Well, good Penelope, the daughter of Ikarios, has charged me with this task, and I am glad to do it. I shall wash your feet, then, for Penelope’s sake and also for your own – the heart within me stirs with concern. Listen now to what I say. Many strangers have come here long-suffering before, but I tell you I have never yet seen a man so like to Odysseus as you are in the build of your body, your voice, and your very feet.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Old woman, that is what all people say who have seen the two of us, how very like we are to each other, just as you yourself observe so shrewdly.’ So he spoke, and the old woman fetched the gleaming bowl which she used for washing feet, poured in plenty of cold water, and then added a draught of hot. Odysseus was sitting by the hearth, but swung quickly round to face away from the firelight. A sudden thought had struck his mind, that when the woman took his feet she might notice a scar he had,

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and all would then be out in the open. She now came close and began to wash her master: and at once she recognised the scar. This was the scar of a wound dealt him long ago by the white tusk of a boar, when he had gone to Parnassos to visit Autolykos and his sons. Autolykos was the noble father of Odysseus’ mother, and he excelled all men in thievery and the twisting of oaths. The god Hermes himself had given him these arts, taking pleasure in the many thigh-bones of lambs and kids which Autolykos used to burn in sacrifice to him: and the god was always ready to be at his side. Autolykos had once come to the rich land of Ithaka and found that his daughter had a new-born son. As he finished his supper, Eurykleia set the baby on his grandfather’s knees, and said to him: ‘Autolykos, it is for you now to think of a name to give your daughter’s dear child. He is, you know, the answer to many prayers.’ Then Autolykos said in reply: ‘My daughter and son-in-law, give him the name I tell you now. You see in me here a man who has often been at odds and issue with men and women all over the nourishing earth: so let his name be Odysseus to reflect that. And when he has reached manhood and comes to Parnassos, to the great house where his mother was reared and I have all my possessions, I shall give him some of them and send him home rejoicing.’ So that was why Odysseus came there, to receive these splendid gifts. Autolykos and the sons of Autolykos greeted him with embraces and words of welcome: and his grandmother Amphithea threw her arms around Odysseus and kissed his head and both his handsome eyes. Autolykos called to his glorious sons to prepare a feast, and they followed his command. They brought in at once a five-year-old bull. They flayed it and prepared it, cutting the whole carcase into joints. Then they deftly chopped the joints into pieces and threaded them on spits, roasted them carefully, and shared out the helpings. So then they feasted all day long till the setting of the sun, and no man’s desire went without an equal share in the feast. When the sun set and darkness came on, they went to their beds then and took the benison of sleep. When early-bom Dawn appeared with her rosy fingers, they set off for the hunt – hounds and the sons of Autolykos and all: and godlike Odysseus went with them. They climbed the steep wooded slope of Parnassos, and soon came up to the windy ravines of the mountain. The sun then was just beginning to touch the fields, rising from the gentle flow of Ocean’s deep stream, and the beaters came to a woody combe. Ahead of them the dogs ran on in chase of a scent, and behind them came the sons of Autolykos: among the hunters godlike Odysseus was up close to the hounds, gripping a long-shadowed spear. There in a dense thicket there was lying a huge boar. This lair the force of no damp wind could penetrate, nor could the

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burning sun strike through with its rays, nor the rain push in all the way: so dense it was, and there were dry leaves shed there in abundance. As they came closer, setting on the hounds, the sound of feet, both men’s and dogs’, reached the boar. He came out of his lair to face them, bristling all down his back and with fire flashing in his eyes, and stood there close at bay. Odysseus, in front of all the others, raised his long spear in his powerful hand and lunged at him, eager for the kill. But the boar’s rush was too quick for him, and caught him above the knee with a sideways slash of his tusk which gouged away much of the flesh without reaching the man’s bone. Odysseus’ thrust struck home in the boar’s right shoulder, and the point of the shining spear went all the way through. The beast fell screaming in the dust, and his spirit flitted away. The dear sons of Autolykos saw to the carcase, and skilfully bound up the wound in noble godlike Odysseus, stopping the flow of dark blood with an incantation: and they were quickly back at their dear father’s house. So then Autolykos and the sons of Autolykos fully healed his wound and gave him splendid gifts, sending him soon rejoicing on his way back to his own homeland in Ithaka. His father and his honoured mother were glad at his return, and then asked him everything about how he got the scar. He told them the full story, how he had gone hunting on Parnassos with the sons of Autolykos, and the boar had gashed him with its white tusk. This was the scar the old woman recognised as she took his leg and felt it with the flat of her hands. She let go of his foot, and his leg fell down into the bowl: the bronze clanged and tilted over, and the water was spilled on the floor. Joy and grief together seized her heart, and her eyes filled with tears, and her strong voice was blocked. She then took Odysseus’ chin in her hands and said to him: ‘Yes, you are Odysseus, my dear child! And I never recognised you, not until I knew my master for sure with the touch of my hands.’ So speaking she glanced over to Penelope, wanting to show her that her dear husband was there in the house: but Penelope failed to meet her eyes or take any notice, as Athene had turned her thoughts elsewhere. But Odysseus felt for Eurykleia’s throat and gripped it with his right hand, while with the left he pulled her close to him, and said: ‘Nurse, do you want to destroy me? And you brought me up at your own breast! Now, after suffering much hardship, I have indeed come back to my own country in the twentieth year. But since you have found out and some god has inspired you to the truth, not a word now – no one else in the house must learn of it. Otherwise I tell you this, and it will certainly be done as I say. If god brings down the proud suitors at my hands, then even though you were my own nurse I shall not spare you when I kill the other serving-women in my house.’

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Then good Eurykleia said to him: ‘My child, what is this you have let slip the guard of your teeth? You know how firm I am in spirit, how I will never give way. I shall hold fast as solid rock or iron. But I tell you another thing, and you mark it well in your mind. If god brings down the proud suitors at your hands, then I shall go through the women in the house one by one, and tell you which are disloyal to you and which are blameless.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Nurse, why should you tell me about them? There is no need. I myself will watch them closely and note each one of them. No, you keep your stories to yourself, and leave it to the gods.’ So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to fetch fresh water for the foot-bath – all the first was completely spilt. Then when she had washed him and rubbed him richly with oil, Odysseus pulled his stool closer to the fire again to warm himself, and covered the scar with his rags. Good Penelope now began to speak with him once more: ‘Friend, I have one more question to put to you – a small thing, as it will soon be time for bed, a welcome time for all if sweet sleep comes over their troubles. But as for me god has given me a grief which is beyond measure. In the daytime I can take my pleasure in weeping and lamentation as I see to my own work and the work of the maids in the house. But when night comes and all others give way to sleep, I lie on my bed and weep as piercing cares crowd in to trouble my full heart. As when the daughter of Pandareos, the nightingale of the greenwood, sings her lovely song when spring is young, sitting among the dense foliage of the trees: there with many turns and trills she pours out her echoing song, weeping loud for her dear child Itylos, the son of lord Zethos, whom long ago she killed with the sword, all unaware that it was he – so my own heart swings this way and that between two emotions. Should I stay here with my son and keep everything as it is – my property, my serving-women, this great high-roofed house – out of respect for my husband’s bed and the voice of the people: or should I now go with the noblest of the Achaian suitors who are in the house bidding for my hand, one who offers boundless marriage-gifts? And my son  – while he was still a child of little understanding, he would not have me leave my husband’s house and marry again. But now that he is grown and has reached his manhood, his very prayer now is for me to be gone from the house. He sees the Achaians eating away his inheritance, and he resents it. But listen now to this dream of mine and tell me how you interpret it. I have a flock of twenty geese near the house: they come up out of the pond to eat their grain, and it gives me pleasure to watch them. But a great eagle with curved beak came swooping from the mountain and broke all their necks and killed them. So they were spread in a heap there in the house, while the eagle soared up to the bright sky. In my dream I began to cry and wail, and

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lovely-haired Achaian ladies came gathering round me as I wept piteously at the eagle’s killing of my geese. But then the eagle returned and perched on the jut of a rafter, and speaking with human voice he stemmed my tears: “Take heart now, daughter of far-famed Ikarios. This is no mere dream, but a real and happy fact, which you will see brought to pass. The geese are the suitors, and I was first that eagle of omen, but I am now your own husband returned, and I shall bring a horrible fate on all the suitors.” So he spoke, and then the sweet sleep released its hold on me. I looked around me, and saw the geese still there in the yard, eating their grain along the trough, the way they had before.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘My lady, no one could turn the interpretation of this dream in any other way. Odysseus himself has shown you how he will bring it to pass. Destruction is clearly in store for the suitors – for all of them: not one will escape his death and doom.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Friend, dreams are puzzling things, their message hard to fathom  – not all that they promise men is fulfilled. There are two gates for insubstantial dreams to come through: one is made of horn, and one of ivory. Those that come through the gate of sawn ivory, these are the dreams that delude and speak of things that will not be: while the dreams that come out through the polished horn prove their truth in all reality for any man who sees such a dream. Well, I do not think that my own strange dream came from there – welcome though that would be to me and to my son. But now I tell you something else, and you mark it well in your mind. This coming dawn will bring the hateful day which takes me from Odysseus’ house. Because now I intend to propose a contest with the axes – those axes which Odysseus used to set up in a line in his own hall, like a row of props for a ship’s keel, twelve of them altogether: then he would stand far back and shoot an arrow through them. So this is the contest I shall now set the suitors. Whichever of them most easily strings the bow between his hands and shoots an arrow through all twelve axes, that is the man I shall go with, leaving behind this house of my marriage, this lovely house with all its riches, a house I am sure I shall remember one day even in my dreams.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Honoured lady, wife of Odysseus son of Laertes, yes, you should hold this contest in the house without further delay. Because, I tell you, resourceful Odysseus will come here long before these men can handle the stringing of that polished bow and shoot through the iron axes.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Friend, I take pleasure in your company, and if you were willing to sit on here with me in the hall, sleep would never fall on my eyelids. But the fact is that men cannot go sleepless for ever: to

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everything the immortals have assigned its place for us mortals over the grain-giving earth. So I shall now go up to my room above and lie down on the bed which has become my bed of sorrow, constantly wet with my tears, ever since Odysseus went away to visit Ilios – a curse on that unspeakable name! I shall lie down there: and you must lie down here in the house  – spread something on the floor, or have them make you a bed.’ So speaking, she went up to her bright rooms above – not alone, but her maids went with her. And when she had reached her room with her maids, she began then weeping for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athene cast sweet sleep over her eyelids.

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Meanwhile godlike Odysseus made his bed in the porch. He spread out an untanned ox-hide, then piled it with many fleeces from the sheep which the Achaians constantly slaughtered: and when he had lain down there Eurynome covered him with a blanket. So there Odysseus lay, wakeful, his mind thinking on doom for the suitors. And now there came out through the hall, laughing and joking with each other, the women who had long been sleeping with the suitors. The heart in Odysseus’ breast was stirred to anger. He pondered long in his heart and mind whether he should spring after them and put every one of them to death there and then, or let them sleep with the high-handed suitors once more, for the last and final time. His heart growled within him, as when a bitch standing over her soft puppies growls at a man she does not know and is ready to attack him: so he growled inwardly in outrage at this wickedness. But he struck his breast and spoke sharply to his own heart: ‘Patience now, my heart. You have borne even worse than this, on the day when that invincible brute Cyclops was devouring our strong comrades: but you endured then, until your own cunning got you out of the cave where you thought you were going to die.’ So he spoke, to discipline the heart in his own breast. His heart then stayed firm in obedient endurance. But he himself kept tossing this way and that, as when a man cooking a paunch full of fat and blood over a fierce fire turns it round and round to have it roasted as soon as he can. So he tossed to and fro, pondering how he could indeed lay his hands on the shameless suitors, when he was alone and they so many. But now Athene came down from heaven and came close to him, taking the form of a woman. She stood above his head and said to him: ‘Why sleepless again, you poor man? Illfated beyond all others, yet this is your own house here, your wife is here in the house and your son too, as fine a son as any man could wish to have.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Yes, all that you say, goddess, is right and true. But there is still this thought troubling the heart within me: I am pondering how I can indeed lay my hands on the shameless suitors, when

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I am alone and they are always together in the house in all their numbers. And there is a yet greater anxiety in my mind as well. Even if I were to kill them – if that is Zeus’ will and your own – where then could I turn to escape vengeance? Please put your mind to all this.’ Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene said to him: ‘You never change! Look, men put their faith in worse allies than me – in mere mortals, with resource not equal to mine. But I am a god, and watch over you constantly in all your trials. I will tell you plainly. If there were fifty companies of mortal men surrounding the two of us and eager for our blood in battle, you could still drive off their cattle and their sturdy sheep. No, let sleep take you now. It is hard to watch and wake all night long. You will soon slip free of your troubles.’ So she spoke, and shed sleep over his eyelids. Then she herself, the queen among goddesses, came back to Olympos. As sleep took its hold on Odysseus, dissolving the cares of his heart and relaxing his body, his loyal wife woke and, sitting up on her soft bed, began to weep. As soon as she had satisfied her heart with weeping, the queen among women made immediate prayer to Artemis: ‘Artemis, great goddess, daughter of Zeus, how I wish that you would fix an arrow here and now in my breast and take the life from me this very instant! Or else that a storm would snatch me up and carry me away down the paths of darkness to cast me in the flow of circling Ocean – as when the whirlwinds took the daughters of Pandareos. The gods had killed their parents, and they were left orphans in the house. But divine Aphrodite nurtured them with cheese and sweet honey and wine; Hera gave them beauty and intelligence above all women; chaste Artemis made them grow tall; and Athene taught them the glorious work of their hands. But when divine Aphrodite went up to the heights of Olympos, to ask Zeus who delights in thunder to grant the girls the crown of a fruitful marriage – because he knows all things, all that is fated or not fated for mortal men – then it was that the storm-winds snatched those girls away and gave them to the service of the grim Furies. May the gods who live on Olympos blot me likewise from the world, or Artemis of the lovely hair shoot me down, so I may go under the hateful earth with the vision of Odysseus still clear in my mind – and never gladden the heart of a lesser man. Some pain is bearable – when deep distress of heart fills the days with tears, but yields to sleep at nights: and sleep, once shed over the eyes, brings the forgetting of all things, good and bad alike. But for me even my dreams have been sent by god to pain me – again this very night: there slept beside me someone just like him, looking the way he did when he set off for the war. And my heart was happy – I thought it no dream, but something now come true.’ So she spoke, and soon after dawn appeared on her golden throne. Now godlike Odysseus had caught the sound of his wife’s voice in her lamenting,

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and as it worked on his mind he imagined that she was standing there by his head, already aware of her husband. He then gathered the blanket and fleeces which had been his bed, and laid them on a chair in the hall, and taking the ox-hide to leave it outside, he raised his hands in prayer to Zeus: ‘Father Zeus, if it was the will of you gods to bring me home to my own country over land and sea, after visiting me with great affliction, then let one of those waking now in the house give me a word of good omen, and let there be also a clear sign from Zeus outside.’ So he spoke in prayer, and Zeus the counsellor heard him. Immediately he thundered from bright Olympos, high from the place of clouds, and godlike Odysseus rejoiced at the sign. Then a word of omen came from within the house, from a woman grinding corn close by, where the king’s mill-stones were set. Twelve women in all worked at these mills, producing the groats and the flour that make the marrow of men. The others were now sleeping, their quota of corn already ground, but this woman alone had not yet finished – she was weaker than the rest. She now stopped her mill and spoke out with words that were an omen to her master: ‘Father Zeus, king of gods and men, that was loud thunder you made from the starry sky with not a cloud to be seen – it must be a sign you are showing to someone. So, humble though I am, grant this request of mine too as I make it – may this day see the last and final feast the suitors take to their pleasure in Odysseus’ house! For long now they have broken my strength with this painful drudgery of grinding corn for them. Let this be the last time they eat!’ So she spoke, and godlike Odysseus was cheered by the omen and the thunder from Zeus. He was sure now that he had his revenge on the sinners. The other maids now gathered in Odysseus’ fine house, and rekindled the untiring fire in the hearth. Telemachos, a man like the gods, got up from his bed and put on his clothes: he slung a sharp sword from his shoulder, and bound his fine sandals under his shining feet. Then he took up his strong spear, sharp-edged with pointed bronze, and went and stood at the doorway, calling to Eurykleia: ‘Dear nurse, how have you women seen to the stranger, for food and bed in the house? Or is he left all uncared for? That is how my mother can be, for all her good sense. She treats people impulsively: she can show every concern for a lesser man, and send away his better with no honour.’ Then good Eurykleia said to him: ‘Now, child, don’t go blaming her where no blame lies. He was sitting there drinking his wine for as long as he wanted, and he said that he was no longer hungry for food – your mother asked him. And then when his thoughts turned to bed and sleep, she told her servants to make up a bed for him. But he, like some unfortunate utterly inured to misery, refused to sleep in a bed with rugs over him. Instead he lay

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down in the porch on an untanned ox-hide and some sheep fleeces: and we covered him with a blanket.’ So she spoke, and Telemachos then went out through the house and on his way, spear in hand: and two quick dogs went with him, as he set out to join the well-greaved Achaians in assembly. Meanwhile the excellent woman Eurykleia, daughter of Ops the son of Peisenor, gave her orders to the maids: ‘Come, to work! Busy yourselves! Some of you sweep the house, sprinkle the floor, and put the purple coverings on the fine chairs. Others of you wipe over all the tables with sponges, and clean the mixing-bowls and the two-handled metal cups. And some of you go to the spring for water, and bring it quickly. The suitors will not be long away from the hall. They will be coming early today, since this is a feast-day for all.’ So she spoke, and they listened well and obeyed. Twenty of them went off to the spring of dark water, while the others set about their skilful work there in the house. Then the proud men-servants came in and split logs for firewood with expert ease. Meanwhile the women returned from the spring, and after them arrived the swineherd, bringing in three fat hogs, the best in all his droves. He left them there to forage about the fine courtyard, and then turned to Odysseus with kindly words: ‘My friend, are the Achaians showing you any more regard now, or are they still mistreating you around the house, as they did before?’ Resourceful Odysseus said in reply: ‘Eumaios, how I wish the gods would now punish this outrage, the arrogance of these men and their monstrous behaviour in another man’s house, with not a whit of shame in them!’ Such were their words to each other. There now came up to them the goatherd Melanthios, driving in goats – the finest in all the flocks – for the suitors’ meal: and two herdsmen were with him. He tethered the goats under the echoing portico, and then turned to Odysseus with insulting words: ‘Still here, are you, stranger, to plague the men in the house with your begging? Are you not on your way yet? Certainly, I doubt that you and I will part now without the taste of fists, since your begging goes beyond bounds – there are other houses besides this where Achaian men dine.’ So he spoke, and resourceful Odysseus made him no answer, but shook his head without a word, brooding revenge. Now the third to come in was Philoitios, leader of men, bringing a heifer and fat goats for the suitors. He and the animals had been carried across by the ferrymen who serve anyone wanting passage from the mainland. So he tethered the animals carefully under the echoing portico, then came up to the swineherd and asked him: ‘Now who is this stranger, swineherd, new come

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to our house? What people does he say he is from? Where is his family, and his fathers’ land? Poor man – and yet he has the build and looks of a king. But this is the hardship the gods bring on men who must wander far, whenever they weave misery into a man’s life, even the life of kings.’ So he spoke, then came up to Odysseus and gave his right hand in greeting, and spoke winged words to him: ‘Welcome, old stranger! I wish you good fortune for the future, even though now many troubles are pressing you. Father Zeus, there is no deadlier god than you! You have no pity on men – though you beget them yourself. Pitiless, you let them sink into hardship and miserable distress. As soon as I saw you, stranger, 1 broke out into a sweat, and my eyes are still filled with tears – I thought of Odysseus. He too, I imagine, is wandering the world in rags like yours, if indeed he still lives and sees the light of the sun. But if he is now dead and down in the house of Hades, then I cry alas for the excellent Odysseus! When I was still a young boy he set me in charge of his cattle in the land of the Kephallenians. Now these herds have grown beyond measure  – no other man could have such a rich crop of broad-browed cattle. But strangers now give me orders to bring over these cattle for their own feasting. They have no concern for the son of the house, no fear of vengeance from the gods: indeed, with the king so long absent, they are pressing now to share out all that he owns. For me, the heart within my breast is in a constant whirl of debate. It would be a bad thing, while the son is still alive, to up and go, cattle and all, to another country and a foreign people – but worse still to stay where I am, in the misery of tending herds that now have other masters. Indeed, long ago I would have fled away and presented myself to some other powerful king, since things here are now past bearing. But yet I still keep thinking of my illfated master, hoping that he will come somehow and send these suitors scattering up and down his house.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Cowherd, you are clearly neither short of courage nor a fool, and I can see for myself that there is good sense in your mind. I shall tell you, then, and swear a great oath to my words. May Zeus first be my witness among the gods, and then this table of my welcome and the hearth of the great Odysseus where I have now come. By all these I swear that while you are still here in the house Odysseus will come home: and with your own eyes, if that is your wish, you will see the slaughter of the suitors who are lording it here.’ Then the cowherd said to him: ‘May all that you say, stranger, be brought to fulfilment by Zeus the son of Kronos. Then you would see the strength I have and the power of my hands to serve it.’ And likewise Eumaios prayed to all the gods for the return of resourceful Odysseus to his own home.

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Such were their words to each other. Meanwhile the suitors were still plotting death and his doom for Telemachos. But now there came a bird of omen to the left of them, a soaring eagle with a trembling dove in its grip. Amphinomos then addressed them, saying: ‘Friends, this plan of ours – the killing of Telemachos  – will not run our way. No, let us instead turn our thoughts to the feast.’ So spoke Amphinomos, and his words met with their favour. They then went into the house of godlike Odysseus and laid their cloaks on the chairs and benches, then set about slaughtering full-grown sheep and fat goats, fattened hogs too and a cow from the herd. They roasted and served the innards, and began mixing wine in the bowls, while the swineherd handed round the cups. Philoitios, leader of men, served them bread in fine baskets, and Melanthios poured their wine. They then put their hands to the food set prepared beside them. Telemachos now, planning to his own good purpose, gave Odysseus a seat just inside the strong-built hall, next to the stone threshold, setting him there a poor stool and a puny table. He then served him a portion of the innards and poured wine for him in a golden cup, and said to him: ‘Sit here now and drink your wine with the rest of the company. And I myself shall protect you from insults or violence from any of the suitors – since, I tell you, this house is not a common inn. No, this is Odysseus’ house: he is the owner and I am his heir. So, you suitors, keep your tempers in check and stay clear of abuse or violence. We do not want any fights or wrangling breaking out.’ So he spoke, and they all bit hard on their lips, amazed at Telemachos and his bold speech. Then Antinoös, the son of Eupeithes, spoke to them: ‘Achaians, hard though it is we should accept what Telemachos says, for all that his words are an open threat to us. Zeus the son of Kronos must have forbidden it – otherwise, fluent speaker though he is, we would have silenced him in the house by now.’ So spoke Antinoös  – but Telemachos paid no attention to his words. Meanwhile, heralds were leading through the town the procession of animals for solemn sacrifice to the gods, and the long-haired Achaians were gathering in the shade of the grove sacred to Apollo the far-shooter. In the house they roasted the outer flesh and drew it off the spits, then divided the portions and began the glorious feast. In front of Odysseus the serving-men placed a helping as large as their own allowance: such were the orders of Telemachos, dear son of godlike Odysseus. But Athene would not let the suitors hold back from further hurtful insults: she wanted the anger to sink yet deeper into the heart of Odysseus

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son of Laertes. There was among the suitors a man of lawless mind: his name was Ktesippos, and his own home was in Same. In the confidence of his father’s wealth he was seeking to marry the wife of the long-absent Odysseus. He now spoke to the arrogant suitors: ‘Listen to me, proud suitors: I have a suggestion to make. The stranger here has long had his helping – the same as everyone else’s, and that is so right. Honour and justice of course demand proper treatment for any guest of Telemachos who comes to this house. So look, let me too give him a gift of welcome, which he can then confer as a prized possession on the bath-woman or some other servant here in godlike Odysseus’ house.’ So speaking he took up a cow’s foot from the basket where it lay and flung it with all the strength of his hand. Odysseus avoided it by moving his head slightly to one side, and, as it hit the solid wall, he gave a bitter smile, with anger in his heart. Telemachos at once spoke to Ktesippos in protest: ‘Ktesippos, that was lucky for your life! You did not hit my guest – through his avoidance. Otherwise I would have run you through with my sharp spear, and it would be no marriage but rather your funeral that your father was planning here. So let me have none of you displaying any of your outrages in this house. I can see things now and tell what is good and what is bad – before now I was still a child. For all that, some things we have had to tolerate – seeing our cattle slaughtered, our wine drunk, our food consumed: it is hard for me to stop this, one man against many. But look, let me have no more of your deliberate acts of violence. If you now plan to kill me with the bronze – so be it. I would rather die than see this outrage continued for ever – guests beaten about, serving women molested shamefully all over the fine house.’ So he spoke, and they all stayed silent. But then finally Agelaos, son of Damastor, spoke out to them: ‘Friends, when a fair word is spoken, no man will resent it or quarrel with the speaker. So let us have no beating about of this stranger, or any of the servants in godlike Odysseus’ house. But now I would like to offer Telemachos and his mother a word of gentle advice, in the hope that it may be acceptable to the feelings of them both. As long as the heart within each of you still hoped that resourceful Odysseus would return to his own home, then no one could criticise you for holding on and keeping the suitors in the house waiting: indeed this was the better plan, if Odysseus had returned and come back to his house. But by now it is clear that he will not be returning. So please, sit down with your mother and talk it through with her – tell her to marry whoever is the noblest and most generous of us. Then you can happily keep possession of all your father’s estate, eating and drinking as you will, and she can tend another man’s house.’

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Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Agelaos, I swear to you by Zeus and by the sufferings of my father – who must be somewhere far from Ithaka, either dead or destitute – I swear that I have no wish to delay my mother’s marriage. No, I am always urging her to marry the man of her choice, and offering countless gifts as well. But I shrink from giving orders that would drive her from this house against her will. May god never let that happen!’ So spoke Telemachos. And now Pallas Athene set uncontrollable laughter in the suitors, driving them out of their wits. Their faces took on an unnatural rictus, and on they laughed – while the meat they were eating became dabbled with blood. And at the same time their eyes filled with tears, and grief was all their thought. Now godlike Theoklymenos spoke out to them: ‘You poor men, what is this that has come over you? You are wrapped in darkness – heads, faces, knees below. The sound of lamentation blazes in the air; your cheeks are wet with tears; the walls, the fine cross-beams are dripping blood; the doorway and the yard outside are crowded with ghosts hurrying down to the dark of Erebos; the sun is blotted from the sky, and an evil gloom has covered all.’ So he spoke, but they all laughed merrily at him. Eurymachos, the son of Polybos, was the first to speak: ‘This stranger new come from abroad is out of his mind. Quick, lads, escort him outside and down to the open square, since everything here seems so dark to him!’ Then godlike Theoklymenos answered him: ‘Eurymachos, please give me no escorts on my way. I have eyes and ears and two feet – and a mind set within me which is far from unsound. With all these I shall leave you now, since I see your doom coming on you, which none will escape or avoid, none of you suitors who maltreat other men and pursue your wickedness in the house of godlike Odysseus.’ So speaking he left the fine house and came to Peiraios, who welcomed him gladly. The suitors now all glanced at each other and began to taunt Telemachos, mocking him for his guests. And this is what one of the proud young men would say: ‘Telemachos, there can be no man worse at choosing guests than you. Here you have someone like this beggar brought in, greedy for food and wine, useless in any skill or strength, a mere burden on the earth. And then here was another who stood up and gave us his prophecies. If you take my advice, it would be much better if we threw these strangers into a benched ship and sent them off to the Sicilians – that would bring you a fair price.’ So spoke the suitors, but Telemachos paid no attention to their words. He kept his eyes silently on his father, waiting constantly for the moment when it would be time to lay his hands on the shameless suitors.

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Good Penelope, the daughter of Ikarios, had placed her fine chair at the nearest spot, and she could hear all that every man spoke in the hall. The suitors’ mid-day meal was spent in laughter and delight, with so many animals slaughtered for the pleasure of their eating. But nothing could be less lovely than the supper soon to be served them by a goddess and a mighty man: but they had provoked it by their crimes.

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Now the bright-eyed goddess Athene put it into the mind of good Penelope, the daughter of Ikarios, to set the bow and the axes of grey iron before the suitors there in Odysseus’ hall. This was to be their challenge – and then the beginning of their slaughter. So she climbed the high staircase to her room, and took up in her strong hand a well-curved key, finely made of bronze, with an ivory handle to it. Then, with her serving-women in attendance, she made her way to the furthest of the store-rooms. Here were stored the king’s treasures – bronze and gold and iron laboriously worked. Here too lay his supple bow and the quiver for its arrows – and there were many arrows in it, each with its freight of pain. The bow and quiver were gifts from a friend who had chanced on him in Lakedaimon  – Iphitos, the son of Eurytos, a man like the immortal gods. The two had met each other in Messene, in the house of the warrior Ortilochos. Odysseus had come there in pursuit of a debt owed to him by the whole people: men from Messene had lifted sheep from Ithaka and carried them off in their benched ships – three hundred head, and their shepherds too. It was for their sake that Odysseus had made this long journey, even though he was still a young lad: his father and the other elders had sent him on this mission. Iphitos, for his part, was searching for horses he had lost – twelve mares, with young hardy mules suckling at the teat. These mares later proved his own death and doom, when he came in time to the strong-hearted son of Zeus, mighty Herakles. Herakles committed himself to a great crime. Iphitos was his guest, and yet he killed him there in his own house – cruel man, he had no regard for the gods’ vengeance, nor for the very table of the hospitality he had offered. But he then murdered the man, and kept the strong-footed horses for himself in his own house. So it was when searching for these horses that Iphitos met Odysseus, and gave him the bow, which in earlier times the great Eurytos had carried, but had left to his son as he lay dying in his high house. Odysseus in turn gave him a sharp sword and a strong spear, the

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first of the ties of guest-friendship. But these two never knew each other at the table of hospitality. Before that the son of Zeus killed Iphitos, the son of Eurytos, the man like the immortal gods who had given Odysseus the bow. This bow godlike Odysseus would never take with him when he went to war in his black ships, but it stayed there in his house as a remembrance of his dear friend: he used it, though, on his own land. So when the queen among women reached this store-room, she stepped up onto the oak threshold: this a craftsman long ago had skilfully smoothed and made true to the line, then fixed the posts in it and hung the shining doors. She quickly untied the thong from the hook, put in the key with a sure aim and shot back the bolts of the doors. There came a groan as loud as the bellow of a bull at pasture in a meadow: such was the noise as the fine doors opened straight to the strike of the key. She then stepped onto the raised flooring, where stood chests full of sweet-smelling clothes. Reaching up from there she took down from its peg the bow in the shining case which covered it. Then she sat down where she was, with the bow-case on her knees, and began to weep loud as she took out the king’s bow. When she had had her pleasure in weeping and lamentation, she went back to the proud suitors in the hall, carrying the supple bow and the quiver for its arrows – and there were many arrows in it, each with its freight of pain. With her her maids carried a box full of the iron and bronze their master had used for this sport. When Penelope, queen among women, had reached the suitors, she stood by the pillar that held the strong-built roof, holding her shining veil across her cheeks, and a loyal maid stood on either side of her. Straightaway she spoke to the suitors and declared her intention: ‘Listen to me, you proud suitors. You have set yourselves to eat and drink your way through this house, on and on, while my husband is long absent. And the only excuse you have been able to voice is that you each want to marry me and make me your wife. So come then, my suitors – your prize stands here clearly before you. I give you now the great bow of godlike Odysseus. Whichever of you most easily strings the bow between his hands and shoots an arrow through all twelve axes, that is the man I shall go with, leaving behind this house of my marriage, this lovely house with all its riches, a house I am sure I shall remember one day even in my dreams.’ So she spoke, and told Eumaios, the excellent swineherd, to set the bow and the axes of grey iron before the suitors. Eumaios broke in tears as he took them from her and set them down: and on his side the cowherd too began to weep, when he saw his master’s bow. Antinoös called to them with words of contempt: ‘You poor peasant fools – never a thought beyond the day! You miserable pair, why all these tears to distress the lady’s heart? She has enough

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pain to live with already, with the loss of her loved husband. So sit quietly at your meal, or else go and do your weeping outside, and leave the bow here for the suitors – a hard trial for us, I am sure: I doubt that this polished bow will be easily strung. There is no one here in all this company to match the man that Odysseus was. I saw him myself, and I remember it still, though I was then only a young boy.’ So he spoke, though the heart within him hoped that he would be the one to string the bow and shoot through the iron axes. In fact he would be the first to taste an arrow from the hands of the great Odysseus, the man in whose hall he now sat treating him with disdain, and encouraging all his fellows likewise. Then strong Telemachos spoke to them all: ‘Well now, this is strange! Zeus the son of Kronos must have quite taken the wits from me! Here is the mother I love saying, for all her good sense, that she will leave this house and go with another man, and here am I laughing and taking my pleasure in this witless way. Well, come then, you suitors – your prize stands here clearly before you, a woman who has no like today in the land of Achaia, neither in holy Pylos nor in Argos or Mykene, nor indeed here in Ithaka or on the dark mainland. You know this yourselves – what need for me to sing my mother’s praises? So come now, no dragging out with excuses, no holding back any longer from this stringing of the bow – let us see the outcome. And I myself will make trial of the bow too. If I can string it and shoot through the iron axes, then I would not have the sorrow of seeing my honoured mother leave this house with another husband, with me still here and man enough now to win what my father won.’ So speaking he leapt to his feet, cast off the purple cloak from his shoulders, and unslung his sharp sword with its baldric. Then first he set up the axes. He dug one long trench for all of them, trued it to the line, and packed the earth around them. All were astonished to watch him set the axes so straight and true – he had never seen it done before. Then he went and stood at the threshold, and began to try the bow. Three times he had it trembling as he struggled to draw it, and three times he relaxed his effort, still hoping in his heart to string the bow and shoot through the iron axes. And now as he drew it for the fourth time with all his strength he would indeed have succeeded, but Odysseus gave him a nod of warning and stopped him, in all his eagerness. So strong Telemachos spoke to them all once more: ‘Oh, well then, I shall doubtless turn out a poor weakling! Or perhaps I am still too young, without the confidence yet in my own strength to defend against a man who starts a fight. So come on then, you who are stronger than I am, make your trial of the bow, and let us continue the contest.’

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So speaking he put the bow down on the floor, leaning it against the planed close-fitting doors, and resting the swift arrow there on the fine bowtip. Then he went back to sit on the chair from which he had risen. Antinoös, the son of Eupeithes, then spoke to them: ‘Up then, my friends, all of you one after the other from left to right, starting where the wine is first poured.’ So spoke Antinoös, and his words met with their favour. The first of them to stand up was Leodes, the son of Oinops. He was the priest at their sacrifices, and he always sat in the farthest corner beside the fine mixing-bowl. He was the only one who found their excesses hateful, and he was indignant at the behaviour of all the other suitors. He then was the first to take up the bow and the swift arrow. He went and stood at the threshold, and began to try the bow, but could not string it: his hands were soft and unworn, and the effort soon tired them. He then spoke to the suitors: ‘Friends, I certainly cannot draw it, so let the next man take it on. This bow, I tell you, will rob many a leading man of his heart and spirit – and it is surely better to die than to live on in the failure of the aim which has brought us thronging here all this time, day after day of waiting. Some of you will still be hoping, your minds set on marriage to Penelope, the wife of Odysseus. Well, try this bow and see for yourselves! Then you had better take your wooing and your gifts in pursuit of some other lovely-robed Achaian woman, who can then marry the man who gives most and is fated to win her.’ So he spoke, and put down the bow, leaning it against the planed closefitting doors, and resting the swift arrow there on the fine bow-tip. Then he went back to sit on the chair from which he had risen. Antinoös called to him with words of contempt: ‘Leodes, what is this you have let slip the guard of your teeth? A hard paradox indeed – and I resent your saying it – if this bow here is really going to rob leading men of their heart and spirit, just because you yourself cannot string it! When your honoured mother gave birth to you, it was hardly a great bowman she bore! But others of the proud suitors will string it soon enough.’ So he spoke, and then called to the goatherd Melanthios: ‘To work now, Melanthios. Light a fire here in the hall, and draw up a big stool beside the fire, with a fleece to cover it. And bring a great cake of fat from the store, so we young men can warm the bow and grease it. Then we can try it again and finish this contest.’ So he spoke, and Melanthios quickly rekindled the untiring fire. He drew up a stool with a fleece to cover it, and brought a great cake of fat from the store. With this the young men warmed the bow and tried it again: but even so they could not string it, and were far short of the strength it required. But Antinoös and godlike Eurymachos were still to come – the leaders of the suitors, and far the best of them.

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Meanwhile those two servants of godlike Odysseus, the cowherd and the swineherd, had gone out of the house together, and Odysseus himself followed them outside. When they were past the doors and out of the yard, he called to them and spoke to them softly: ‘Listen, cowherd, and you, swineherd, too. I have something to say to you – or shall I keep it unspoken? No, my heart urges me to put the question to you. How would you be if it came to fighting for Odysseus – if he were to come back suddenly, just like that, and some god brought him home? Would you side with the suitors or with Odysseus? Tell me how your heart and spirit prompts you.’ Then the cowherd said in reply: ‘Father Zeus, how I wish you would grant this my prayer: may that man come back, and a god bring him home! Then, sir, you would see the strength I have and the power of my hands to serve it.’ And likewise Eumaios prayed to all the gods for the return of resourceful Odysseus to his own home. Sure now without doubt of their loyalty, Odysseus spoke again in answer to them: ‘Well, here I am – I myself in my own house! After suffering much hardship, I have come back to my own country in the twentieth year. And I can see that you two are the only men of my household who will welcome my return: I have not heard any one of the others praying that I would come back again to my home. So I shall give you both a true promise for the future. If god brings down the proud suitors at my hands. I shall find wives for both of you, and give you property and houses built close to my own: and from then on I shall look on you as friends and brothers to Telemachos. Here, look, I shall show you something else, clear proof for you to recognise me and be sure in your hearts – the scar of the wound dealt me long ago by the white tusk of a boar, when I had gone up Parnassos with the sons of Autolykos.’ So speaking, he pulled his rags aside to reveal the long scar. The two men looked, examined it closely, then flung their arms around wise Odysseus and burst into tears, caressing him and kissing his head and shoulders: and likewise Odysseus kissed their heads and hands. And now the light of the sun would have gone down on their weeping, if Odysseus himself had not restrained them, saying: ‘Stop your tears now: no more crying. Otherwise someone might come out of the house and see you, then report back inside. No, go back in now, but one by one, not all together: first me, then you afterwards. And here is the plan I want fixed between us. When all the others – all the proud suitors – refuse to let me have the bow and quiver, then you, good Eumaios, must fetch the bow and bring it the length of the hall into my hands. And then tell the women to bolt the close-fitting doors to the hall: and if any of them in their quarters hears screams here within our walls or the crash of men falling, they are not to come out, but stay there silently at their

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work. And my task for you, good Philoitios, is to lock the yard doors with the key, and quickly put a tie on them.’ So speaking he entered the pleasant house, and went to sit on the stool from which he had risen. And in turn the two servants of godlike Odysseus came in also. Eurymachos was now handling the bow, warming it this way and that in the heat of the bright fire. But even so he could not string it, and his glorious heart groaned loud within him. He called out in dismay: ‘Oh, this is pain and grief – for me and for all of us! It is not the marriage so much that I grieve for, hard though I take our loss – there are many other Achaian women, some here in sea-ringed Ithaka itself, and some in other cities. No, what grieves me most is that we should fall so far short of the strength of godlike Odysseus, failing to string his bow. This is a shame on us for all future generations to hear of.’ Then Antinoös, son of Eupeithes, said to him: ‘Eurymachos, it will not be thus – and you know it yourself. Today is a public festival in honour of the god – a holy day. Who would be bending bows on a day like this? No, you should all put the bow down and take your ease. And as for the axes – what if we leave them all where they stand? I cannot think that anyone will enter the house of Odysseus, son of Laertes, to steal them. So come now, we shall have the wine-pourer give us a drop in our cups so we can make libation and then put the curved bow aside. And then in the morning tell Melanthios the goat-herd to bring in goats – the finest in all his flocks – so we can offer the thigh-bones to Apollo the great archer, and then make trial of the bow and finish this contest’. So spoke Antinoös, and his words met with their favour. The heralds poured water over their hands, and the young men filled the mixing-bowls to the brim with wine, poured a libation into each man’s cup, and then served them all. When they had made their libations and drunk what their hearts desired, resourceful Odysseus then spoke to them with crafty intent: ‘Listen to me, you suitors of the famous queen. And it is to Eurymachos in particular that I make my request, and to godlike Antinoös, seeing that this was an excellent suggestion he made, to abandon the bow for today and leave the issue to the gods  – tomorrow god will give the victory where he wills. So please, let me have the polished bow, so I too can try the strength of my hands in this company, and see whether I still have the force that was once there in the flex of my body – or whether long wandering and neglect have by now destroyed it.’ So he spoke, and they were all furiously indignant, fearful that he might indeed string the polished bow. Antinoös called to him with words of contempt: ‘You miserable stranger, there is not an ounce of wit in you. Are

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you not content that you are drinking here untroubled among your superiors, not short of food, and with the privilege of hearing all that we say to each other? No other stranger or beggar listens to our talk. It is the honey-sweet wine that is harming you  – and wine is the ruin of any man who gulps it down with no moderation in his drinking. Wine blinded the Centaur, the famous Eurytion, when he had come to join the Lapiths in the house of greathearted Peirithoös. He blinded his wits with wine, then in his drunken frenzy he did a terrible thing in Peirithoös’ house. The heroes there were seized with fury. They leapt up, dragged him outside through the porch, and sheared off his ears and nose with the pitiless bronze. For letting his wits be blinded, then, he went off foolish and bearing with him the result of his own folly. And this was the beginning of the feud between men and Centaurs – but it was Eurytion who first brought harm on himself through his drunkenness. So it will be for you. I warn you of great trouble if you were to string this bow. You will meet with no mercy from anyone here in our town, but we shall send you off straightaway in a black ship to king Echetos the ogre – and there you will never be saved. No, keep drinking your wine in peace, and do not try to compete among men younger than you.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Antinoös, honour and justice demand proper treatment for any guest of Telemachos who comes to this house. Do you imagine that, if this stranger puts trust in the strength of his hands and does string Odysseus’ great bow, he will carry me off to his house and make me his wife? I doubt that even he himself has any such thought in his heart. So do not let that worry spoil the feast for any of you here – it could never ever be so.’ Then Eurymachos, son of Polybos, answered her: ‘Good Penelope, daughter of Ikarios, we do not have fears of this man marrying you: that could never be so. But it is shame for what men and women might say – that some lowlier Achaian could say of us: “Oh, here we have a great man’s wife wooed by men much his inferior – they cannot even string his polished bow. And then some wandering beggar came along and strung the bow with ease, and shot through the iron axes!” This will be their talk, and our humiliation.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Eurymachos, men who consume and dishonour a great man’s house have already lost the respect of the people – so why this thought of humiliation? This stranger here is a very big man, and powerfully built, and he claims he was born the son of a noble father. So give him the polished bow, and let us see. I tell you this, and it will certainly be done as I say. If he strings the bow and Apollo grants him his prayer, I shall give him fine clothes for his back, a cloak and tunic, and I shall give him also a sharp spear, to keep away dogs or

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men, and a two-edged sword, and sandals for his feet: and I shall send him on to wherever his heart and spirit calls him.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered her: ‘Mother, as for the bow no Achaian has greater power than I to give it or deny it to any man I please – none of all the princes here in rocky Ithaka, none in the islands out towards Elis where the horses pasture. Not one of these could force my will if I were minded to let the stranger take this bow even as a gift for all time. No, you go back to your room and see to your own work, the loom and the distaff, and tell your maids to set about their tasks. The bow will be the men’s concern, all of them, but mine above all: mine is the power in this house.’ She then turned back to her room, full of wonder: she had laid to heart these words of authority from her son. She climbed with her maids to the upper floor, and then began weeping for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athene cast sleep over her eyelids. Meanwhile the excellent swineherd had picked up the curved bow and started carrying it down the hall. This brought an outcry from all of the suitors there, with one or another of the proud young men calling out: ‘Hey, where are you going with the curved bow, you miserable pig-keeper, you dolt! Soon enough, if Apollo and the other immortal gods support our prayer, we shall have you out there, alone and abandoned among your pigs, and the quick dogs you bred yourself eating your body.’ So they spoke, and he put the bow down right there where he had reached, frightened by the massed outcry in the hall. But Telemachos on the other side called out his threats too: ‘Come on, old friend, carry the bow through. You will soon see there is no good in serving all masters! Watch out that I don’t chase you back to the farm with a hail of stones – I may be younger than you, but I am stronger. And how I wish that I had the same advantage in strength of hand over all these suitors who fill this hall! Then I would give some of them a sorry send-off from our house – them and the harm they do us.’ So he spoke, and all the suitors greeted this with merry laughter, their anger at Telemachos now turned to amusement. So the swineherd carried the bow on through the hall until he reached wise Odysseus and placed it in his hands. Then he called out the nurse Eurykleia and said to her: ‘Good Eurykleia, Telemachos tells you to bolt the close-fitting doors to the hall. And if any of the women in their quarters hears screams here within our walls or the crash of men falling, they are not to come out, but stay there silently at their work.’ So he spoke, and she took his words without answer. She then locked the doors leading to the great hall. Quietly Philoitios slipped out of the house, and ran to bolt the doors of the strong-walled yard. Under the portico there lay a ship’s cable made of

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papyrus: with this he made the doors fast, then came back in. He went then to sit on the stool from which he had risen, his eyes fixed on Odysseus. He was already handling the bow, turning it round and round, examining it this way and that, looking to see if the horn had been worm-eaten when its master was away. Among the suitors, one would glance at his neighbour and say: ‘Oh, we have a connoisseur here, some sort of expert in bows! Doubtless he has one like this of his own at home, or perhaps he is studying to be a bow-maker – the way this crafty beggar is turning it to and fro in his hands.’ And then another arrogant young man would say: ‘Yes, and good luck to him – as much as he will ever have in stringing this bow!’ So spoke the suitors. Resourceful Odysseus finished checking the great bow all over with eye and hand. Then in an instant, as when a skilled musician and singer fits the string to a new peg on his lyre with practised ease, looping the twisted sheep-gut at each end, so Odysseus effortlessly strung the great bow. With his right hand he plucked the string to try it: and the string sang sweetly to his touch, a note like a swallow’s. Great consternation came over the suitors, and the colour changed in all their faces. Zeus thundered loud to give his sign, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus was overjoyed that the son of devious-minded Kronos had sent him this omen. Then he took up a swift arrow which lay loose on the table beside him. The rest of the arrows were held inside the hollow quiver – and the Achaians were soon to taste them. Taking this arrow he laid it against the bridge of the bow, notched it to the string and, still sitting right where he was on the stool, drew the string back. He took careful aim, and let the arrow fly. And he did not miss one handle-hole in all the axes from first to last, but the shaft with its heavy bronze tip flew on through and out. Odysseus then said to Telemachos: ‘Well, Telemachos, you need not be ashamed of the guest who sits here in your hall! I did not miss the mark, and it was no long labour for me to string the bow. The strength is still in me, for all the suitors’ slurs and belittling. But it is time now to prepare their supper too for these Achaians, while it is still light, and then for the further amusement of singing to the lyre – this is the ornament of a feast.’ So he spoke, and gave the sign with his eyebrows. Telemachos, dear son of godlike Odysseus, slung on his sharp sword, put his hand to his spear, and took his stance by the chair close to his father, armed with gleaming bronze.

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Now resourceful Odysseus bared his limbs from the rags and leapt onto the great threshold, with the bow in his hand and the quiver full of arrows. He poured out the swift arrows there in front of his feet, and said to the suitors: ‘So here is one hard trial brought to its end. Now for another target, which no man has yet hit – let me see if I can strike it, if Apollo will grant my prayer.’ So he spoke, and aimed a bitter arrow at Antinoös. He was about to lift a lovely goblet to his lips: it was two-lugged, all of gold, and he had it now cupped in his hands, ready to drink his wine. No thought of death was in his heart. Who would ever think at a feast, with others dining round him, that one man against such numbers, however strong he may be, would bring grim death and black fate on him? But Odysseus took aim and shot him in the throat: and the point of the arrow went right through his soft neck. Antinoös slumped to one side, and the cup dropped from his hand as the arrow hit him. A thick jet of blood spurted straight from his nose, and soon after his foot kicked the table away from him, spilling the food on the ground. The bread and the roast meat were dabbled in blood. The suitors were in uproar throughout the house when they saw the man fall. They leapt from their chairs in panic, looking all round the solid walls of the hall: but there was no shield there or strong spear for the taking. They turned on Odysseus with fury in their words: ‘Stranger, you will pay for this – shooting at men! No more contests for you: you have entered your last, and now your own sheer destruction is assured. Look, you have just now killed a man who was far the noblest of Ithaka’s youth. For that, your body will be food for the vultures here.’ Each of them was wondering how it happened  – they thought he had not intended to kill the man. The poor fools, they did not realise that now the threads of death were fastened on all of them too. Resourceful Odysseus scowled at them and said: ‘You dogs, you must have thought I would never return home again from the land of Troy, the way you have been wasting my substance, forcing my serving women to your beds, and paying devious court

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to my wife while I still lived – and this with no fear of the gods who hold the wide heaven, or of any vengeance that might come from men. But now the threads of death are fastened on you all.’ So he spoke, and fear took its pale grip on all of them: every man looked round about for any escape from sheer destruction. Eurymachos alone made answer, saying: ‘If you are indeed Odysseus of Ithaka returned home, there is justice in what you say about all the doings of the Achaians: there have been many outrages here in the house, many too out on your estate. But there already lies dead the man responsible for all this, Antinoös. This was the man who instigated these crimes. The marriage was not so much his aim and desire. No, he had other purposes – and the son of Kronos has denied him their fulfilment. He wanted to be king himself throughout the land of well-founded Ithaka, and intended to take your son by surprise and kill him. But now he lies dead as deserved: so you should spare us, your own people. For our part, we shall then collect throughout the town reparation for all that has been drunk and eaten in your house, and each of us will separately bring you a fine of twenty oxen’s worth, and we shall give you satisfaction in bronze and gold, until your heart is softened. Before that there could be no blame for your anger.’ Resourceful Odysseus scowled at him and said: ‘Eurymachos, not even if you were to offer me all your families’ wealth, all you have now and all you might add from elsewhere, not even so would I now stop my hands from the killing until you suitors have paid in full for your crimes. So this is the choice now facing you – either fight or flee, and see who can avoid his death and doom. But I fancy there will be a few who will not escape sheer destruction.’ So he spoke, and their strength and spirit collapsed there and then. Eurymachos now spoke out among them a second time: ‘Friends, this man is not going to hold back his invincible hands. Now that he has got the polished bow and the quiver, he will keep shooting from the threshold until he kills us all. So let our spirits fill for battle. Draw your swords and use the tables as shields against those swift and deadly arrows. Then let us all rush him at once. We could drive him from the threshold and the doorway, and get out into the town, for help to come as quickly as can be. Then this man would soon find this the last shooting he will do.’ So speaking he drew his sharp sword of two-edged bronze and leapt at Odysseus with a fearful shout. At the same moment godlike Odysseus let fly an arrow, and struck him in the chest by the nipple: the arrow sped on to fix fast in his liver. The sword dropped from his hand to the ground, and he doubled up and fell sprawling over a table, scattering food and a twohandled cup over the floor. In his agony he beat his forehead on the ground

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and rocked the chair with the kicking of his feet: then darkness spread over his eyes. Amphinomos now, his sharp sword drawn, dashed straight for glorious Odysseus, hoping to drive him from the doorway. But Telemachos caught him from behind with a cast of his bronze-tipped spear, hitting between the shoulder-blades and driving it on out through his chest. He fell with a crash, and hit the ground full with his forehead. Telemachos began to run, leaving his long-shadowed spear there where it was in Amphinomos. He was very much afraid that if he went to pull out the long spear one of the Achaians might make a dash to catch him with a sword-thrust, or stab him as he bent over the body. So he set off at the run, and was quickly by his dear father’s side, speaking winged words to him: ‘Father, this is the moment for me to bring you a shield and a pair of spears, and a bronze helmet to fit closely round your temples: and I shall arm myself likewise on my return, and give sets of armour to the swineherd and the cowherd also. We need to be armed.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Run and bring them, while I still have arrows to keep them back – otherwise I am the only one, and they may force me from the doorway.’ So he spoke, and Telemachos did as his dear father said. He set off for the room where he had the glorious armour stored, and took out four shields, eight spears, and four horse-plumed helmets made of bronze. He set back with these in his hands, and was quickly by his dear father’s side. He himself was the first to clothe his body in bronze: then likewise the two servants put on the fine armour, and took their stand by the resourceful warrior Odysseus. As for Odysseus, as long as he had arrows to keep them back, he kept picking off one suitor every time and shooting them down in his house: and the bodies fell piled on each other. But when the king ran out of arrows to shoot, he set the bow down to lean against the door-post of the strong-built hall, on the gleaming wall outside. He then too slung round his shoulders a shield of fourfold hide, and on his mighty head he placed a well-made helmet with a plume of horse-hair, and the crest nodded fearfully from its top: and he took up two strong spears, sharp-tipped with bronze. Now there was a side-door to the strong-built hall, let in just above the base of the massive wall, giving access to a passage closed by well-fitting doors. Odysseus had stationed the excellent swineherd close by this passage and told him to keep watch on it – this was the only route for an attack. Agelaos now spoke to the suitors with a proposal for them all to hear: ‘Friends, could not one of us now go up through the side-door and take word to the people, for help to come as quickly as can be. Then this man would soon find this the last shooting he will do.’

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Then the goatherd Melanthios answered him: ‘It is not possible, my lord Agelaos. The great doors into the yard are terribly close, and the neck of the passage is a dangerous place – one strong man by himself could hold us all back there. No, look, let me bring you arms and armour from the storeroom. I am sure it is there, and not outside the house, that Odysseus and his glorious son have hidden the weapons.’ So speaking the goatherd Melanthios went up to Odysseus’ store-room through the back ways of the house. From there he took out twelve shields, as many spears, and as many horse-plumed helmets made of bronze. He set off back with them, and in a short while had given them to the suitors. And then Odysseus’ strength and spirit collapsed as he saw them putting on the armour and brandishing long spears in their hands: his task now looked to him immense. Quickly he spoke winged words to Telemachos: ‘Telemachos, it seems that one of the women in the house is making the battle hard for us – or it may be Melanthios.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Father, the fault is mine and mine alone: no one else is to blame. I left the close-fitting door of the store-room open on the latch, and they were quicker than me to spot this. But go now, good Eumaios, shut the store-room door, and see if it is really one of the women who is doing this, or Dolios’ son Melanthios, as I think.’ Such were their words to each other. Meanwhile the goatherd Melanthios went off a second time to the store-room, to bring more fine armour. The excellent swineherd caught sight of him, and quickly called to Odysseus, who was close by: ‘Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, yes, there he is: that appalling man who we thought it was is on his way again to the store-room. So give me your clear orders. Shall I kill him, if I can overmaster him, or shall I bring him here to you, so he can pay you for all the many crimes he has committed in your house?’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘I and Telemachos will contain the proud suitors here inside the hall, however eager they are for the fight. You two must throw the man into the store-room, twist back his feet and arms above, tie them to a plank behind his back, then fasten a plaited rope to him and haul him up to the beams alongside the tall pillar. He can then live on long in an agony of pain.’ So he spoke, and they listened well and obeyed. They went off to the storeroom, unseen by Melanthios inside. He was rummaging to find arms in the far corners of the room, and they took their stand by the posts on either side of the door, waiting for him. Then the goatherd Melanthios came out over the threshold. In one hand he was carrying a fine helmet, in the other an ancient broad shield, spattered with mildew: this was the shield which the hero

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Laertes had carried in his youth, but it had lain there for a long time now, and the stitching was gone from the straps. The two of them pounced and caught him, then dragged him inside by the hair and flung him terrified down on the floor. They tied together his feet and arms with a painful knot, twisting them well and truly all the way back, as the son of Laertes, much-enduring godlike Odysseus, had told them. Then they fastened a plaited rope to him and hauled him up to the beams alongside the tall pillar. Then, swineherd Eumaios, you taunted him, saying: ‘Well, Melanthios, you will certainly be keeping a good long watch tonight, lying here in a bed as soft as you deserve. The early Dawn will not catch you asleep as she comes on her golden throne from the streams of Ocean – the time when you used to be driving in your goats for the suitors to make their meal in the house.’ So he was left there like that, twisted tight in cruel bonds, while the two of them put their armour on again, shut the gleaming door, and went back to join the resourceful warrior Odysseus. And there they took their stance, breathing boldness: the four of them there at the threshold, and the many noble opponents in the body of the hall. But now Athene, the daughter of Zeus, came up to them – she had taken the form and voice of Mentor. Odysseus rejoiced to see her, and called to her: ‘Mentor, save us from ruin! Remember your dear friend, and all the good service I did you in the past: you and I share our years.’ So he spoke, but he was sure that this was Athene, the rouser of armies. On their side the suitors began shouting to her across the hall. The first with his threats was Agelaos, son of Damastor: ‘Mentor, do not let Odysseus talk you into taking his side and fighting against us suitors. I tell you what we intend, and I think it will be done as I say. When we kill these men, father and son, you will be the next to be killed, for what you are thinking of doing in this house – you will pay for it with your own head. And then when our weapons have robbed you of any violence you and your friends can do us, we shall take all your possessions, all you have at home and on your estate, and throw them together with Odysseus’ property. We shall not allow your sons to live on in your house, and your daughters and the wife you love will never set foot in the town of Ithaka.’ So he spoke. Anger swelled in Athene’s heart, and she turned on Odysseus with scathing words: ‘Gone then, Odysseus, is that spirit of yours, nowhere now that strength you had when for nine years, relentlessly on and on, you fought the Trojans over white-armed Helen, the daughter of a noble house. Many were the men you killed in grim combat, and it was through your strategy that the broad-wayed city of Priam was taken. So how is it now, when you are returned to your own house and property, that you bleat for strength in the face of these suitors? Well, old friend, come stand by me and see what

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I can do. You will know then how Mentor, son of Alkimos, repays a man’s kindness when his enemies are round him.’ So she spoke, but she would not yet fully turn the battle to their victory: she was still testing the strength and courage of Odysseus and his glorious son. She herself took the form of a swallow, and flew up to settle on a roofbeam of the smoke-blackened hall. The suitors were now being urged on to battle by Agelaos, the son of Damastor, by Eurynomos and Amphimedon and Demoptolemos, Peisandros the son of Polyktor, and the warlike Polybos. These were far the best of the suitors in courage – of those who still lived and were fighting now for their own lives: the others had already been brought down by the bow and the welter of arrows. Agelaos now spoke to them, with a proposal for all to hear: ‘Friends, this man will soon now find his invincible hands stopped. Mentor has deserted him after empty boasts, and they are left on their own right by the doors. So now let us not have all of you at once letting fly with your long spears. No, six of us should cast first, and may Zeus grant that Odysseus is hit and the glory ours. No trouble with the others, once he is fallen.’ So he spoke, and at his command all six threw their spears, eager to hit: but Athene frustrated every cast. One struck the doorpost of the strong-built hall, another the close-fitting door itself: a third ash spear with its weight of bronze fixed in the wall. With all of them thus unscathed by the suitors’ spears, much-enduring godlike Odysseus now spoke to his own men: ‘Well, friends, time for me to give us our orders too! So cast now into the crowd of the suitors – who want to kill us on top of their previous crimes.’ So he spoke, and they all took close aim and let fly their long spears. Then Odysseus killed Demoptolemos, Telemachos killed Euryades, the swineherd killed Elatos, and the cowherd Peisandros. These then all at the same time sank their teeth in the broad floor, and the suitors fell back to the rear of the hall. Odysseus and his men sprang forward, and pulled their spears from the dead bodies. Once more the suitors let fly their sharp spears, eager to hit: and again Athene frustrated most of their casts. One struck the doorpost of the strong-built hall, another the close-fitting door itself: a third ash spear with its weight of bronze fixed in the wall. But Amphimedon hit Telemachos on the hand at the wrist, a glancing blow, and the bronze only scratched the skin: and Ktesippos’ long spear grazed Eumaios’ shoulder over his shield, then flew on past, down to the floor. Then once again those with the resourceful warrior Odysseus let fly their sharp spears into the crowd of the suitors. This time Odysseus the sacker of cities hit Eurydamas, Telemachos hit Amphimedon, and the swineherd

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hit Polybos. The cowherd had struck Ktesippos in the chest, and spoke now in triumph over him: ‘Well now, son of Polytherses, you liked to laugh at others, but I doubt you will be quite so foolish as to make your big boasts now. No, let the gods do the talking – they are far stronger than us men. This then can be your present in return for the cow’s foot which you gave to godlike Odysseus when he was begging here in this hall.’ So spoke the herdsman of the twist-horned cattle. And now Odysseus took the son of Damastor with a stab of his long spear straight from the hand. And with his spear Telemachos stabbed Leokritos, Euenor’s son, in the middle of the belly, and drove the bronze right through: he crashed down on his face, and hit the ground full with his forehead. Then it was that Athene, from high above them in the roof, held up the aegis which is the destruction of men – and the suitors’ wits were panicked out of them. They then went running in terror through the hall like a herd of cattle which a darting gadfly attacks and sends stampeding, in the spring season, when the days come round long. And as when vultures with hooked talons and curved beaks swoop down from the mountains in chase of smaller birds – these scatter over the plain flying low under the clouds in terror, but they have no fight or refuge, and the vultures lunge and kill them, while men look on with pleasure at their hunting: so Odysseus and his men leapt at the suitors in the hall and began cutting them down left and right. Terrible screams arose as head after head was struck down, and the whole floor seethed with blood. Now Leodes flung himself at Odysseus’ knees, and grasping them spoke winged words of supplication: ‘Odysseus, I am entreating you by your knees – respect my claim and have mercy on me. I swear to you that I never said or did anything to wrong the women in the house: no, I was always trying to stop the other suitors, whenever they did such things. But they would not listen when I urged them to keep their hands from wrong-doing: so now they have met a horrible fate for their crimes. I was just the priest at their sacrifices – I have done nothing wrong – and I am to fall with them now. There is no gratitude then for past kindness.’ Resourceful Odysseus scowled at him and said: ‘If, as you say, you were the priest at their sacrifices, then you will often have prayed in this house for the long delay of the return that was sweet to me, and for my own wife to go with you and bear you children. For that you will not escape the pain of death.’ So speaking he took up in his strong hand the sword lying there on the floor, where Agelaos had let it fall as he died. With this Odysseus struck him full in the neck, and he was beginning to speak as his head dropped in the dust.

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There remained another man trying to escape black doom. This was the son of Terpios, the bard Phemios, who had been forced to sing for the suitors. He went and stood close by the side-door, holding his clear-voiced lyre in his hands. His mind was torn between two thoughts, whether he should slip out of the house and sit down at the altar built in the yard to great Zeus, God of the Household – here both Laertes and Odysseus had burnt many thighbones of oxen in sacrifice – or whether he should throw himself in supplication at Odysseus’ knees. As he thought it over, this seemed the best plan to him, to grasp the knees of Odysseus son of Laertes. So he laid his hollow lyre on the floor between the mixing-bowl and the silver-studded chair, then threw himself at Odysseus and grasped his knees, speaking winged words of supplication: ‘Odysseus, I am entreating you by your knees – respect my claim and have mercy on me. You will regret it yourself in future time if you kill a bard like me, who sings for gods and men. I am self-taught, and god has implanted in my mind every pathway of song. I am the one to sing before you as for a god – so do not be too hasty to cut my throat. And your own dear son Telemachos can tell you that it was no will of my own or hope of gain that brought me here so often to your house to sing for the suitors after their feasts: no, by force of numbers and their greater power they put me under duress to come here.’ So he spoke. Strong Telemachos had heard his plea, and quickly called to his father, who was close by: ‘Hold your hand! This man is innocent – do not put him to the sword. And we must spare the herald Medon too – he always looked after me in our house when I was young – unless Philoitios or the swineherd has already killed him, or he fell victim to your onslaught through the hall.’ So he spoke, and Medon heard him. Good man of sense, he was lying crouched under a chair, and had pulled a fresh-flayed ox-hide over him, hoping to escape black doom. He came straight out from under the chair, threw off the ox-hide, and then flung himself at Telemachos to grasp his knees, and spoke to him with winged words of supplication: ‘My friend, here I am! So hold your hand now, and tell your father too: or in his triumph of strength he may cut me down with the sharp bronze, out of fury at the suitors for their ravaging of his property in the house and their disregard for you – what fools they were!’ Then resourceful Odysseus smiled at him and said: ‘Do not worry! The protection of my son here has saved your life, and this will teach you  – a lesson you can tell to others too – that doing right is a far better plan than doing wrong. So now you two, you and the famous bard, go outside away from the carnage here in the hall and sit down in the yard, until I have done the work I need to do in the house.’

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So he spoke, and the two men left the hall and went outside. They sat down then at the altar of great Zeus, peering all round them and still expecting death at any moment. Odysseus too peered closely round his own hall, searching for any man who might be lurking still alive and hoping to escape black doom. But he saw the whole company of them sprawled there in the blood and dust, numerous as the fish which fishermen have caught in the meshes of their net and dragged in from the grey sea to a curving beach: they are all thrown in heaps on the sand, gasping for the salt waves they have lost, until the burning sun takes the life from them. So the suitors lay heaped there, body on body. Then resourceful Odysseus said to Telemachos: ‘Telemachos, please call to me now the nurse Eurykleia, so I can speak with her on what is in my mind.’ So he spoke, and Telemachos did as his dear father said. He rattled the door and called to the nurse Eurykleia: ‘Rouse yourself, old woman – in your long years you are the one who supervises the serving-women in this house. So come out now: my father is calling you, and has something to say to you.’ So he spoke, and she took his words without answer. She then unlocked the doors leading to the great hall, and came out, Telemachos leading the way. She found then Odysseus among the slaughtered bodies, spattered with blood and gore like a lion come from eating an ox in the field, whose whole chest and jaws all round are bloodied, and he is a fearsome sight. So Odysseus had his feet and his hands above spattered with blood. Now when she saw the dead bodies and the welter of blood she was ready to shriek in triumph at the great deed she saw before her. But Odysseus stopped her and restrained her impulse, speaking to her with winged words: ‘Keep your joy in your heart, old woman: hold back now, and no cries of triumph. It is not right to exult over the killing of men. These were brought down by the fate of the gods and their own wicked deeds. They showed no regard for any man on earth, of high rank or low, whoever came to meet them. So now they have met a horrible fate for their crimes. But come now, go through the women in the house one by one, and tell me which are disloyal to me and which are blameless.’ Then his dear nurse Eurykleia answered him: ‘Well, my child, I shall give you the true account. There are fifty women who serve in the house. We taught them all their proper work, how to card wool, how to be patient in servitude. Of these, twelve in all took the shameless path, with no respect for me or for Penelope herself: Telemachos was still just growing up, and his mother would not let him have authority over the serving-women. But look, let me go up to the bright room above and tell your wife – some god has sent sleep on her.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘No, do not wake her yet. But tell those women to come here, those who were minded to behave shamelessly.’

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So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to take the message to the maids and hurry them on their way. Meanwhile Odysseus called over Telemachos, the cowherd, and the swineherd and spoke winged words to them: ‘You start carrying out the bodies now, and tell the women to do the same. Then have them clean the fine chairs and the tables with water and porous sponges. When you have the whole house finally put to rights, take the serving-women outside the well-built hall, between the round-house and the strong wall of the yard, and use your long sharp swords on them, until you have taken the life from all of them and made them quite forget the sly love-making they gave themselves to under the suitors.’ So he spoke, and those women now came in all in a bunch, in terrible distress and weeping heavy tears. So first then they began carrying out the dead bodies: they put them down under the portico of the strong-walled yard, propping body against body. Odysseus himself gave them their orders and hastened the work: and they were forced to keep carrying the bodies. Then they began cleaning the fine chairs and tables with water and porous sponges. Meanwhile Telemachos and the cowherd and the swineherd used shovels to scrape the floor of the strong-built hall, and the scrapings were taken away and thrown outside by the serving-women. When they had the whole room finally put to rights, they took the serving-women outside the hall, between the round-house and the strong wall of the yard, pushing them into a narrow space where there was no escape. Then Telemachos, good man of sense, said to his companions: ‘No, I will not have it a clean death when I take the life from these women. They have heaped shame and insult on my head and on my mother, and they slept with the suitors.’ So he spoke. He took the cable of a dark-prowed ship, fastened it to one of the tall pillars, then pulled it high and taut over the round-house, so none of their feet could reach the ground. As when long-winged thrushes or doves strike into a snare set in the bushes – they are flying in to roost, but it is a grim sleep that awaits them – so those women had their heads held fast, all in a row, a noose round every neck, for them to die the most pitiable death. Their feet twitched for a while, but not very long. They then brought Melanthios out through the porch into the yard. There they cut off his nose and ears with the pitiless bronze, and ripped out his testicles as raw meat for the dogs, and in the fury of their hearts they chopped off his hands and feet. Then, their task accomplished, they washed their hands and feet and returned to Odysseus in the hall. He now spoke to his dear nurse Eurykleia: ‘Old woman, bring me sulphur, the remedy for evil, and bring me fire, so I can purify the house. Then ask Penelope to come here with her maids, and hurry all the other serving-women back into the hall.’

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Then his dear nurse Eurykleia answered him: ‘Yes, my child, all that you say is right. But come, let me bring you a cloak and a tunic to clothe you, so we do not have you standing here in your house with only rags covering your broad shoulders – people would think it wrong.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Fire now first of all: let me have fire here in the hall.’ So he spoke, and his dear nurse Eurykleia did not fail to obey. She then brought fire and sulphur, and Odysseus made a full purification of the house, the hall, and the yard. The old woman then went off through Odysseus’ fine house to take the message to the maids and hurry them on their way. They came out from their quarters with torches in their hands, and then they flung themselves round Odysseus in loving embrace, kissing his head and shoulders and taking his hands to welcome him. The sweet urge for tears and weeping came over him, as he recognised each one of them in his heart.

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Cackling with joy, the old woman set off up to the room above, to tell her mistress that her dear husband was there in the house: her knees bustled fast, and her feet stumbled to keep pace. She stood then over Penelope’s head and said to her: ‘Wake up, Penelope, dear child, to see with your own eyes the hope of all your days. Odysseus has come! He is returned to his home, long though his coming has been. And he has killed the proud suitors who were wasting his house and consuming his property and slighting his son.’ Then good Penelope said to her: ‘Nurse dear, the gods have turned you crazy. They can make fools of the wise, and they have brought the scatterbrained to good sense. You were sound of wit before, but now the gods have touched even your mind. Why, when my heart is full of grief, do you mock me with this nonsense? Why wake me from the hold of the sweet sleep which had covered over my eyes? I have never yet had such a sleep since Odysseus left to visit Ilios – a curse on that unspeakable name! No, go down again now, back to the hall. If any other of my women had come with this message and woken me from sleep, I would soon have sent her smarting on her way back down to the hall. But in this at least your long years will give you privilege.’ Then her dear nurse Eurykleia said to her: ‘I am far from mocking you, dear child. It is true – Odysseus has come and is returned to this home, just as I tell you. He is the stranger they have all been treating with disdain in the hall. Telemachos has known for some time that he was here, but in his good sense he kept his father’s intentions secret, so that he could take his vengeance for the violence done by these arrogant men.’ So she spoke. Penelope was filled with joy. She leapt from her bed and threw her arms round the old woman, with tears streaming from her eyes, and spoke winged words to her: ‘Tell me this now, dear nurse, and tell me true. If indeed he has really come home, as you say, how did he then lay his hands on the shameless suitors, when he was alone and they were always staying together in the house in all their numbers?’

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Then her dear nurse Eurykleia said to her: ‘I did not see, I was not told: I only heard the screams of men being killed. We women were kept behind the close-fitting doors, huddled in fright at the back of our strong-built quarters, until at last your son Telemachos called me from the hall – his father had sent him to summon me. I found then Odysseus standing among the slaughtered bodies. They lay there all round him, piled on each other, covering the hardstamped floor. Your heart would have warmed to see him all splattered with blood and gore like a lion. They are all now heaped at the yard gates, and he has lit a great fire and is purifying the lovely house with sulphur. He sent me to call you, so come with me now, so the two of you can set your dear hearts on the path to happiness after all the misery you have suffered. Already this one long-cherished wish has come to fulfilment. He is alive, he has come, he is here at his own hearth. He has found both you and his son at home: and on all the suitors who did him wrong he has taken vengeance in his own house.’ Then good Penelope said to her: ‘Dear nurse, do not crow yet or exult too soon. You know how glad we would all be to see him here in the house, and especially I and the son who was born to us. But this story you tell cannot be true. No, it was one of the immortals killing the proud suitors, in anger at their wicked deeds, at their violence and the hurt it caused. They showed no regard for any man on earth, of high rank or low, whoever came to meet them. So now they have suffered for their crimes. But as for Odysseus, he is far away, his homecoming to Achaia lost, and lost and gone himself.’ Then her dear nurse Eurykleia answered her: ‘My child, what is this you have let slip the guard of your teeth? Your husband is here in the house, at his very hearth, and still you say he will never come home! Yours was always a doubting heart. Look, I tell you something else, a clear proof – the scar of the wound dealt him long ago by the white tusk of a boar. I recognised it when I was washing him, and wanted to tell you too. But he clapped his hands over my mouth and told me not to speak – such was the cunning of his mind. So come down with me now. I shall stake my very life on it. If I am deceiving you, you can kill me and make my death the worst of all deaths.’ Then good Penelope answered her: ‘Dear nurse, for all your wisdom the plans of the ever-living gods are hard for you to know. But even so, let us go down to join my son, so I can see these suitors dead, and who it was who killed them.’ So speaking she came down from her room, her heart wondering how it should be. Should she keep at a distance to question her dear husband, or come up to him and take his hands and kiss his head? She then entered the hall and crossed the stone threshold, and went to sit by the far wall, opposite Odysseus in the light of the fire. He was sitting against the tall pillar, looking

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down, waiting for what his noble wife might say to him once she had seen him with her eyes. But she sat long in silence, with wonder troubling her heart. She would gaze at him intently with her eyes, looking him full in the face, and then again recognition would fade with him clothed in those miserable rags. Telemachos called to her in vexation: ‘Mother – though mother is no name for such an unfeeling heart – why are you shunning my father like this? Why are you not sitting beside him, talking and asking him questions? No other wife would endure to keep this distance from a husband who after much suffering was back in his own country in the twentieth year. But your heart was always harder than stone.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘My child, the heart in my breast is troubled with wonder. I cannot address a word or a question to him. I cannot look straight at his face. But if this really is Odysseus come to his home, then the two of us will know each other better than this. We have some secrets known to us alone and no one else.’ So she spoke, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus smiled. Then quickly he spoke winged words to Telemachos: ‘Telemachos, let your mother be now – let her keep putting me to the proof here in the house. Soon she will come to know me more clearly. It is because I am all unkempt, with these miserable rags to clothe me, that she rejects me and will not yet think me who I am. But you and I must plan now how best to proceed. When someone has killed even one man in a community – even a man with few supporters to avenge him – he goes into exile, he abandons his family and his native land. But we have killed the very bulwark of this country, all the best of the young men in Ithaka. This is something, I say, you must think on.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘Dear father, you yourself should look to this. Yours is said to be the greatest of all men’s skill for planning. No other mortal man could rival you. We shall then follow you in eager support: and I do not think there will be any lack of courage, as far as the strength lies in us.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘I will tell you then what seems to me best. First you should bathe and put on fresh tunics, and tell the maids in the house to take clean clothes too. And then let the divine bard give us the lead with his clear-voiced lyre for a joyful dance, so that anyone hearing from outside – a passer-by on the road or those living close – will think it a wedding-feast. News of the suitors’ killing must not spread abroad in the town before we have got away to our orchard farm. Once there we can think over whatever plan the Olympian puts in our minds.’ So he spoke, and they listened well and obeyed. So first then they bathed and dressed in tunics, and the women got ready too. Then the divine bard

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took up his hollow lyre and stirred in them the desire for sweet music and the delightful dance. And the great house began to resound to the feet of men and girdled women dancing. And this is what someone listening outside the house would say: ‘Well, after all their courting one of them has married the queen at last! Heartless woman that she is, not to keep the great house safe for her wedded husband, and wait till he comes back!’ That is what people said, but they did not know what had happened. Meanwhile great-hearted Odysseus was bathed in his own house by the housekeeper Eurynome: she rubbed him with oil and dressed him in a fine cloak and tunic. And now Athene shed great beauty over his head, making him taller and broader to look at, and sending the hair curling thick from his head like a hyacinth. As when a skilled craftsman gilds silver with an overlay of gold – a man taught mastery of his art by Hephaistos and Pallas Athene, and the creator of beautiful works – so Athene shed grace over the head and shoulders of Odysseus. He came from the bath looking like the immortal gods, and went back to sit on the chair from which he had risen, opposite his wife. He now said to her: ‘You are a strange woman! The gods who live on Olympos have given you the most unrelenting heart among all womankind. No other wife would endure to keep this distance from a husband who after much suffering was back in his own country in the twentieth year. Well, come now, nurse, make me a bed where I can sleep alone – since she has an iron heart within her.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘You are a strange man too. I am not being proud or slighting you. I am not dumbfounded either. I know full well how you looked when you left Ithaka on your long-oared ship. Well, make him a good bed, then, Eurykleia – but outside the well-built bedroom which the master of the house made with his own hands. Take the strong bedstead outside and put bedding on it for him  – fleeces and blankets and shining rugs.’ So she spoke, and she was testing her husband. But Odysseus flared into anger and said to his loyal wife: ‘What you say now, wife, is a pain right to my heart. Who has moved my bed? That would be hard even for the most skilled of men – unless a god were to come in person and place that bed elsewhere in the ease of his will. But no living man, not even the strongest, could easily shift that bed – because something very special went into its making: and it was I who made it, no one else. There was a bushy long-leaved olive-tree growing inside the yard, healthy and in full growth: it was thick as a pillar. Round this tree I started building a bedroom with close-packed stones, and finished it with a fine roof above and a pair of planed doors fitting closely together. And then I cut off the spreading top of the long-leaved

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­ live-tree, and from the root up trimmed the trunk all round with the bronze, o smoothing it well and skilfully and making it true to the line, to fashion a bed-post out of it: and then I bored it through with an auger. Beginning from this I went on working the bedstead until I had finished it, decorating it with gold and silver and ivory: and then I strung it with straps of ox-hide dyed brilliant with purple. This then is the secret I describe to you. But I do not know, wife, if my bed is still there in its place, or whether some man has cut through the olive-trunk and moved it elsewhere.’ So he spoke, and her strength and spirit collapsed there and then, as she recognised as solid proof the details he had told her. She burst into tears and ran straight to him, flung her arms around his neck and kissed his head, and said to him: ‘Do not be angry with me, Odysseus: before now you were always the most perceptive of men. It is the gods who brought this sorrow on us, grudging us the enjoyment of a life spent together all through our youth and on to the edge of old age. But do not keep up your anger now, do not think the worse of me that I did not welcome you with this love at the first moment I saw you. Always I have had the fear in my heart that some man might come and seduce me with his talk – there are so many who plot evil schemes for their own gain. Think of Argive Helen, the daughter of Zeus. She would never have lain in love’s union with a stranger from abroad if she had known that the warrior sons of the Achaians were to bring her back home to her own land. Yet it was a goddess who impelled her to this shameful deed. Until then she had never taken into her mind this wretched folly, which was the beginning of grief for us also. But now – now that you have described so clearly the secrets of our bed, the bed which no other mortal has seen, but only you and I and the one maid, Aktoris, who was given me by my father when I first came here, and used to keep the doors of our strong-built bedroom – now at last you have won over my heart! And so stubborn it was.’ So she spoke, and roused in him yet further the desire for weeping. So then he began to weep, holding in his arms his loyal wife, his heart’s love. Just as land is a welcome sight to sailors forced to swim for their lives, when Poseidon has wrecked their well-made ship on the open sea, as the wind and the massive waves drive it to destruction: a few of them escape the grey sea and swim to land, their bodies caked thick with brine, and they are overjoyed to set foot on dry land with their peril survived – so glad a sight was her husband to Penelope as she gazed at him, and she would still not let her white arms for a moment from his neck. And now they would have wept together till the coming of rosy-fingered Dawn, had not the bright-eyed goddess Athene thought of one more plan. She held the night long back in the west, and likewise kept Dawn of the golden

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throne by the stream of Ocean, telling her not yet to yoke the swift-footed horses that bring light to men, Lampos and Phaëthon, the pair who pull Dawn’s chariot. So then resourceful Odysseus spoke again to his wife: ‘Wife, we have not yet come to the end of all our trials. There is yet one measureless task waiting for me, huge and difficult, which I must see through to its finish. Such was the prophecy given me by the spirit of Teiresias, on that day when I went down into the house of Hades, seeking the way of return for my companions and for myself. But come, wife, let us go to our bed now, to lie down together and take our pleasure in the sweetness of sleep.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘Your bed will be ready for you whenever your heart desires it, now that the gods have brought you back to your wellfounded home and your own native land. But since you have spoken of it and god has put it in your mind, tell me of this task you must do. I shall hear of it later, I am sure, so no harm in learning now.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered her: ‘Strange woman, why press me once more, so eager to know? Well, I shall tell you and hide nothing. But it will not be any joy to your heart – no more than it is to me. The prophet said that I must take a well-balanced oar in my hands and travel ever on from land to land across the world, until I reach a people who do not know the sea and do not eat their food seasoned with salt. These men will know nothing of crimson-bowed ships nor of well-balanced oars, which are the wings of ships. He told me a sign to look for which will be very clear  – and I shall not hide it from you. He said that whenever another traveller meets me and speaks of the winnowing-fan held on my noble shoulder, then I should fix my well-balanced oar in the ground and make a fine offering to lord Poseidon, sacrificing a ram and a bull and a boar that has mated with sows. Then he told me to return home and sacrifice holy hecatombs to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven, to all the gods in turn. My own death, he said, will come away from the sea, a death as gentle as these words of his: it will take me in the weakness of a rich old age, with my people prospering round me. All this he said will come to pass.’ Then good Penelope said to him: ‘If indeed the gods will be granting you a happier old age, then there is hope that release from your troubles will come.’ Such were their words to each other. Meanwhile Eurynome and the nurse, with torches to light their task, were making up the bed for them with soft coverings. When they had busied themselves spreading a thick bed, the old woman went back to her own quarters to sleep, and the chambermaid Eurynome led them on their way to bed, holding a torch in her hands. When

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she had led them to the bedroom, she herself went back. They then came with joy to the bed they had shared long ago. And now Telemachos and the cowherd and the swineherd stopped their dancing and stopped the women too, then lay down themselves to sleep in the shadowy halls. Now when those two had had their pleasure in the delights of love, they began to take further pleasure in telling each other their stories. The queen among women told of all she had suffered in the house, watching that hellish crew of suitors, who in their pursuit of her had kept slaughtering so much livestock, cattle and sturdy sheep, and drawing so much wine from the jars. And royal Odysseus told her of all the grief he had dealt others and all the misery that he himself had endured. He told her everything, and she listened spellbound: sleep did not fall on her eyelids until the whole story was told. He began with how he conquered the Kikones, and then came to the fertile land of the Lotus-eaters. He told her all that the Cyclops had done, and how he took vengeance on him for the brave companions he had eaten so pitilessly. Then how he came to Aiolos, who had welcomed him gladly and sent him duly on his way: but it was not yet fated for him to reach his dear native land, and a storm-wind caught him up and carried him, groaning in despair, out over the fish-filled sea. How he arrived then at Telepylos, the city of the Laistrygonians, who destroyed his ships and his well-greaved companions. He told her all about Kirke and her magic arts, and how he had then gone in his benched ship down to the dank abode of Hades, to consult the spirit of Theban Teiresias, and there he had seen all his companions-inarms, and the mother who bore him and nurtured him when he was small. How he had heard the ceaseless song of the Sirens, and came to the rocks called ‘The Wanderers’ and the terror of Charybdis and Skylla, which no men had yet escaped unscathed. How his men had killed the cattle of Helios the Sun, and how then Zeus the high-thunderer had smashed his fast ship with a smoking thunderbolt: all his noble companions had perished there together, and he alone escaped the evil fates of death. How he had come then to the island of Ogygia and the nymph Kalypso, who kept him long there in her hollow cave, eager to make him her husband: she looked after him, and told him she would make him immortal and ageless for all time – but she never won the heart in his breast. Then how after much hardship he came to the Phaiacians, who honoured him like a god with all their hearts, and brought him home in a ship to his own dear native land, giving him bronze and gold and clothing in plenty. And this was the last of his story, as

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then sweet sleep rushed over him, sleep that relaxes the body and dissolves the cares of the heart. And now the bright-eyed goddess Athene thought of one more plan. When she judged in her heart that Odysseus had had his full pleasure of love and sleep with his wife, she then set the early Dawn rising from Ocean on her golden throne, to bring light to men. And Odysseus rose too from his soft bed, and gave his instructions to his wife: ‘Wife, we have already had our fill of a multitude of troubles – both of us: you here weeping with anxiety over my painful return, and me yearning for my own country but always trammelled by the miseries brought on me by Zeus and the other gods. But now that we have both come to the bed we longed for, you must look after the possessions I still have in the house, while as for the flocks which the high-handed suitors have wasted, most I shall replace myself by plundering raids, but the Achaians of Ithaka will give the rest, until they have filled all the pens. But for now I shall go to our orchard farm, to see my noble father, who is weighed down with sorrows. And this is what you must do, wife – I tell you even though I know your good sense. With the coming of the sun word will be out about the suitors I killed in the house. You must go up to your rooms upstairs, take your maids with you, and stay there – see no one, ask no questions.’ So speaking he put his fine armour round his shoulders, then roused Telemachos and the cowherd and the swineherd and told them all to take up arms for war. They did not fail his bidding. They armed themselves in bronze, opened the doors, and set out, Odysseus at the front. By now there was light over the land, but Athene wrapped them in darkness and quickly led them out of the town.

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The Underworld, Laertes, Peace

Now Hermes, the god of Kyllene, began to call out the souls of the suitors, holding in his hands the beautiful rod of gold with which he lulls the eyes of mortal men as he wishes, and again wakes men from their sleep. With this he herded them and led them on their way, and they followed with thin squeaking. As when a colony of bats flutter squeaking about the depths of a wondrous cave, when one falls from the tight cluster hanging down from the rock roof, such were their squeaks as they flocked together after strong Hermes, who led them down along the pathways of gloom. They went past the streams of Ocean and the White Rock, past the Gates of the Sun and the Land of Dreams, and soon then came to the fields of asphodel, where the spirits live, the ghosts of men who have laboured their last. There they found the spirit of Achilleus, son of Peleus, and the spirits too of Patroklos and the noble Antilochos, and of Aias, who was the best of all the Danaans in body and looks after the noble son of Peleus. These then were the company round Achilleus. And now there came up to them the spirit of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, still furious in sorrow: and round him were gathered all the others who died with him and met their fate in the house of Aigisthos. The spirit of the son of Peleus was the first to speak: ‘Son of Atreus, we had thought that of all the heroes you would be the one dearest to Zeus the thunderer for all your days, because you were the commander of a large and mighty army in the land of Troy, where we Achaians suffered the misery of war. But it seems that even you were to be visited by cruel fate before your time – and no man born can avoid his fate. How much better to have met your death and doom in the land of Troy, in full enjoyment of the honour you commanded! Then all the Achaians together would have made you a funeral mound, and you would have won great glory for your son as well thereafter. But as it was your fate was to be taken by the most pitiable death.’ Then the spirit of Agamemnon said to him: ‘Son of Peleus, godlike Achilleus, yours was the good fortune to die at Troy, far from our homeland of Argos, while all around you the noblest sons of the Trojans and Achaians

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were killed in the fight over your body: and you lay there in a swirl of dust, huge and hugely fallen, forgotten then your horsemanship. All the long day we fought over you, and we would not have ceased from continuous battle had not Zeus brought it to an end with a storm. And then when we brought you back to the ships out of the battle, we cleansed your fine body with heated water and ointment and placed you on a bier: and many were the warm tears the Danaans shed over you and the locks they cut from their hair. When she heard the news of your death your mother rose from the sea and the immortal sea-nymphs with her. A strange sound of lamentation echoed across the open water, such that trembling fear came over all the Achaians. And now they would have rushed to board their hollow ships, if they had not been held back by a man with all the wisdom of the ages – Nestor, whose advice had proved best at earlier times too. In all good will he now spoke and addressed the company: “Hold now, Argives – no thoughts of flight, you young Achaians. This is his mother coming out of the sea, and the immortal sea-nymphs with her, to be with her son in his death.” So he spoke, and held the great-hearted Achaians from their flight. And then the daughters of the old man of the sea crowded round you with piteous weeping, and they dressed you in immortal clothes. The Muses, nine in all, sang your lament, with voice answering beautiful voice. Then you would not have seen one of the Argives without tears, such was the power of their piercing song to move them. For seventeen continuous days and nights we mourned you, immortal gods and mortal men together. On the eighteenth day we gave your body to the fire, and many were the fat sheep and twist-horned cattle we slaughtered round you. You were burned in the clothing the gods gave you, with much oil and sweet honey. And while you burned a great procession of Achaian heroes, in chariots and on foot, marched round and round the pyre, and a tremendous noise went up. When at last the flame of Hephaistos had consumed you, the next morning we gathered your white bones, Achilleus, and placed them in oil and unmixed wine. Your mother gave us a golden two-handled jar, a gift, she said, from Dionysos, and the work of the famous craftsman Hephaistos. That is where your white bones lie, glorious Achilleus, mingled with those of the dead Patroklos, son of Menoitios, and separate are the bones of Antilochos, whom you honoured most of all your companions after Patroklos was dead. And then over these bones our mighty army of Argive spearmen piled a great and splendid grave-mound on a jutting headland by the broad Hellespont, to be a sight seen from far out at sea by men of present and future generations. Your mother then begged the gods for glorious prizes for the games, and set them there in the middle of our gathering, a competition for the leading men of Achaians. Before now you experienced the funeral of many a hero – those times when a king is dead

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and the young men gird themselves to take part in the games. But this would have moved your heart to the greatest wonder, if you had seen the glorious prizes set there in your honour by the silver-footed goddess Thetis  – you were indeed very dear to the gods. So you, Achilleus, have not lost your name even after death, and great glory will be yours for all time among all men. But for me, what pleasure can I take now, after I had spun the thread of war? On my return Zeus contrived for me a miserable death at the hands of Aigisthos and my accursed wife.’ Such were their words to each other. And now Hermes, the guide, the slayer of Argos, came closer by them leading down with him the souls of the suitors killed by Odysseus. These two were astonished at the sight, and went straight to meet them. The spirit of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, recognised the dear son of Melaneus, famous Amphimedon, as they were guest-friends: he had stayed with him at his house in Ithaka. The spirit of the son of Atreus was the first to speak: ‘Amphimedon, what has happened to bring you all down to the land of darkness – so many leading men together, and all of you young? You are the very group that anyone seeking the best men in the city would choose. Was it with your ships at sea? Did Poseidon overcome you, raising cruel winds and huge waves against you? Or was it enemies on land who did you harm, when you were lifting their cattle and their fine flocks of sheep, or fighting them for their city and their women? Tell me what I ask – I can claim to be your guest-friend. Or do you not remember when I came to your house? I was there with godlike Menelaos, to urge Odysseus to join us in his well-benched ships on the expedition to Troy. It was a whole month before we had completed our travels over the broad sea – such was the work we had in winning over Odysseus the sacker of cities.’ Then the spirit of Amphimedon said to him: ‘Most glorious son of Atreus, Agamemnon, lord of men, I remember it all just as you say, my lord. And I now will tell you in clear truth the full story of how we came to a wretched end in death. We were all courting the wife of the long-absent Odysseus. She would neither refuse the marriage she hated, nor bring it to an issue, but was all the time planning death and black doom for us. This was one of the tricks she worked out in her mind. She set up a great web on the loom in her house and began to weave at it – a fine thread, and very wide. And then she said to us: “Young men, you who are my suitors, now that godlike Odysseus is dead, you are eager for this marriage with me, but wait until I finish this robe, so that my weaving is not wasted in vain. It is a burial-shroud for the hero Laertes, for when the cruel fate of death’s long sorrow takes him – so that none of the Achaian women in the town should think wrong of me, that a man of many possessions should lie there without

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a shroud.” That is what she said, and our proud hearts believed her. Then in the daytime she would weave away at the great web, but at nights she would undo the work, with torches set by the loom. So for three years her trick fooled and convinced the Achaians. But when the fourth year came, as the seasons progressed once more and the months passed and the long days came round again, then it was that one of her women, who knew the truth, told us about it, and we found her undoing the splendid web. So she was forced to finish it against her will. Just as she had completed her weaving of the great web, and washed it, and showed us the robe which shone like the sun or the moon, just then some cruel god somehow brought Odysseus back – far out in the country, where his swineherd lived on the farm. And there the dear son of godlike Odysseus joined him, when he returned in his black ship from sandy Pylos. And then those two plotted a cruel death for the suitors, and came on into the great town. Telemachos went first, and Odysseus followed later, led in by the swineherd and dressed in miserable clothing. He looked like a wretched beggar and an old man: he was leaning on a staff, and his clothes were foul rags. None of us, not even the older men in our company, could recognise him for who he was, when he appeared so suddenly, and we attacked him with insults and missiles. For a while his heart was patient to endure these taunts and blows in his own house. But then, when the will of Zeus who holds the aegis roused him to it, with Telemachos to help him he took down all the fine arms and armour from the hall, put them away in a store-room, and locked the door on them. And then in the cunning of his mind he told his wife to set the bow and the axes of grey iron before the suitors – this was to be our challenge, doomed as we were, and then the beginning of our slaughter. Not one of us could string that mighty bow – we were far short of the strength it required. But when the great bow was about to come into the hands of Odysseus, there was an outcry from all of us – he should not be given it, no matter how often he asked. Only Telemachos urged him to take it. So then much-enduring godlike Odysseus took the bow in his hand, strung it with ease, and shot through the iron axes. Then he went and stood at the threshold, poured out the swift arrows at his feet, with a grim glance all round, and then shot prince Antinoös. Now, taking close aim, he began shooting pain-fraught arrows at the rest of us, and the bodies fell piled on each other. It was clear that some god was their ally. Such was the fury that then drove them killing left and right throughout the hall. Terrible screams arose as head after head was struck down, and the whole floor seethed with blood. That is how we died, Agamemnon, and our bodies even now lie untended in the house of Odysseus. In our own homes our kinsmen know nothing yet

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of our deaths. They would wash the black gore from our wounds and lay us out and mourn us: such is the right of the dead.’ Then the spirit of Agamemnon said in answer: ‘Oh, happy son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, the wife you won was a wife of great worth! What a loyal heart there was in the excellent Penelope, daughter of Ikarios! How constantly she kept the memory of Odysseus, her wedded husband! So the fame of her virtue will never die, and for men on earth the immortal gods will make faithful Penelope a theme of delightful song. Not so the daughter of Tyndareos, who plotted a foul crime and killed the husband of her marriage. Hers will be a hateful place in men’s song, and she will give a bad name to all of the female sex, even the virtuous.’ Such were their words to each other, where they stood there in the house of Hades, in the cellars of the earth. Now once Odysseus and his companions were clear of the town, it did not take them long to reach Laertes’ fine well-tilled farm, which years ago Laertes had created for himself with a great deal of labour. He had a house there, with sheds all round the yard in which the bond-servants who worked for him would have their meals, their rest, and their sleep. In charge of the house was an old Sicilian woman, who took good care of the old man out here on the farm, away from town. Once there, Odysseus said to his servants and his son: ‘You now go into the well-built house, and straightaway slaughter the best of the hogs for our meal. Meanwhile I shall see how it is with my father, whether he will make me out with his eyes and recognise who I am, or fail to know me when I have been away for so long.’ So speaking he handed his armour to his servants. So they then went quickly into the house, while in his own quest Odysseus moved on towards the fruitful garden-plot. As he went down into the great orchard, he did not find Dolios there, or any of the labourers or Dolios’ sons: they had gone to collect stones to make a wall for the garden, and the old man Dolios was leading them on their way. But he did find his father, alone there in the well-made garden, digging the soil round a tree. He was dressed in a dirty smock, patched and shabby, with leggings of sewn ox-hide tied round his shins to avoid scratches, and gloves on his hands against the brambles: and on his head he wore a cap of goatskin – all this a sign of the grief that swelled within him. Now when much-enduring godlike Odysseus saw him there, worn out by age and with deep sorrow in his heart, he stopped under a tall pear-tree and began to shed tears. He pondered then in heart and mind whether to embrace his father and kiss him, and tell him everything, how he had come back and was returned to his own country – or should he first question him

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and put him to the full test? As he thought it over, this seemed the best plan to him, to make trial first with talk to draw him out. With that in mind godlike Odysseus walked straight up to his father. Laertes was still hoeing round the tree and had his head down. His glorious son came up to him and said: ‘Well, old man, there is no lack of competence in your gardening! No, it is beautifully cared for, and there is not a single plant that goes untended in all the garden – every fig-tree, every vine, every olive, every pear, every vegetable-plot. But I tell you something else, and do not be offended at what I say. You yourself are not so well cared for. Old age has come hard on you, and you are woefully unkempt and dressed in wretched clothes. It cannot be for any laziness on your part that your master neglects you – and there is nothing of the slave to be seen in your face and build. Indeed you have the look of a king. A man like you should have a soft bed to sleep in, after bath and food: such is the right of the old. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. Whose servant are you? Whose is this garden you tend? And tell me too – I want to know for sure – whether this land we have reached is indeed Ithaka, as I was told by the man I met just now on my way here. He was not minded to be very helpful. He did not trouble himself to give a full answer or hear through my question, when I was asking him about a guest-friend of mine, wondering whether he happens to be alive still and in being, or is dead by now and down in the house of Hades. But I will tell you now, and you mark my words and listen to me. There was a man whom I entertained long ago in my own native land. He had come to our home, and no other mortal man of all the strangers from abroad to visit my house was a more welcome guest. He claimed that he was from Ithaka by birth, and said that his father was Laertes son of Arkeisios. I took him to our house and gave him full hospitality, making him welcome to all the riches of the house. And at his leaving I gave him the gifts of friendship which such a guest deserves. I gave him seven talents’ weight of wrought gold, and a mixing-bowl all of silver with a pattern of flowers running round it: and twelve single cloaks, as many blankets, as many fine mantles, and as many tunics to go with them. And then in addition I gave him four handsome women skilled in excellent handcraft, letting him choose them for himself.’ Then his father answered him with his tears falling: ‘Yes, stranger, you have come to the land you are seeking, though it is in the hands now of violent and ruthless men. These gifts you lavished in such abundance were all given in vain. If you had found him alive in the land of Ithaka, he would have responded properly with splendid hospitality and sent you on your journey with gifts to match, as is the right way when someone has started a guest-friendship. But come, tell me this and tell me in clear truth. How many years is it now since you entertained that luckless guest of yours? He

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was my son – if ever those times were real – but doomed to an evil fate. Far from his family and his homeland he must have been eaten now by the fish in the sea, or become the prey of beasts and birds on land. And neither his mother nor his father – we, the parents to whom he was born – could lay out his body and mourn him, nor could his dowered wife, faithful Penelope, close the eyes of her own husband on the bier and make proper lament for him: such is the right of the dead. Now tell me this truly too – I want to know. Who are you and where are you from? Where is your town and your parents? And where have you moored the fast ship which brought you and your noble companions to this land? Or did you come as a passenger in a ship belonging to others, who put you ashore and went on their way?’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Well, I will tell you all that you ask in clear truth. I am from Alybas, and that is where I have my fine house. My father is king Apheidas, son of Polypemon: my own name is Eperitos. I was sailing from Sicily, but some god drove me off course to bring me here when that was not my intent. My ship is out here, moored by the open country outside the town. As for Odysseus, this is now the fifth year since he left there and went away from my country, poor ill-fated man. And yet there were birds of good omen as he took his leave, birds flying on the right, which delighted us both and cheered my sending and his going on his way. Our hearts were full of hope that we would meet again as guest-friends and give each other glorious gifts.’ So he spoke, and the black cloud of sorrow enveloped Laertes. He took up the sooty dust in both his hands and poured it down over his grey head, crying loud in lamentation. Odysseus’ heart was moved, and a sharp pang now stabbed along his nostrils as he looked on his dear father. He leapt forward and embraced him and kissed him, and said: ‘Here I am, father, the very man you are seeking, returned in the twentieth year to my own native land. So no more weeping now and tears of lamentation. Let me tell you – though we must be quick all the same – I have killed the suitors in our house and taken vengeance for their crimes and the pain of their outrage.’ Then Laertes answered and said to him: ‘If you are indeed Odysseus, my son returned, then tell me now some clear proof to convince me.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘The scar first of all – look here and recognise it with your own eyes. This was the wound dealt me by the white tusk of a boar when I had gone to Parnassos. You and my honoured mother sent me there to visit my mother’s dear father Autolykos, to claim the gifts he had promised and confirmed when he came here to Ithaka. And now let me tell you about the trees – the trees in this well-laid orchard which you gave me long ago, when I was a little boy and used to follow you round the garden,

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always asking you for one of this and one of that: and we would walk round them all, with you telling me the name of each. You gave me thirteen peartrees and ten apple-trees and forty figs. And in the same way you pointed out fifty rows of vines which were to be my gift, each row bearing fruit in succession: so they have clusters all along them at every stage of ripeness whenever the seasons of Zeus make vines heavy with grapes.’ So he spoke, and Laertes’ strength and spirit collapsed there and then, as he recognised as solid proof the details Odysseus had told him. He threw his arms around his dear son, and much-enduring godlike Odysseus clasped his father to him as he fainted. When Laertes came again to his senses and the spirit gathered back in his heart, he spoke to his son once more, saying: ‘Father Zeus, you gods are still there, then, on high Olympos, if the suitors have truly paid for their reckless violence. But now I have a terrible fear in my mind that all the men of Ithaka will soon come out here to attack us, and will be speeding appeals for help all over the towns of Kephallenia.’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘Do not worry  – these things should not be a concern to your mind. No, let us go now to the house here by the orchard. I sent Telemachos on ahead there, with the cowherd and the swineherd, to prepare a meal as soon as they can.’ With these words the two of them set off up to the fine house. And when they reached the pleasant buildings, they found Telemachos and the cowherd and the swineherd cutting up meat in abundance and mixing the gleaming wine. Meanwhile great-hearted Laertes was bathed in his own house by his Sicilian maid: she rubbed him with oil and dressed him in a fine cloak. And Athene stood by the shepherd of the people and filled out his limbs, making him taller and broader than he had been to look at. When he came out from the bath, his dear son was amazed to see him looking like the immortal gods, and spoke to him with winged words: ‘Father, one of the ever-living gods has surely enhanced you, making you look taller and more handsome.’ Then the wise Laertes answered him: ‘Oh, father Zeus and Athene and Apollo, if only I were the man I was when as king of the Kephallenians I took the well-founded city of Nerikos on the mainland coast! How I wish I had been with you like that yesterday in our hall, with armour round my shoulders, standing against the suitors and fighting them! Then I would have collapsed the strength of many a suitor, and your heart would have been proud to see it.’ Such were their words to each other. Now when the others had finished their work and prepared the meal, they all took their seats beside each other on the chairs and benches. They were just putting their hands to the food

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when the old man Dolios came in, together with his sons, exhausted after their labours. The old Sicilian woman had gone out and called them. She was the mother of these sons, and looked after them as well as taking good care of their old father, now that age had its grip on him. When they saw Odysseus and knew him in their hearts, they stopped where they were in utter astonishment. But Odysseus talked to them with kind words, saying: ‘Old man, come and sit here for your meal: and you should all forget your surprise now. We have been waiting long in the house, eager to start on our food, but expecting you every moment.’ So he spoke, and Dolios opened his arms and flung himself on Odysseus. He took his hand by the wrist and kissed it, and spoke winged words to him: ‘Oh, dear man, you have come back! We had hoped for it so much, but could no longer think it would happen! But now the gods themselves have brought you back, all health and joy to you, and may the gods give you happiness. But tell me this now, to set my mind at rest – does good Penelope know for sure that you are returned here, or should we send a messenger speeding to her?’ Resourceful Odysseus answered him: ‘She knows already, old man. No need for you to take that trouble.’ So he spoke, and Dolios went then to sit on one of the polished stools. And in the same way the sons of Dolios gathered round famous Odysseus, speaking words of welcome and taking his hand in theirs. They then took their seats one by one alongside their father Dolios. While they were thus busied with their meal in the house, Rumour sped quickly with her message all over the city, telling the news of the hideous death and fate of the suitors. As they heard it the people flocked together from all round, gathering with cries and murmurs in front of Odysseus’ house. From there each family carried out their dead for burial, and those of the dead who had come from other lands they put on fast ships with sailors to take them each to his own home. They then went all in a body to the meeting-place, with anguish in their hearts. When they were all gathered together, Eupeithes stood up and spoke among them. Lasting grief for his son lay heavy on his heart: this was Antinoös, the first to be killed by godlike Odysseus. With tears falling for his son he now spoke and addressed the company: ‘Friends, this man has dealt the Achaians great harm. First he took many of our fine men with him in his hollow ships and lost both ships and men: and now he has come back and killed the very noblest of the Kephallenians. So quick now, let us be after him before he has time to escape to Pylos, or perhaps to holy Elis, where the Epeians hold power. Otherwise we shall be covered in shame for all time to come. This is a disgrace for future men to hear of, if we do not take vengeance on the murderers of our sons and our brothers. My heart would certainly

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take no pleasure in living – I would rather die straightaway and join the departed. So let us be after them, or they will have crossed the water and escaped us.’ So he spoke with his tears falling, and pity came over all the Achaians. But now Medon and the divine bard approached, coming from the house of Odysseus where they had woken, and stood in the middle of the assembly: every man there was amazed to see them. Medon, good man of sense, now spoke to them all, saying: ‘Listen to me now, men of Ithaka. What Odysseus has done here was not without the will of the immortal gods. I myself saw a deathless god standing close by Odysseus in the full likeness of Mentor. But it was the immortal god, not Mentor, who could be seen now in front of Odysseus, spurring his courage, and now driving the suitors in panic down the hall: and the bodies kept falling piled on each other.’ So he spoke, and fear took its pale grip on all of them. Then the old man, the hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, spoke out to them: he was the only man among them with eyes for both past and future. In all good will he spoke and addressed the assembly: ‘Listen now, men of Ithaka, to what I say. It is through your own cowardice, my friends, that these things have happened. You would not follow my advice, you would not follow Mentor, shepherd of the people, when we urged you to stop your sons from their foolishness. It was they who worked great harm with their disastrous crime, wasting the wealth and dishonouring the wife of a great man who they thought would never return. So now take my advice, and let it be as I say. We should not go after him – or I fear some will find they have brought doom on themselves.’ So he spoke, and though many remained where they were more than half of them leapt to their feet with a great cry for war: the advice of Halitherses was not to their liking, and they were with Eupeithes. They then hurried straightaway to fetch their armour, and when they had clothed their bodies in gleaming bronze they mustered outside the broad ways of the town. Eupeithes took the lead among them – the poor fool. He thought he would avenge his son’s death, but he was not to return any more: he would meet his fate there in the battle. And now Athene spoke to Zeus the son of Kronos: ‘Son of Kronos, our father, highest of the mighty, tell me what I ask. What is your purpose now in the depths of your mind? Will you prolong grim war and the horror of battle, or do you plan friendship between the two sides?’ Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: ‘My child, why press me with these questions? Was not this your own intended plan, that Odysseus should return and take vengeance on those men? Do as you please – but I tell you what is best. Now that godlike Odysseus has been avenged on the suitors, let

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them make a binding truce: let Odysseus reign over them for all his days, and we shall make them forget the killing of their sons and brothers. Let them live in harmony with each other as of old, and let peace and plenty abound.’ With these words he urged on Athene what she herself already desired, and she went darting down from the peaks of Olympos. Now in Laertes’ house, when they had put away their desire for cheering food, much-enduring godlike Odysseus said to his men: ‘One of you go out and look now. They may be on their way here and close on us.’ So he spoke, and one of Dolios’ sons did as he said. He went to stand at the threshold, and saw them all there close at hand. Instantly he spoke winged words to Odysseus: ‘Yes, they are here, and close – we must arm quickly!’ So he spoke, and they leapt up and began dressing in their armour – Odysseus and the three with him, and the six sons of Dolios. And Laertes and Dolios too put on their armour: grey-haired though they were, necessity brought out the fighters in them. When they had clothed their bodies in gleaming bronze, they opened the doors and set out, Odysseus at the front. But now Athene, the daughter of Zeus, came up to them – she had taken the form and voice of Mentor. Much-enduring godlike Odysseus rejoiced to see her, and called straightaway to his dear son Telemachos, saying: ‘Telemachos, soon now you will learn for yourself, when you enter the battle where men’s worth is proved in their fighting – you will know not to shame the line of your fathers. We have long led the world in courage and prowess.’ Then Telemachos, good man of sense, answered him: ‘If you care to watch, my dear father, you will see me, in this present spirit of mine, bringing no shame – as you put it – on your family line.’ So he spoke, and Laertes exclaimed in delight: ‘Dear gods, what a happy day this is for me – my son and my grandson vying with each other over their courage!’ Now bright-eyed Athene stood beside him and said to him: ‘Son of Arkeisios, dearest of all my friends, with a prayer now to the bright-eyed goddess and to father Zeus, steady your long-shadowed spear and let it fly.’ So speaking Pallas Athene breathed great strength into him. With a prayer then to the daughter of great Zeus, Laertes steadied his long-shadowed spear and let it fly: and he struck Eupeithes through his bronze-cheeked helmet. The helmet could not stop the spear, but the bronze went right on through. He fell with a crash, and his armour clattered about him. Then Odysseus and his glorious son fell on the front-fighters, stabbing with their swords and double-pointed spears. And now they would have killed them all and taken away their homecoming, if Athene, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis, had not shouted loud with a voice which stopped the whole throng: ‘Enough,

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men of Ithaka, pull back now from the misery of war: then part at once with no more bloodshed.’ So spoke Athene, and fear took its pale grip on them. Such was their terror at the sound of the goddess’ voice, all their weapons fell straight from their hands and dropped on the ground, and they turned back towards the town, urgent to save their lives. Much-enduring godlike Odysseus let out a fearful cry, gathered himself, and swooped after them like a high-flying eagle. And then it was that the son of Kronos let fly a smoking thunderbolt, hurling it to earth in front of the bright-eyed goddess, she of the mighty father. Bright-eyed Athene now called to Odysseus: ‘Royal son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, hold back now, stop this fighting  – war harms all alike. Or it may be that the son of Kronos, wide-seeing Zeus, will be angry with you.’ So spoke Athene, and he obeyed her with joy in his heart. And then a sworn peace between the two sides was made by Pallas Athene, the daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis, taking still the form and voice of Mentor.

Index This index lists only the proper names (and adjectives) in the text of the Odyssey: there is also an entry for ‘Suitors’. Where a complete list of references would be impracticable or unhelpful, or both, a reference to the first occurrence of the name is followed by ‘etc.’. For ease of reference, the headings of major entries are given in bold capitals. Achaia, the general name for Greece:  116 etc. achaians, Greeks (also known as Argives, Danaans), or particular categories of Greeks (e.g. Ithakans, suitors):  3 etc. —their suffering at Troy:  8, 23, 25, 35, 86–7, 120, 123–4, 130, 259 their various fortunes on return from Troy:  6, 7, 22–5, 26–7, 42–4, 53, 101, 119–22, 143, 152 see also Aias (2), Agamemnon Acheron, river of the underworld:  111 achilleus, son of Peleus,  78 etc., and Thetis,  261–1, leading Achaian fighter at Troy:  23 etc.; grandson of Aiakos,  122; father of Neoptolemos,  24, 33, 122–3; handsomest of the Achaians,  122, 123 —his quarrel with Odysseus,  78; the battle over his body,  57, 259–60; his funeral and funeralgames,  260–1; the judgment over his armour,  123–4 his concern for Peleus,  122–3; enquires after Neoptolemos,  122–3; would rather slave on earth than be king of the dead,  122 —And Odysseus in the underworld:  122–3 and Agamemnon in the underworld:  259–61 Adreste, one of Helen’s maids:  35

agamemnon, son of Atreus, brother of Menelaos, husband of Klytaimnestra, father of Orestes, king of Mykene (2), leader of the Achaian army at Troy:  1 etc.; with Menelaos, persuaded Odysseus to join expedition to Troy,  261; appointed bard to guard his wife,  26; happy at quarrel between Achilleus and Odysseus,  78; oracle from Apollo,  78; quarrel with Menelaos,  23–4; better to have died in Troy,  259; funeral mound in Egypt,  44; enquires after Orestes,  122; learns of Odysseus’ slaughter of the suitors,  261–3; his fame,  94 —murdered by Aigisthos on his return from Troy:  1–2, 7, 25–7, 35, 43, 120–1, 144–5, 259, 261 treachery of his wife:  25, 121–2, 261, 263; contrasts Klytaimnestra and Penelope,  121–2, 263; inveighs against women,  121–2 —And Odysseus in the underworld:  120–2 and Achilleus in the underworld:  259–61 and Amphimedon in the underworld:  261–3 Agelaos, suitor, son of Damastor: supports and advises Telemachos,  225–6; 241–2, 244; threatens Athene/Mentor,  243; killed by Odysseus,  245

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Aiaia, island, home of Kirke:  89, 103, 114; place of Dawn’s house and the Sun’s rising,  127 Aiakos, father of Peleus, grandfather of Achilleus:  122 Aias (1), son of Telamon,  123, major Achaian fighter at Troy:  23, 259; second only to Achilleus,  122, 123, 259; lost the judgement for the armour of Achilleus,  123–4 —and Odysseus in the underworld:  122, 123–4 Aias (2), son of Oïleus, leader of the Locrians at Troy: at Athene’s request shipwrecked by Poseidon on return from Troy, then killed by Poseidon for his boasting,  42–3 Aietes, son of Helios and Perse, king of Kolchis, brother of Kirke:  103–4, 128 Aigai, town in Achaia, N. Peloponnese, site of Poseidon’s palace:  58 AIGISTHOS, son of Thyestes,  43, lover of Klytaimnestra, murderer of Agamemnon:  1 etc.; warned by the gods,  2; his seduction of Klytaimnestra,  26; killed the bard appointed to guard her,  26; set watcher to look for Agamemnon’s return,  43; ruled over Mykene (2) for seven years,  27 —murder of Agamemnon:  1–2, 7, 25–6, 27, 35, 43, 120–1, 259, 261 killed by Orestes:  1, 7, 25, 27, 43 Aigyptios, aged Ithakan, father of Antiphos (1) and Eurynomos:  11 Aiolian Island, floating island, home of Aiolos (1):  101, 102 Aiolos (1), son of Hippotas, warden of the winds:  101–2, 257; his floating island,  101; his twelve

children,  101; entertains Odysseus and sends him on his way with the bag of winds,  101; rejects Odysseus’ subsequent appeal,  102 Aiolos (2), father of Kretheus:  117 Aison, son of Kretheus and Tyro:  118 Aithon, fictitious name assumed by Odysseus:  208 Aitolia, district of N. central Greece:  154 Akastos, king of Doulichion:  153 Akroneos, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Aktoris, former maid of Penelope, given to her by her father on her marriage:  255 Alektor, father of the bride of Megapenthes son of Menelaos:  33 Alkandre, wife of Polybos (2) of Egyptian Thebes, gave gifts to Helen:  35 Alkimos, father of Mentor:  244 alkinoös, king of the Phaiacians:  61 etc., 65, 120; son of Nausithoös,  70; husband and uncle of Arete,  70; father of Nausikaä,  61 etc.; father of Laodamas,  72, 79; father of Halios and Klytoneos,  79; Eurymedousa his prize of honour,  69 —his estate,  67; his house,  67, 70–1; his garden,  71 —And Nausikaä:  62; critical of her,  75; offers her in marriage to Odysseus,  75 and Odysseus:  75, 81–2, 87–8, 120, 137–8 —Holds assembly,  77; notices Odysseus’ distress at Demodokos’ song,  79, 87; holds games and dancing display,  79–84; on Phaiacian pleasures,  81; recognises fulfilment of his father’s prophecy,  140

Index Alkippe, one of Helen’s maids:  35 Alkmaon, son of Amphiaraos:  164 Alkmene, wife of Amphitryon, mother, by Zeus, of Herakles, 118: not a match for Penelope,  13; meets Odysseus in the underworld,  118 Aloeus, husband of Iphimedeia:  119 Alpheios, god of river Alpheios in W. Peloponnese, father of Ortilochos:  30, 162 Alybas, unknown (fictitious?) city from which Odysseus claims to come:  265 Amnisos, the harbour of Knossos in Crete:  209 Amphialos, young Phaiacian noble, son of Polyneos, jumping champion:  79 Amphiaraos, seer, son of Oïkles, father of Alkmaon and Amphilochos, killed at Thebes (one of the ‘Seven against Thebes’):  163–4 Amphilochos, son of Amphiaraos:  164 Amphimedon, suitor, son of Melaneus, from Ithaka,  261: 243; killed by Telemachos,  244; guest-friend of Agamemnon,  261, and tells him in the underworld of the suitors and their death,  261–2 amphinomos, suitor, son of Nisos, leader of the suitors from Doulichion:  178, 179, 197–8, 203, 224, 241; doomed by Athene,  198; killed by Telemachos, (198),  241 —best liked by Penelope,  179; argues against murder of Telemachos,  179, 224; speaks in support of Telemachos,  203; kind to Odysseus, and troubled by his warning,  197–8 Amphion (1), son of Zeus and Antiope, brother of

273

Zethos, co-founder of Thebes (1):  118 Amphion (2), son of Iasos (1), father of Chloris, ruler of Orchomenos:  118 Amphithea, wife of Autolykos, grandmother of Odysseus:  213 Amphitrite, goddess of the sea:  23, 59, 128, 129; nurtures seamonsters,  59, 128–9 Amphitryon, husband of Alkmene:  118 Amythaon, son of Kretheus and Tyro:  118 Anabesineos, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Anchialos (1), father of Mentes:  4, 9 Anchialos (2), young Phaiacian noble:  79 Andraimon, father of Thoas:  157 antikleia, daughter of Autolykos and Amphithea, (213), mother of Odysseus and Ktimene,  166, wife of Laertes, 166: 114, 115–7, 166, 213–4, (265); brought up Eumaios along with her daughter,  166; alive when Odysseus went to Troy,  114; her death,  115, 166; on Penelope, Telemachos, and Laertes,  116–7; meets Odysseus in the underworld,  114, 115–7, 257 Antiklos, Achaian soldier in the wooden horse:  38 Antilochos, son of Nestor, killed at Troy:  23, 122, 259, 260; killed by Memnon, son of Dawn,  36 —honoured most after Patroklos by Achilleus,  260; remembered by his brother Peisistratos,  36–7 Antinoös, suitor, son of Eupeithes,  8 etc.; from Ithaka,  179; leader, with Eurymachos, of the suitors,  45, 232; his father once protected by Odysseus,  179; remembers

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Index

Odysseus as archer,  230–1; harshest to Odysseus’ servants,  188; the worst of the suitors,  190; killed by Odysseus,  239 (the first to die),  262; his father’s grief for him,  267 —and Eumaios:  188, 230 and Odysseus:  188–9, 197, 234–5 and Penelope:  179, 200–1, 235 and Telemachos:  8–9, 12–14, 17, 188–9, 224 —Proposes ambush of Telemachos,  46; proposes murder of Telemachos after failure of ambush,  178–9; proposes gifts to Penelope,  200– 201; proposes postponement of trial of bow,  234 sneers at Iros,  196–7; at Eumaios and Philoitios,  230–1; at Leodes,  232; at Odysseus,  234–5 —Hopes Telemachos will never be king,  8, and wanted to be king himself,  240; berated by Penelope for plotting Telemachos’ death,  179; encourages fight between Odysseus and Iros,  195–7; criticised by the other suitors,  190; blamed by Eurymachos as prime mover,  240 Antiope, daughter of Asopos, mother by Zeus of Amphion (1) and Zethos: meets Odysseus in the underworld,  118 Antiphates (1), king of the Laistrygonians, cannibal:  103, 105; his hideous wife,  103 Antiphates (2), son of Melampous, father of Oïkles:  163 Antiphos (1), son of Aigyptios, killed and eaten by the Cyclops:  11 Antiphos (2), Ithakan, old friend of Odysseus:  182

Apeire, unknown place, whence Eurymedousa was carried off:  69 Apheidas, fictitious father of Odysseus, son of Polypemon:  265 aphrodite, goddess, daughter of Zeus,  82 etc.; wife of Hephaistos,  82–4; goddess of Kythera,  199; her precinct in Paphos,  84 —the standard of female beauty:  33, 181, 206 the cause of Helen’s adultery:  38 —Demodokos’ song of her adultery with Ares,  82–4; and the Graces,  199; nurtured daughters of Pandareos,  220 —Epithet: Kythereia,  82 APOLLO, god, son of Zeus and Leto,  119, brother of Artemis:  26 etc.; archergod,  234, 235, 239; inspirer of bards,  86; giver of oracles,  78; patron of seers,  164; sender of signs,  169; protector of Ismaros,  93; killer of men, 26, 70, 167, 186, (190) —his altar in Delos,  64; his precinct in Ismaros,  93; his grove in Ithaka,  224; his festival in Ithaka,  224, 234 —Killed Eurytos,  81; killed Otos and Ephialtes,  119; spectator of Aphrodite and Ares entrapped,  83 —Epithet: Phoibos,  26 etc. Ares, god, son of Zeus and Hera: god of war,  79, 123, 151; Demodokos’ song of his adultery with Aphrodite,  82–4; Poseidon stands bail for him,  83–4 arete, daughter of Rhexenor,  70, wife and niece (70) of Alkinoös, mother of Nausikaä:  67, 70, 71–2, 73–4, 75, 85, 119, 138; her influence and popularity,  67, 70

Index —and Odysseus:  71–2, 73–4, 85, 119, 138 Aretes, father of Nisos:  179, 203 Arethousa, a spring near Eumaios’ hut in Ithaka:  145 Aretos, son of Nestor:  29 Argive, adjective from Argos (2) Argives, Greeks (also known as Achaians, Danaans):  2 etc. Argo, the ship of Iason and the Argonauts:  128 Argos (1), giant killed by Hermes ‘the slayer of Argos’:  2 etc. Argos (2), geographical term with various connotations:  (a) city in the Argolid in N.E. Peloponnese, under rule of Diomedes:  24, 231 (b) the whole area of the Argolid, Agamemnon’s kingdom:  26 (c) southern Greece, the Peloponnese:  7, 47, 49, 160 Argos (3), Odysseus’ dog: recognises his master and dies,  186–7 Ariadne, daugher of Minos, carried off by Theseus, killed by Artemis: seen by Odysseus in the underworld,  119 Arkeisios, father of Laertes:  47, 150, 173, 264, 269 Arnaios, true name of the beggar Iros:  195 Artakië, spring outside Telepylos, city of the Laistrygonians:  103 Artemis, goddess, daughter of Zeus and Leto,  63, sister of Apollo:  35 etc.; archer-goddess,  63, 116; killer of women,  116, 117, 119, 167, 168, 199, 220 —Killed Orion,  53; Nausikaä compared to her,  63, 64; nurtured daughters of Pandareos,  220 Arybas, father of Eumaios’ Phoinician nurse:  167

275

Asopos, river(-god) in Boiotia, father of Antiope:  118 Asphalion, servant of Menelaos:  37 Asteris, small island between Ithaka and Samos, where suitors lay in wait for Telemachos:  49 athene, goddess, daughter of Zeus: 2 etc.; renowned for wisdom and cunning,  143; helped Herakles steal Kerberos,  125; caused quarrel between Agamemnon and Menelaos,  23–4; enmity for Aias (2) and returning Achaians,  7, 23–4, 42, 53 —goddess of craftsmen:  65, 86, 254 goddess of handcraft:  13, 71, 220 goddess of spoil:  144, 175 her spear:  3 her sacred wood in Phaiacia:  66–7 sender of dreams:  48–9 (to Penelope),  61–2 (to Nausikaä) —Takes form of: daughter of Dymas,  61; herald of Alkinoös,  77; Mentes,  3–7; Mentor, 16, 18–28, 45, 243–4, (268), 269–70; a Phaiacian man,  80–1; a young Phaiacian girl,  69–70; a young shepherd,  141–2; Telemachos,  18; a beautiful woman,  143, 174; a woman,  219–20; bird,  7; swallow,  244; vulture,  28 —Transforms/enhances: Laertes,  266; Odysseus,  65, 77, 145–6, 174, 180, 196, 254; Penelope,  199; Telemachos,  11, 182 —And Zeus:  2–3, 51, 268–9 deference to Poseidon,  67, 144; prays to him,  22 —And Odysseus:  pities him among the gods,  2, 51; her plan for his return,  51, 269; transforms/ enhances him,  65, 77, 145–6, 174, 180, 196, 254; sheds mist

276

Index

round him,  69–72, 141–4, 258; will not yet appear openly to him,  67; appears to him openly or in disguise,  69–70, 141–6, 174, 180, 188, 196, 205, 219–20, 243–4, 269; rebukes him, and tests his and Telemachos’ courage,  243–4; on his character,  143–4, 220 helps/favours Odysseus, directly or indirectly: at Troy,  25, 28, 86–7, 143; between Troy and Phaiacia,  58, 59, 60; lack of overt help between Troy and Phaiacia,  67, 143; in Phaiacia,  61, 63, 65, 67, 69–70, 77, 80–1, 139; in Ithaka, 141–6, 174, (175–6),  180, 188, 196, 202, 205–6, 219–20, 226, 229, 243–4, 245, 254, 255–6, 258, 269 —and Penelope: her gifts to Penelope, 13; (199) enhances her,  199; inspires her,  198, 229; sends her to sleep,  8, 180, 199, 217, 236; hears her prayer, sends her comforting dream,  48–9 and Telemachos: 3–7, 11, 16, 18–19, 21-2, 25–6, (49), (51), (145), 159–60, (165),  182; enhances him,  11, 182; inspires him,  7, 11, 16, 21, 22, 182; his escort to and from Pylos,  16, 18–19, 21–8, 49, 51, 145, 159–60; calls him back from Pylos, and warns of the suitors’ ambush,  159–60 and the suitors: plans/promotes their doom, 144–5, 159–60, 174, 188, 202, 205–6, 224–6, (268); drives them out of their wits,  226; frustrates the cast of their spears,  244; panics them with the aegis,  245 —Provides ship, crew, and breeze for Telemachos’ journey to Pylos,  18–9; comes in person

to accept Nestor’s sacrifice,  29; visits Marathon and Athens,  70; abandoned Odysseus between Troy and Phaiacia,  67, 143; disguises Ithaka, then reveals it to Odysseus,  141–5; delays coming of Dawn,  255–6, 258; shouts to Ithakans to stop battle,  269–70; warned by Zeus, tells Odysseus to stop fighting,  270; makes truce,  270 —Epithets: Atrytone,  48, 67; Pallas,  3 etc.; Tritogeneia,  28 Athens, city in Attika:  26, 27, 70, 119 Atlas, god, Titan, father of Kalypso:  2, 74 Atreus, father of Agamemnon and Menelaos:  2 etc.; Zeus’ hatred for his family,  121 Atrytone, epithet of Athene:  48, 67 AUTOLYKOS, father of Antikleia, husband of Amphithea,  213, grandfather of Odysseus:  114, 213–14, 233, 265; trickster, patronised by Hermes,  213 —Visited Ithaka, and named Odysseus,  213; invited Odysseus to Parnassos and boarhunt,  213–14, 233, 265 Autonoë, one of Penelope’s maids:  198 Bear, constellation, also known as Wain:  56 Boëthoös, father of Eteoneus:  33, 161 Boötes, constellation:  56 Centaurs, wild creatures, half man and half beast, living round Mt Pelion: their feud with the Lapiths,  235 (see also Eurytion) Chalkis, river in Elis, W. Peloponnese:  165

Index Charybdis, monstrous whirlpool opposite Skylla’s lair:  129, 131–2, 135, 257 Chios, island in E. Aegean:  24 Chloris, daughter of Amphion (2), wife of Neleus, mother of Nestor, Chromios, Periklymenos, Pero: meets Odysseus in the underworld,  118 Chromios, son of Neleus and Chloris:  118 crete, large island in S. Aegean:  24, 27, 119, 142, 151–3, 154, 172, 191, 208, 211; home of Idomeneus,  24, 142, 151, 154, 208–9; home of Minos,  119, 208; its cities and peoples,  208 —Odysseus’ Cretan tales: 142, 151–4, (191),  208–9, 211–2 CYCLOPES, a race of one-eyed giants:  2, 61, 91–2, 97 —close to the gods,  73, 91; but care nothing for them,  94; lawless, no social institutions, no agriculture, no ships,  91; but have wine,  96 response to Polyphemos’ call for help,  96–7; Telemos their prophet,  99; the island opposite their land,  91–2, 99 (see also Polyphemos) Cyclops, one of the Cyclopes (q.v.): ‘the Cyclops’ refers to Polyphemos (q.v.)  Cyprus, island in E. Mediterranean: visited by Menelaos,  34; favoured by Aphrodite,  84; 189 Damastor, father of Agelaos:  225 etc. Danaans, Greeks (also known as Achaians, Argives):  8 etc. Dawn, goddess:  11 etc.; wife of Tithonos,  51; mother of Memnon,  36; lover of Orion,  53; lover of Kleitos,  164

277

—her house and dancing-places in Aiaia:  127 her horses:  256 delayed by Athene:  255–6, 258 Deïphobos, Trojan warrior, son of Priam:  38, 87 Delos, island in Cyclades group, central Aegean:  64; Apollo’s altar there,  64 Demeter, goddess: lover of Iasion,  53 DEMODOKOS, Phaiacian bard:  78 etc., 137; loved by the Muse, but blinded,  78 —sings of: quarrel between Odysseus and Achilleus,  78; love of Ares and Aphrodite,  82–4; the wooden horse,  86–7 —And Odysseus,  86; effect of his songs on Odysseus,  78–9, 86 Demoptolemos, suitor, killed by Odysseus:  244 Deukalion, son of Minos, father of Idomeneus:  208 Dia, small island off N. Crete:  119 Diokles, son of Ortilochos, entertained Telemachos and Peisistratos at Pherai (1):  30, 162 Diomedes, son of Tydeus, king of Argos (2), major Achaian fighter at Troy:  24; in the wooden horse,  38; his safe return to Argos,  24 Dionysos, god:  119, 260; caused Ariadne’s death,  119 Dmetor, king of Cyprus, son of Iasos (2):  189 Dodona, town in Epeiros in N.W. Greece, site of Zeus’ oracle:  153, 211 DOLIOS, old servant of Penelope, the gift of her father:  47; married to Laertes’ Sicilian housekeeper,  267; father of Melantheus,  185, and Melantho,  201; his six other

278

Index

sons,  263, 267, 269; works on Laertes’ farm,  263, 267; concern for Penelope,  267 —Recognises and welcomes Odysseus,  267; arms for battle against the Ithakans,  269 Dorians, one of the races of people in Crete:  208 Doulichion, an island, probably Leukas, off W. Greece close to Ithaka:  6, 89, 153, 155, 173, 197, 203, 207, 211 —its king Akastos,  153; home of 52 of the suitors,  176; their leader Amphinomos,  179 Dymas, Phaiacian, his daughter a friend of Nausikaä:  61 Earth, goddess: mother of Tityos,  75, 124; witness of oaths,  54 Earthshaker, epithet of Poseidon,  21 etc. Echeneos, Phaiacian elder:  72, 119–20 Echephron, son of Nestor:  29 Echetos, ogre-king ‘on the mainland’:  196, 197, 235 Egypt,  27 etc.; land rich in drugs,  37; Menelaos in Egypt,  27, 34, 37, 40–4; Odysseus’ fictitious account of experience in Egypt,  152, 189 Eidotheë, sea-nymph, daughter of Proteus:  40; pities Menelaos, helps him trap Proteus,  40–1 Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth: her cave in Amnisos,  209 Elatos, suitor, killed by Eumaios:  244 Elatreus, young Phaiacian noble, discus champion:  79 Elis, district in N.W. Peloponnese:  45, 142, 165, 236, 267 Elpenor, one of Odysseus’ companions, killed falling off

roof of Kirke’s house:  111–2, 114; his burial,  127; meets Odysseus in the underworld,  114 Elysian Plain, the paradise of the blessed, where Menelaos will be translated:  44 Enipeus, river(-god) in Thessaly, loved by Tyro and impersonated by Poseidon:  117 Epeians, inhabitants of Elis:  142, 165, 267 Epeios, craftsman of the wooden horse:  86, 123 Eperitos, fictitious name assumed by Odysseus:  265 Ephialtes, son of Poseidon and Iphimedeia, brother of Otos: giant, attempted war on the gods, killed by Apollo:  119 Ephyre, town in Thesprotia, N.W. Greece:  6, 17 Epikaste, mother and wife of Oidipous, king of Thebes (1), hanged herself: meets Odysseus in the underworld,  118 Erebos, the nether darkness of the underworld:  111, 113, 124, 128, 226 Erechtheus, king of Athens, visited by Athene:  70 Eremboi, unindentified people visited by Menelaos on his travels:  34 Eretmeus, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Erinyes, the Furies, goddesses of the underworld who punish offences against parents and oaths:  14, 118; singular, Erinys,  163; protectors of beggars,  190; the daughters of Pandareos taken to serve them,  220 Eriphyle, heroine seen by Odysseus in the underworld:  119 Erymanthos, mountain in N. Peloponnese:  63

Index Eteoneus, son of Boëthoös, servant of Menelaos:  33–4, 161 Ethiopians, remote people living in far W. and far E.: visited by Poseidon,  1, 56; visited by Menelaos,  34 Euanthes, father of Maron:  93 Euboia, island off E. Greece:  24, 75 Euenor, father of Leokritos:  16, 245 EUMAIOS, Odysseus’  swineherd: 145 etc.; son of Ktesios,  167; story of his kidnap from Syrië as a child,  167–8; bought by Laertes,  168; brought up by Antikleia,  166; purchased Mesaulios as servant,  156 —his dogs:  147, 171, 174, 236 his hut:  147 his pigs:  147 —Care of Odysseus’ substance:  147, 157, 170 concern for Laertes:  174 concern for Telemachos:  150; loyalty to him,  160; his love for him,  145, 171 hospitable:  148, 155–6, 157, 165, 172 independent:  147, 156 loyalty:  145, 160, 170, 233 on the life of a servant:  148, 166, 184, 187 on the suitors:  148–9, 165 pious:  155, 156 proud of his work:  148, 166 —And Antinoös:  188 and Odysseus:  147–57, 165–8, 171, 184–8, 192, 222, 233–4, 242; mourns Odysseus,  147–8, 149–50; believes Odysseus dead or will not return,  148, 149–50, 154, 187; Odysseus as kind master,  148, 150; tells Odysseus of Laertes and Antikleia,  166;

279

escorts Odysseus to town, met and insulted on the way by Melantheus,  185–6; prays for Odysseus’ return,  223, 233; loyalty established, and welcomes the revealed Odysseus,  233 and Penelope: (145),  154, 166, 177–8, 191–2 and Telemachos:  171–4, 180, 181, 187, 188, 192–3, 236; concern for him,  150; loyalty to him,  160; love for him,  145, 171 —Takes news to Penelope of Telemachos’ return,  173–4, 177–8; serves at table for suitors,  224; weeps at sight of Odysseus’ bow,  230; carries bow to Odysseus, (233),  236; tells Eurykleia to lock the doors, (233),  236; arms and joins Odysseus at the threshold,  241; with Philoitios, catches and binds Melanthios,  242–3; kills Elatos,  244, and Polybos (4),  244–5; helps cleanse the house,  248; arms for battle against the Ithakans,  269 Eumelos, husband of Iphthime, the sister of Penelope:  48 Eupeithes, father of Antinoös:  8 etc.; once protected by Odysseus,  178; his grief for Antinoös,  267; advocates and leads party to pursue Odysseus,  267–8; killed by Laertes,  269 Euryades, suitor, killed by Telemachos:  244 Euryalos, young Phaiacian noble, son of Naubolos, wrestling champion:  79; insults Odysseus,  80; makes amends,  84–5 Eurybates, herald of Odysseus: 210

280

Index

Eurydamas, suitor:  201; killed by Odysseus,  244 Eurydike, daughter of Klymenos, wife of Nestor:  30 EURYKLEIA, nurse of Odysseus,  212, and Telemachos, 9, 181: daughter of Ops,  9, 17; bought by Laertes and honoured by him,  9; concern for Laertes,  47; invited Autolykos to name Odysseus,  213; housekeeper,  17; organises the housework,  221–2, 247 —and Odysseus:  212–15, 247–8, 249; her love for him,  212; washes his feet, and recognises his scar,  212–14; threatened to keep silent, and her steadfastness,  214–15; offers to inform on the maids,  215, and does so,  247 and Penelope:  47–8, 212, 252; defends her,  221–2; ‘always a doubting heart’,  252 and Telemachos:  9, 17–18, 181, 205, 221–2, 247 —Taken into Telemachos’ confidence, swears not to tell Penelope of his journey,  17–18; welcomes him back,  181; locks doors to the hall,  236; her cry of triumph restrained by Odysseus,  247; brings fire and sulphur,  248; brings news to Penelope of Odysseus’ return and slaughter of the suitors,  251–2 EURYLOCHOS, one of Odysseus’ companions:  105–6, 109, 113, 131; kinsman of Odysseus,  109 —In charge of party sent to Kirke’s house,  105; refuses to return to Kirke’s house,  106; resists Odysseus,  109, 132–3;

proposes eating the cattle of the Sun,  133–4 EURYMACHOS, suitor, son of Polybos (1): 9 etc.,  169, 178, 179–80, 196, 200, 201, 202–3, 240; dandled as a child by Odysseus,  179–80; leader, with Antinoös, of the suitors,  45, 232; leading contestant for Penelope’s hand,  159, 169; favours Melantheus,  186; lover of Melantho,  201; killed by Odysseus,  240–1 —and Halitherses: 14–15 (rejects his prophecy) and Odysseus:  202–3, 240 and Penelope;  179–80, 200, 235–6 and Telemachos:  9, 15 —Assures Penelope, hypocritally, of his love for Telemachos,  179–80; admires Penelope,  200; insults Odysseus, and throws stool at him,  202–3; ‘offensive man with a cruel mind’,  202; mocks Theoklymenos,  226; fails to string bow,  234; fearful of suitors’ humiliation,  234, 235; blames Antinoös, and attempts to appease Odysseus,  240 Eurymedon, king of the Giants, father of Periboia:  70 Eurymedousa, nurse and chambermaid of Nausikaä, carried off from Apeire:  69 Eurymos, father of the Cyclopes’ prophet Telemos:  99 Eurynome, Penelope’s housekeeper:  190, 198, 207, 219, 254, 256–7; bathes Odysseus,  254 Eurynomos, suitor, son of Aigyptios:  11, 244 Eurypylos, son of Telephos, king of the Keteians, killed by Neoptolemos at Troy:  123

Index Eurytion, Centaur, punished for his drunkenness in the house of Peirithoös:  235 Eurytos, king of Oichalia, challenged Apollo with the bow and killed by him:  81; father of Iphitos, and original owner of Odysseus’ bow,  229–30 Fate,  73 (see also Spinners) Furies,  see Erinyes Gates of the Sun, passed on the way to the underworld:  259 Geraistos, southernmost point of Euboia:  24 Gerenian, epithet of Nestor:  22 etc. Giants, a superhuman race: close to the gods,  73; their destruction under their king Eurymedon,  70, 103 Gorgon, monster:  125 Gortyn, city and area of S. central Crete:  27 Graces, goddesses, givers of beauty:  61; minister to Aphrodite,  84, 199 Gyrai, dangerous rocks in central Aegean, Aias (2) shipwrecked there:  42–3 HADES, god of the dead:  49 etc., 110, 111, 112, 114; husband of Persephone,  110 etc.; the Keeper of the Gate,  118 —the house of Hades:  49 etc.; Odysseus’ journey there,  110– 12, 113–19, 120–5, 257; the ghosts of the suitors’ journey there,  259, 261 his dog, Kerberos, stolen by Herakles:  125 Halios, Phaiacian, son of Alkinoös:  79; matchless dancer,  84

281

Halitherses, Ithakan prophet, son of Mastor:  14; friend of Odysseus,  16, 182; prophesies return of Odysseus,  14; prophecy to Odysseus on his departure for Troy,  14; advises stopping of the suitors (rejected by Eurymachos),  14; advises Ithakans not to pursue Odysseus, and his advice rejected,  268 Hebe, goddess, daughter of Zeus and Hera, wife of the immortalised Herakles:  125 HELEN, daughter of Zeus,  36 etc., 44, wife of Menelaos:  33, 35–8, 160–2, 183; her daughter and only child Hermione betrothed and married to Neoptolemos,  33, (38) —her adultery with Paris caused by Aphrodite,  38; ‘whore’,  36; the cause of the Trojan war,  36, 121, 148, 183, 243, 255; used as paradigm by Penelope,  255 —Drugs wine for her guests,  37; tells story of Odysseus as spy in Troy,  37–8; and the wooden horse,  38; gives Telemachos a robe of her own handiwork,  161; interprets omen, and prophesies return and vengeance of Odysseus,  162 Helios, god, the Sun (see also Hyperion, Sun): referred to as son of Hyperion,  130; father of Kirke and Aietes by Perse,  103–4; his cattle,  129 Hellas, northern Greece:  7, 47, 49, 122, 160 Hellespont, narrow water between Troad and Thrace (Dardanelles):  260 HEPHAISTOS, god, son of Hera:  45 etc.; born a cripple,  83; husband of Aphrodite,  82–4; god of

282

Index

fire,  260; god of craftsmen,  65, 254; favours island of Lemnos,  82 —as craftsman:  45, 71, 82, 161, 260 —Demodokos’ song of his entrapment of the adulterous Aphrodite and Ares,  82–4 Hera, goddess, wife and sister of Zeus:  43, 86, 125, 128, 220; mother of Hebe,  125 —protects Agamemnon,  43; favoured Iason,  128; favoured daughters of Pandareos,  220 Herakles, son of Zeus,  118 etc., and Alkmene,  118; husband of Megara,  118; made immortal, with Hebe as his wife,  124–5; archer,  81, 125; his labours, including capture of Kerberos,  125; murdered Iphitos,  229 —and Odysseus in the underworld:  125 hermes, god, son of Zeus,  51 etc., and Maia,  155: 1 etc., 106–7, 134, 155, 259, 261; ‘slayer of Argos’,  2 etc.; messenger of the gods,  2 (to Aigisthos),  3, 51–4 (to Kalypso); god of Kyllene,  259; conductor of the dead,  259, 261; his rod,  52, 259; patron of servants(?),  156, 165; patron of Autolykos,  213; Phaiacian libations to him,  71; helped Herakles steal Kerberos,  125; spectator of Aphrodite and Ares entrapped,  83 —Warned Aigisthos,  2; told Kirke that Odysseus would come,  107; meets and helps Odysseus,  106–7; conducts the ghosts of the suitors to Hades,  259, 261 Hermes’ Hill, landmark above town of Ithaka:  180

Hermione, daughter of Menelaos and Helen, betrothed to Neoptolemos:  33, (38) Hippodameia, one of Penelope’s maids:  198 Hippotas, father of Aiolos (1):  101, 102 Hylax, fictitious Cretan grandfather of Odysseus and father of Kastor (2):  151 Hypereia, previous homeland of the Phaiacians:  61 Hyperesia, town on N. coast of Peloponnese, home of Polypheides:  164 Hyperion, god, the Sun (see also Helios, Sun): referred to as father of Helios,  130; father, by Neaira, of Phaëthousa and Lampetië,  129; threatens to shine in Hades,  134 —his cattle, eaten by Odysseus’ men:  1, 115, 129, 132–5, 210, 257 Iaolkos, city on coast of Thessaly, N.E. Greece:  118 Iardanos, river in N.W. Crete:  27 Iasion, mortal lover of Demeter, killed by Zeus:  53 Iason, leader of the Argonauts: helped by Hera,  128 Iasos (1), father of Amphion (2):  118 Iasos (2), father of Dmetor:  189 Idomeneus, son of Deukalion,  208, father of Orsilochos,  142, leader of the Cretans at Troy:  24, 142, 151, 154, 208–9 Ikarios, father of Penelope: 7 etc., 12, 13, (255); father of Iphthime,  48 Ikmalios, craftsman of Penelope’s chair:  206 Ilios, Troy, the city of the Trojans:  1 etc.; the sack of Ilios,  22, 23, 53,

Index 87, 94, 123, 143, 145, 152, 243; its name cursed by Penelope,  210, 217, 251 Ilos, son of Mermeros:  6 Ino, sea-goddess, daughter of Kadmos, also known as Leukotheë,  57: pities Odysseus and saves him with her shawl,  57, 59 Iphikles, king of Phylake, son of Phylakos, (163): and Melampous, 118–9, (163) (see also Phylakos) Iphimedeia, wife of Aloeus, mother by Poseidon of Otos and Ephialtes: seen by Odysseus in the underworld,  119 Iphitos, son of Eurytos, gave Odysseus Eurytos’ bow, murdered by Herakles:  229–30 Iphthime, daughter of Ikarios, wife of Eumelos, sister of Penelope: sent as dream-phantom by Athene to comfort Penelope,  48–9 Iros, Ithakan beggar, true name Arnaios,  195, fights with Odysseus and beaten by him:  195–7, 199–200, 201, 203; berated by Antinoös,  196 Ismaros, city in Thrace, home of the Kikones, sacked by Odysseus:  90; protected by Apollo,  93 ithaka, island off W. Greece, home of Odysseus: 1 etc.; its location,  89; its fame,  142; home of twelve of the suitors,  176; the feast of Apollo there,  224, 234 —descriptions: 142 (Athene, general); 44 (Telemachos: goat-country, not suitable for horses); 89 (Odysseus: rough land, but good for bringing up children) features: harbour of Phorkys,  139, 144; cave of the Naiads,  139,

283

144; Mt Neriton,  89, 144; Mt Neïon,  4–5, 22; Hermes’ Hill,  180; fountain near the town,  185; Apollo’s grove,  224 ithakans, inhabitants of Ithaka, and particularly the suitors and their kin:  —assemblies: called by Telemachos,  11–16; assembly addressed by Eupeithes, Medon, and Halitherses,  267–8 public opinion:  12, 13–14, 15–16, 25, 47, 172, 173, 178, 215, 234, 235, 241, 253–4, 267–8 their responsibility in not stopping the suitors:  14–16, 268 fears of their revenge:  220, 253, 258, 266, 269 —Reparations for the suitors’ consumption,  258; rumour spreads news of death of suitors,  267; the dead carried out for burial,  267; those with Eupeithes arm,  268; battle with Odysseus and his men,  269–70; warned to stop by Athene,  270; truce made by Athene,  270 Ithakos, co-builder of the fountain outside town of Ithaka:  185 Itylos, son of the nightingale (Aëdon) and Zethos, killed in error by his mother:  215 Kadmeians, inhabitants of Thebes (1):  118 Kadmos, father of Ino/Leukotheë:  57 KALYPSO, goddess, daughter of Atlas:  1 etc.; the delights of her island,  52; visited by Hermes, with orders from Zeus to release Odysseus, (3), 51–4, (74); complains of male gods’ resentment of female gods’ unions with mortals,  53; compared with Penelope,  55

284

Index

—and Odysseus:  1, 2, 43, 51, 52, 54–6, 57, 58–9, 74, 85, 89, 134, 136, 183, 257; offers him immortality,  53, 55, 74, 257; wanted to make him her husband,  1, 89, 257; kept him for seven years,  74; helps him to make raft, and sends him off,  55–6, 74 Kassandra, daughter of Priam, Agamemnon’s concubine, killed by Klytaimnestra:  121 Kastor (1), son of Tyndareos and Leda, brother of Polydeukes, alternates life and death:  119 Kastor (2), fictitious Cretan father of Odysseus, and son of Hylax:  151 Kaukonians, a tribe in Triphylia, W. Peloponnese:  28 Kephallenia, general term for Odysseus’ kingdom:  266 Kephallenians:  a) inhabitants of (mainland?) part of Odysseus’ kingdom,  223 b) generally, the people of Odysseus’ kingdom,  266, 267 Keteians, people ruled by Eurypylos:  123 Kikones, people of Thrace, living in Ismaros:  90, 92, 257; attacked by Odysseus and his contingent, and rout them,  90 Kimmerians, people living at the furthest extent of Ocean, in perpetual darkness:  113 KIRKE, goddess, witch:  85, 89, 103–13, 127–30, 132, 133, 257; daughter of Helios and Perse, brother of Aietes,  103–4; told by Hermes that Odysseus would come,  107 —her home in Aiaia:  89, 103, 114, 127 her house:  104, 105, 106, 112

her entourage of bewitched beasts:  105 her servants:  108 —Turns Odysseus’ men into pigs,  105–6, and back again,  108; fails to bewitch Odysseus,  107; sleeps with him,  108; wanted to make him her husband,  89; entertains Odysseus and his men for a year,  110; taught Odysseus knot,  85; tells Odysseus of his journey to Hades,  110–11, and of the perils of his further journey,  127–9, 131, 132; sends favouring wind,  113, 130 Kleitos, son of Mantios, loved by Dawn and made immortal:  164 Klymene, heroine seen by Odysseus in the underworld:  119 Klymenos, father of Eurydike, wife of Nestor:  30 KLYTAIMNESTRA, wife of Agamemnon, mother of Orestes: daughter of Tyndareos,  263; Aigisthos her lover,  1–2, 26 (initial reluctance, and seduction); her treachery to Agamemnon,  25, 35, 121–2, 261, 263; killed Kassandra,  121; killed and buried by Orestes,  27; brought shame on all womankind,  121, 263; contrasted with Penelope,  121–2, 263 Klytios, father of Peiraios:  169, 177 Klytoneos, Phaiacian, son of Alkinoös, running champion:  79 Knossos, city in Crete, ruled by Minos:  208 Kokytos, river of the underworld:  111 Krataïs, mother of Skylla:  129 Kreion, father of Megara:  118

Index Kretheus, son of Aiolos (2), husband of Tyro, father of Aison, Amythaon, and Pheres:  117, 118 Kronos, god, son of Ouranos, father of Zeus:  2 etc. Krounoi, springs near river Chalkis in Elis, W. Peloponnese:  165 Ktesios, king of Syrië, son of Ormenos, father of Eumaios:  167 Ktesippos, suitor, from Same, son of Polytherses,  245; throws cow’s foot at Odysseus, and berated by Telemachos,  225; killed by Philoitios,  245 Ktimene, daughter of Laertes and Antikleia, sister of Odysseus, married to a man in Same:  166 Kydonians, one of the races of people in Crete:  27, 208 Kyllene, mountain in Arcadia, central Peloponnese:  259 Kythera, island off S.E. Peloponnese:  90; Aphrodite goddess of Kythera,  199 Kythereia, epithet of Aphrodite:  82 Laerkes, goldsmith in Pylos:  29 LAERTES, son of Arkeisios (only son, 173),  47 etc., husband of Antikleia,  116–17, father of Odysseus,  5 etc., 35, 47, 166, father of Ktimene, 166: 147, 150, 156, 166, 173–4, 177; as king of the Kephallenians,  266; bought Eurykleia and honoured her,  9 —his ‘burial shroud’:  13, 208, 261 his farm and garden:  263–4, 266 his gift of trees to the young Odysseus:  266 his housekeeper:  5, 263, 266, 267 his shield:  242–3 —Lives a hard life out in the country:  5, 116–17, 174, 263

285

grief for Antikleia:  166 grief for Odysseus:  62, 174, 263, 265; believes him dead,  264–5 Eumaios’ concern for him:  174 Eurykleia’s concern for him:  47 —And Odysseus:  263–6; tested by false stories,  264–5; breaks down,  265; Odysseus revealed, with proofs,  265–6; faints,  266 —Fears reprisals,  266; enhanced by Athene,  266; arms, inspired by Athene, kills Eupeithes,  269; happy to see Odysseus and Telemachos vying,  269 Laistrygonians, monstrous race of cannibals, living in Telepylos:  102–3, 257; their king Antiphates (1),  103, 105; destroy all Odysseus’ fleet except his own ship,  103 Lakedaimon, the kingdom of Menelaos, in S. Peloponnese:  27 etc. Lamos, founder (?) of Telepylos, city of the Laistrygonians:  102 Lampetië, daughter of Hyperion and Neaira:  129, 134 Lampos, one of Dawn’s horses:  256 Land of Dreams, passed on the way to the underworld:  259 Laodamas, favourite son of Alkinoös,  72, 79, 81; boxing champion,  79; matchless dancer,  84; challenges Odysseus to the games,  79–80 Lapiths, tribe of people in Thessaly, N.E. Greece: their king Peirithoös and the feud with the Centaurs,  235 Leda, wife of Tyndareos, mother of Kastor (1) and Polydeukes, seen by Odysseus in the underworld:  119

286

Index

Lemnos, island in N.E. Aegean, favoured by Hephaistos:  82 Leodes, suitor, son of Oinops, priest to the suitors:  232; foretells death from the bow,  232; entreats Odysseus and killed by him,  245 Leokritos, suitor, son of Euenor:  16; killed by Telemachos,  245 Lesbos, island in E. Aegean:  24, 39, 183 Leto, goddess, mother of Artemis,  63, and Apollo,  119, by Zeus: raped by Tityos,  124 Leukotheë,  see Ino Libya, country in N. Africa: visited by Menelaos,  34; 153 Lotus-eaters, people visited by Odysseus, eaters of an amnesiac plant:  90–1, 257 Maia, mother of Hermes by Zeus:  155 Maira, heroine seen by Odysseus in the underworld:  119 Maleia(i), cape at S.E. tip of Peloponnese:  26, 90, 209 Mantios, son of Melampous, father of Polypheides and Kleitos:  163–4 Marathon, town on E. coast of Attika:  70 Maron, son of Euanthes, priest of Apollo at Ismaros, spared by Odysseus:  92–3; his special wine,  93, 95–6 Mastor, father of Halitherses:  14, 268 Medon, Ithakan herald: favoured by the suitors,  176, 184; brings news to Penelope of suitors’ plan to ambush Telemachos,  46–7, 179; spared by Odysseus on recommendation of Telemachos,  246–7; speaks at Ithakan assembly, confirming gods’ role in death of suitors,  268

Megapenthes, son, by a slave woman, of Menelaos, married to the daughter of Alektor:  33; 161 Megara, daughter of Kreion, wife of Herakles, meets Odysseus in the underworld:  118 Melampous, seer, from Pylos then Argos: (118–19),  163–4; his history and descendants,  163–4; father of Antiphates (2) and Mantios, ancestor of Theoklymenos,  164 Melaneus, father of Amphimedon:  261 MELANTHEUS/Melanthios, son of Dolios, brother of Melantho, goatherd, disloyal servant of Odysseus:  185–6, 188, 222, 224, 232, 234, 242–3, 248 —Insults Odysseus and Eumaios, and kicks Odysseus,  185–6; insults Odysseus again,  222; wishes Telemachos were dead, and sure Odysseus is lost,  186; favoured by Eurymachos,  186; brings arms to the suitors from the store-room,  242; caught and bound by Eumaios and Philoitios,  242–3; mutilated,  248 Melanthios,  see Melantheus Melantho, daughter of Dolios, sister of Melantheus, disloyal servant of Odysseus:  201–2, 206–7; brought up by Penelope,  201; concubine of Eurymachos,  201; insults Odysseus,  201, 206; berated by Penelope,  207 Memnon, son of Dawn: handsomest of men,  123; killed Antilochos at Troy,  36 MENELAOS, son of Atreus, brother of Agamemnon, husband of Helen, king of Lakedaimon (Sparta):  6 etc.; father of

Index Hermione and Megapenthes,  33; will be immortal, and translated to the Elysian plain, because son-in-law of Zeus,  44; with Agamemnon, persuaded Odysseus to join expedition to Troy,  261; at sack of Troy,  86–7; quarrel with Agamemnon,  23–4; on hospitality,  160 —his house:  34 his return from Troy:  24, 26–7, 42, 44; returned on the day Orestes buried Aigisthos and Klytaimnestra,  27 his travels:  27; 34, 35, 37, 40–4 (Egypt); 34, 45, 161 (Sidon) his wealth:  27, 34 in Egypt:  27, 34, 35, 37, 40–4; pitied by Eidotheë and helped to trap Proteus,  40–2; told by Proteus of his return, and the fates of other Achaians,  42–4; prophecy of his translation to the Elysian plain,  44; his return home,  44 —And Telemachos in Sparta:  33–45, 145, 159–62, 183–4; grief for Odysseus,  35, 36; would have settled Odysseus in Argos,  36; tells story of Odysseus and the wooden horse,  38; tells of Odysseus held by Kalypso,  43–44; send-off of Telemachos,  160–2; greetings to Nestor,  162 Menoitios, father of Patroklos:  260 Mentes, son of Anchialos (1), king of the Taphians, guest-friend of Odysseus’ family:  4, 9; impersonated by Athene,  3–7 MENTOR, son of Alkimos,  244, old friend of Odysseus, entrusted with the care of his household when Odysseus was away at Troy,  15: 15, 182; supports Telemachos in assembly,  15–16,

287

268; impersonated by Athene, 16, 18–28, 45, 243–4, (268),  269–70; Athene/Mentor threatened by Agelaos,  243 Mermeros, father of Ilos:  6 Mesaulios, servant purchased by Eumaios:  156 Messene, area of Lakedaimon:  229 Mimas, promontory in central Asia Minor (Ionia):  24 Minos, king of Crete, living in Knossos,  208: 119, 124, 191, 208; son of Zeus,  124; would talk with Zeus every nine years,  208; father of Ariadne,  119, and Deukalion,  208; judge in the underworld,  124 Minyans, inhabitants of Orchomenos:  118 Moly, magic plant given by Hermes to Odysseus:  107 Moulios, herald fom Doulichion, servant of Amphinomos:  203 Muse, goddess: daughter of Zeus,  1; inspirer of bards,  86; loved Demodokos, but blinded him,  78; inspires Demodokos,  78; the nine Muses, sang at Achilleus’ funeral,  260 Mykene (1), famous Achaian lady, even so not a match for Penelope:  13 Mykene (2), city in the Argolid, home of Agamemnon:  27, 231; ruled by Aigisthos for seven years,  27 Myrmidons, the inhabitants of Phthia in S. Thessaly, led in war by Achilleus and after his death by Achilleus’ son, Neoptolemos:  24, 33, 122 Naiads, nymphs of springs and rivers: their cave in Ithaka,  139, 144; Odysseus prays to them,  144

288

Index

Naubolos, Phaiacian, father of Euryalos:  79 NAUSIKAÄ, daughter of Alkinoös, king of the Phaiacians, and Arete:  61–7, 69, 74–5, 85–6; her mother Arete,  67; her brothers,  62, 64, 69, 72; her nurse and chambermaid Eurymedousa,  69; compared to Artemis,  63, 64; thoughts/hints of marriage,  61, 62, 64, 66, 75; offered by Alkinoös in marriage to Odysseus,  75 —and Alkinoös:  62; criticised by him, and defended by Odysseus,  75 —and Odysseus,  63–7, 74–5, 85–6 —Athene-inspired dream,  61–2; ball-game with her maids,  63; meets and welcomes Odysseus,  63–5; leads Odysseus to the city,  67; final words with Odysseus,  86 Nausithoös, earlier king of the Phaiacians, who settled them in Scheria:  61; son of Poseidon and Periboia,  70; father of Rhexenor and Alkinoös,  70; prophecy of Poseidon’s anger,  88, 140 Nauteus, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Neaira, goddess, mother by Hyperion of Phaëthousa and Lampetië:  129 Needle Islands, probably the S. Echinades islands, off W. coast of N. Greece, opposite Ithaka:  165 Neïon, mountain in Ithaka:  4–5, 22 Neleian, adjective from Neleus:  45 Neleus, father of Nestor:  21 etc.; king of Pylos in earlier times,  29; son of Poseidon and Tyro,  118; wife Chloris, father of (Nestor), Chromios, Periklymenos, Pero,  118; conditions set for

Pero’s marriage,  118, 163; his crime against Melampous,  163 Neoptolemos, son of Achilleus, leader of the Myrmidons after Achilleus’ death:  24; brought from Skyros to Troy by Odysseus,  123; killed Eurypylos,  123; in the wooden horse,  123; good speaker,  123; betrothed to Hermione, daughter of Menelaos and Helen,  33 —Odysseus tells Achilleus in the underworld of his prowess and exploits:  122–3 Nerikos, city ‘on the mainland’ captured by Laertes:  266 Neriton, mountain in Ithaka:  89, 144 Neritos, co-builder of the fountain outside town of Ithaka:  185 NESTOR, son of Neleus and Chloris,  118, king of Pylos:  6 etc.; ruled over three generations,  26; blessed by Zeus,  37; his son Antilochos killed at Troy,  23, 36–7, 122; his other sons,  29–30; leading speaker at Troy,  123, 260; kind as a father to Menelaos at Troy,  162; his return from Troy,  24, 26, 42; overhospitable,  28, 163 —And Telemachos in Pylos:  21–30, 183; has no news of Odysseus, (24),  183; tells of Aigisthos and Klytaimnestra, and Menelaos’ sojourn in Egypt,  26–7; recognises presence of Athene,  28; sacrifice to Athene,  29–30; gives Telemachos chariot and horses, and his son Peisistratos as escort to Sparta, (27), (28),  30 —Epithet: Gerenian,  22 etc.

Index Nile, river of Egypt:  42, 44, 152, 189 Nisos, king of Doulichion, son of Aretes, father of Amphinomos:  179, 197, 203 Noëmon, Ithakan, son of Phronios, provides ship for Telemachos’ journey to Pylos:  18, 45 Noman, name used by Odysseus to trick Polyphemos:  96–8 Nymphs, daughters of Zeus, deities of the countryside:  63, 92, (108), 133, 139 (Naiads),  155, 185 Ocean, (god of) the river surrounding the earth:  21, 44, 56, 111, 113, 116, 125, 213, 220, 243, 256, 259; father of Perse,  104 ODYSSEUS, son of Laertes, 43 etc., and Antikleia,  114; grandson of Autolykos and Amphithea,  213; no brothers,  173; his sister Ktimene,  166; nursed by Eurykleia,  212; named by Autolykos,  213; supposed etymology of his name,  2, 213; trees given to him as a boy by Laertes,  266; invited to Parnassos by Autolykos, and wounded by boar,  213–14; the mission on which he met Iphitos and was given bow,  229; mission to Ephyre,  6; Agamemnon and Menelaos had difficulty persuading him to join expedition to Troy,  261; left Telemachos new-born in the house,  35, 114, 121–2; his parting instructions to Penelope,  200; Halitherses’ prophecy on his departure for Troy,  14; entrusted care of his household to Mentor,  15 —Odysseus before Troy: recollections,  6

289

(Athene/Mentes),  216 (Penelope),  230–1 (Antinoös); as craftsman,  254–5; as host,  4, 211, 264; gentle king of his people, 12, 15, 46, 51, (179); kind master,  148, 150; his previous substance,  149, 223 —Odysseus at Troy: recollections,  23, 24, 25 (Nestor),  35, 38, 39, 183 (Menelaos),  37–8 (Helen),  57, 144–5 (Odysseus),  78, 87 (Demodokos’ songs),  243 (Athene/Mentor); as spy,  37–8; as wrestler,  39, 183; quarrel with Achilleus,  78; the wooden horse, 38, 87, 123, (243); won judgement for the armour of Achilleus,  123–4 —Athene on his character:  143, 220 Acquisitive:  93, 120, 141, 200, 210–11 appetite/belly:  66, 73, 149, 166, 186, 190, 196, 202 cunning/intelligent:  2, 5, 54, 89, 94, 97, 120, 131, 138, 142, 143, 147, 157, 196, 210, 252, 253 enduring of insults/outrages: (143),  176, 185, 186, 190, 201, 219, 222, 262 inquisitive:  63, 92, 93, 104 lying stories: 142 (to Athene),  151–4 (to Eumaios),  156–7 (to Eumaios), 189 (to Antinoös),  (191),  197–8 (to Amphinomos), 206 (to Melantho),  208–11, 212 (to Penelope),  264–5 (to Laertes);  fictitious assumed names,  96–8 (Noman),  208 (Aithon), 265 (Eperitos) pious:  2, 48, 100, 133, 144, 185, 212, 246 prayers: to the river in Scheria,  59; to Athene,  67; to Zeus,  221

290

Index

skilled speaker:  73, 119, 120, 123, 137, 138, 191, 212 stubborn:  93, 99, 122, 129, 131, 132 suspicious:  54 (of Kalypso),  58 (of Ino/Leukotheë),  101 (of his men),  108 (of Kirke),  143 (of Athene),  196 (of suitors); testing of Eumaios’ hospitality,  156–7, 165; testing of Eumaios and Philoitios,  233; testing of Laertes,  263–5 tears:  54 (on Kalypso’s island), 78–9, 87 (Demodokos’ songs), 175 (Telemachos), 187 (the dog Argos), 255 (Penelope),  263 (Laertes) wishes he had died at Troy:  57 wishes to die:  2, (102), 110 yearning for home:  1, 3, 52, 54, 55, 73, 74, 138 —His bed:  254–5 his bow:  229–30, 236–7 his dog Argos:  186–7 his house:  186, 205, 216, 230, 241–2, 246–7, 248 his scar:  213–14; as proof,  233, 252, 265 his store-room:  17, 229, 230, 242 —Confident of help of Athene and Zeus:  176, 177, 221; diffident,  219–20 disastrous sleep:  101–2, 133–4 favourable omens:  184, 191, 197, 221, 224, 237 fears of revenge from Ithakans:  220, 253, 258, 266, 269 gifts received: 84 (Euryalos),  92–3 (Maron),  96 (Polyphemos),  229 (Iphitos); gifts from Phaiacians,  84–5, 119–20, 137–8, 139, 141, 144, 175, 257 hears of suitors: 115 (from Teiresias),  144–5 (from Athene),  148–9 (from Eumaios),  173, 175–6 (from

Telemachos),  257 (from Penelope) helped by: Hermes,  106–7; Ino/ Leukotheë,  57–8 helped/favoured by Athene, directly or indirectly: among the gods,  2, 51; at Troy,  25, 28, 86–7, 143; between Troy and Phaiacia,  58, 59, 60; lack of overt help between Troy and Phaiacia,  67, 143; in Phaiacia,  61, 63, 65, 67, 69–70, 77, 80–1, 139; in Ithaka, 141–6, 174, (175–6), 180, 188, 196, 202, 205–6, 219–20, 226, 229, 243–4, 245, 254, 255–6, 258, 269 his fame:  7, 47, 49, 89 Poseidon’s anger at him: 1, 2, 56–9, 67, (99), 115, 139–40, 144; future appeasement of Poseidon,  115, 256 prophecies of his return: 5 (Athene/ Mentes),  14 (Halitherses),  51, (53) (Zeus),  54 (Hermes),  99 (Polyphemos),  115 (Teiresias),  162 (Helen),  184 (Theoklymenos) prophecies of hardship on his return: 14 (Halitherses), 54 (Kalypso), 99 (Polyphemos), 115 (Teiresias), 129 (Kirke), 139 (Poseidon), 144 (Athene)  prophecy of his old age and death: 115, 256 (Teiresias); Penelope’s response,  256 prowess with the bow:  81, 230–1, 237, 239–41 recognised by/revealed to: Telemachos,  174–5; his dog Argos,  186–7; Eurykleia,  213– 14; Eumaios and Philoitios,  233; the suitors,  239–40; his maids,  248–9; Penelope,  254–5; Laertes,  265–6; Dolios and his sons,  267

Index soliloquies:  56–7, 58, 59, 60, 63, 141, 219 sufferings/storms at sea:  74, 90, 102, 135–6, 257 transformed/enhanced by Athene:  65, 77, 145–6, 174, 180, 196, 254 —And Athene: pitied by her among the gods,  2, 51; her plan for his return,  51, 269; transformed/ enhanced by her,  65, 77, 145–6, 174, 180, 196, 254; mist shed round him by her,  69–71, 141–4, 258; she will not yet appear to him openly,  67; his complaint of abandonment by her between Troy and Phaiacia,  67, 143; she appears to him openly or in disguise,  69–70, 141–6, 174, 180, 188, 196, 205, 219–20, 243–4, 269–70; rebuked by her, and his courage tested,  243–4; confident of her help,  176, 177; diffident,  219–20; Athene on Odysseus’ character,  143, 220 (see also ‘helped/favoured by Athene’ above) and his companions on the voyage from Troy:  90–1, 92, 94, 96, 98–9, 101–2, 104–5, 108–9, 111–12, 130, 131–5 and Eumaios:  147–57, 165–8, 171, 184–8, 192, 222, 232–4, 242; attacked by his dogs,  147; delighted by his welcome,  148, 156; assures him that Odysseus will return, 150, (153),  155; tells him lying tales,  151–3, 155–6; tests his hospitality,  155–6, 165; asks after Laertes and Antikleia,  166; escorted to town by him,  184–6; met and insulted by Melantheus on the way,  185–6; establishes Eumaios’ loyalty, and reveals himself,  233;

291 sends him to catch and bind Melanthios,  242–3 and Eurykleia:  212–15, 247–8, 249; his feet washed by her, and recognised by his scar,  212–14; threatens her to keep silent,  214–15; restrains her impulse to triumph,  247; asks her for account of maids’ loyalty,  247 and Eurylochos:  106, 109–10, 132–3 and Iros the beggar:  195–7, 199–200, 201, 203 and Laertes:  263–6; tests him with false stories,  264–5; reveals himself,  265–6 and Penelope:  200, 207–12, 215– 17, 252–8; his instructions on leaving for Troy,  200; delighted at her inducement of gifts from suitors,  200; questioned by her,  207–8, 209, 215–16; gives her lying response,  208–10, 210–11; moved by her tears, yet endures,  209; interprets her dream,  216; agrees the trial of the bow,  216–17; smiles at her talk of secrets,  253; vexed by her ‘iron heart’,  254; rises to her test of the bed,  254–5; recognition,  255; tells her of Teiresias’ prophecy,  256; exchange of their stories,  257; his instructions to her,  258 and Philoitios:  223–4, 233–4; establishes his loyalty, and reveals himself,  233 and his disloyal servants:  177, 185–6, 201–2, 206–7, 212, 215, 219, 222, 233, 242–3, 247–9; and Melantheus,  185–6, 222, 242–3, 248–9; and Melantho,  201–2, 206–7; execution of the disloyal maids, (215),  248

Index

292

and Telemachos:  171–7, 181, 196, 205–6, 231, 237, 241, 242, 246, 247, 253, 269; reveals himself to Telemachos in Eumaios’ hut,  174–5; lays plans with him for destruction of suitors, 175– 7,  205; warns him not to string bow,  231; accepts his advocacy of Medon and Phemios,  246–7; plans against revenge for suitors,  253; vies with him,  269 —and the suitors: hears of them from Athene,  144–5; Eumaios,  148–9; Telemachos,  173, 175–6; Penelope,  257; plans for their destruction, with Athene,  144–5, 219–20, with Telemachos,  175–7; with Eumaios and Philoitios,  233– 4; anxious about outcome,  219; confident of outcome,  221, 223; begs from them in his own house,  188–90; congratulated on his victory over Iros,  197; tends fires for them,  202–3; insults and missiles,  189–90, 202–3, 225, 262; trial of the bow,  216–17, 229–37, 262; their slaughter,  239–47, 262; kills Antinoös,  239, (262), Eurymachos,  240–1, Demoptolemos,  244, Eurydamas,  244, Agelaos,  245, Leodes,  245; Odysseus and Amphinomos,  197–8, 203; and Antinoös,  189–90, 197; and Eurymachos,  202–3; and Ktesippos,  225 * His adventures and travels after leaving Troy (mainly  54–139; summary account to Penelope, 257): Aiolos,  101–2, 257; entertained for a month, sent on way with

favouring wind and other winds enclosed in bag,  101; within sight of Ithaka,  101; his men open the bag, blown back to Aiolos’ island,  101; appeal to Aiolos rejected,  102 Cattle of the Sun, in Thrinakia,  1, 115, 129, 132–5, 210, 257; warned by Teiresias,  115, 132; warned by Kirke,  129, 132; his men, persuaded by Eurylochos, kill and eat the cattle,  133–5; monstrous portents,  134 Cyclops (Polyphemos),  2, 11, 91–100, 131, 219, 257; goat-hunt on the off-lying island,  92; Odysseus’ entreaty rejected,  94; six men killed and eaten,  11, 94, 95; intoxicates Polyphemos,  95–6; ‘Noman’ ruse,  96, 97, 98; blinds Polyphemos,  96–7; contrives escape from cave,  97–8; taunts Polyphemos, and tells him his real name,  98–9; cursed by Polyphemos,  99; sacrifices ram to Zeus,  100 Kalypso,  1, 2, 43, 51, 52, 54–6, 57, 58, 74, 85–6, 89, 134, 136, 183, 257; offered immortality by her,  53, 55, 74, 257; she wanted to make him her husband,  1, 89, 257; helped by her to make raft, and sent on his way,  55–6, 74; stayed with her for seven years,  74 Kikones,  90, 92, 257; sacked their city, Ismaros,  90; spares Maron, priest of Apollo,  93; routed by them, loses six men from each ship,  90 Kirke,  85, 89, 103–12, 127–30, 132, 133, 257; his men turned into pigs,  105–6, and back again,  108; met and helped by Hermes,  106–7; not bewitched by her, and sleeps

Index with her,  107–8; spends a year in her house,  110; told by her of his journey to Hades,  110–11, and of the perils of his further journey,  127–9, 131, 132; Elpenor’s death in her house,  111–2, 114, and burial,  127; taught knot by her,  85 Laistrygonians, in Telepylos,  102–3, 257; kept his ship alone outside the harbour, all other ships and their men destroyed,  103 Lotus-eaters,  90–1, 257 Phaiacia (Scheria),  59–139, 210, 257 —and Alkinoös:  75, 81–2, 87–8, 120, 137–8 and Arete:  71–2, 73–4, 85, 138 and Demodokos:  86 and Euryalos:  80, 84–5 and Nausikaä:  63–7, 74–5, 86; covers his nakedness,  63; entreats her,  64; led by her to the city,  67; defends her,  75; offered her in marriage by Alkinoös,  75; final words,  86 —Marvels at Alkinoös’ palace and garden,  70–1; his reception in Alkinoös’ house,  71–5; affected by Demodokos’ songs,  78–9, 87; stung by Euryalos to throw discus and challenge all at the games,  80–1; amends from Euryalos,  84–5; admires Phaiacian dancing,  82, 84; gifts given by the Phaiacians,  84–5, 119–20, 138, 140, 141, 144, 175, 257; tells them of his travels and troubles,  73–4, 89–136; given escort home, (72–3), 138–9 (175), (177)  Sirens,  128, 130–1, 257; the Sirens’ song,  130 Skylla and Charybdis,  128–9, 131–2, 135–6, 257; six men taken and

293

eaten by Skylla,  131–2; driven back alone past Skylla and Charybdis,  135–6 The Underworld,  113–19, 120–5, 256–7; Kirke’s instructions,  110–11; the Kimmerians,  113 —and Achilleus,  122–3; and Agamemnon,  120–2; and Aias (1),  122, 123–4; and Antikleia,  114, 116–17, 257; and Elpenor,  114; and Herakles,  124–5; and the pageant of women,  117–19; and Teiresias,  114–16, 256, 257; the great sinners,  124–5 His companions: folly at Ismaros,  90; routed by Kikones, six lost from each ship,  90; affected by lotus,  90–1; six killed and eaten by Polyphemos,  11, 94, 95; urge Odysseus to leave Polyphemos’ cave,  93; four help Odysseus blind Polyphemos,  95–6; open bag of winds,  102; all ships and men, other than Odysseus’ ship, destroyed by Laistrygonians,  103; divided into two parties,  105; turned into pigs by Kirke,  105–6, and back again,  108; in Kirke’s house for a year,  110; death of Elpenor,  112, 114, and his burial,  127; ears filled with wax to pass Sirens,  130; six taken and eaten by Skylla,  131–2; eat cattle of the Sun,  1, 133–5, 210; all remaining men killed in shipwreck caused by Zeus,  74, 135, 210 (see also Elpenor, Eurylochos, Perimedes, Polites) * —Raft wrecked by Poseidon,  56–7, 74; pitied and saved by Ino/

294

Index

Leukotheë,  57–8, 60; lands in Scheria,  59–60; ship wrecked by Zeus, all companions lost,  74, 135, 210; conveyed home by Phaiacians,  138–9; fails to recognise Ithaka,  141, then mist dispelled and kisses earth,  144; transformed into old man and beggar by Athene,  145–6, 180; and his dog Argos,  186–7; enters his own house as beggar,  187; fight with Iros,  195–7, 199–200, 201, 203; removal of arms and armour from hall, (176–7), 205, (239),  262; trial of the bow, (216–17), 229–37, (262); slaughter of suitors, 239–247, (262); spares Medon and Phemios,  246–7; cleansing of the house,  248–9; execution of disloyal maids,  248; plans against revenge for the suitors,  253, 258; bathed by Eurynome in his own house,  254; Odysseus and his men set out for Laertes’ farm,  258, 263; battle with Ithakans,  269–70; stopped by Athene and Zeus, and truce made,  270 Ogygia, island, home of Kalypso:  3, 64, 73–74, 136, 257 Oichalia, city in Thessaly, N.E. Greece, home of Eurytos:  81 Oidipous, king of Thebes (1), son and husband of Epikaste:  118 Oïkles, son of Antiphates (2), father of Amphiaraos:  163 Oinops, father of Leodes:  232 Okyalos, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Olympos, mountain in N.E. Thessaly, home of the gods:  3 etc., 119; home of the gods described,  62

Onetor, father of Phrontis:  26 Ops, son of Peisenor (1), father of Eurykleia:  9, 17, 222 Orchomenos, city of the Minyans, in Boiotia:  118, 122 ORESTES, son of Agamemnon and Klytaimnestra: killed Aigisthos to avenge his murder of Agamemnon,  1–2, 7, 25, 27, 43; killed his mother,  27; Agamemnon’s ghost enquires of him,  122; example to Telemachos,  7, 25 Orion, hunter, loved by Dawn, killed by Artemis:  53; handsomest of men,  119; in the underworld,  124; (turned into) constellation,  56 Ormenos, father of Ktesios and grandfather of Eumaios:  167 Orsilochos, son of Idomeneus:  142 Ortilochos, son of Alpheios, father of Diokles:  30, 162, 229 Ortygia, unidentified place, perhaps Delos:  53, 167 Ossa, mountain in E. Thessaly:  119 Otos, son of Poseidon and Iphimedeia, brother of Ephialtes: giant, attempted war on the gods, killed by Apollo,  119 Paiëon, god of healing:  37 Pallas, epithet of Athene:  3 etc. Pandareos, father of the nightingale (Aëdon):  215; killed by the gods, and the fate of his daughters,  220 Panopeus, town in Phokis:  124 Paphos, city in Cyprus, where Aphrodite has her precinct:  84 Parnassos, mountain above Delphi, home of Autolykos, where Odysseus received his scar:  213–14, 233

Index Patroklos, son of Menoitios,  260, closest friend of Achilleus, killed at Troy by Hektor:  23, 122, 259, 260 Peiraios, son of Klytios, companion of Telemachos:  169, 182; accommodates Theoklymenos,  169, 182, 226 Peirithoös, king of the Lapiths:  235; friend of Theseus,  125 Peisandros, suitor, son of Polyktor (2):  201, 244; killed by Philoitios,  244 Peisenor (1), father of Ops, grandfather of Eurykleia:  9, 17, 222 Peisenor (2), Ithakan herald:  12 PEISISTRATOS, son of Nestor, Telemachos’ companion on his journey from Pylos to Sparta and back:  21–2, 29, 30–9, 159–63 —Welcomes Telemachos and Athene,  21–2; remembers his brother Antilochos,  36–7; helps Telemachos avoid further hospitality from Nestor,  163 Pelasgians, one of the races of people in Crete:  208 Peleus, son of Aiakos,  122, father of Achilleus:  78 etc.; Achilleus’ concern for him,  122–3 Pelias, son of Poseidon and Tyro, brother of Neleus, lived in Iaolkos:  118 Pelion, mountain in E. Thessaly:  119 PENELOPE, wife of Odysseus, mother of Telemachos: 5 etc.; daughter of Ikarios,  7 etc.; given maid Aktoris by Ikarios on her marriage,  255; brought up Melantho, 201 (berates her,  207); Odysseus’ instructions to her on leaving for Troy,  200; the clothes she gave him,  209–10; Antikleia

295

gives news of her to Odysseus in the underworld,  116; steadfast in the house,  116, 172 —best of women:  200, 211, 231, 263 compared with the great Achaian ladies of the past,  13; with Kalypso,  55; contrasted with Klytaimnestra,  121–2, 263; likened to Artemis or Aphrodite,  181, 206; enhanced by Athene,  199 criticised: by Telemachos,  221 (‘impulsive’), 253 (‘hard-hearted’); by Eurykleia, 252 (‘always a doubting heart’); by Odysseus, 254 (‘iron heart’); by herself, 255 (‘stubborn heart’) curses name of Ilios:  210, 217, 251 dreams: comforting dream sent by Athene,  48–9; of geese and eagle, interpreted by Odysseus,  215– 16; of Odysseus sleeping beside her,  220; Penelope on dreams,  216 her chair:  206 her fame:  207, 263 her gifts from Athene: 13, (199) her good sense/intelligence:  13, 121, 144, 200, 207–8, 211, 253, 261, 263 likens herself to the nightingale: 215 news of Odysseus: none from Iphthime-dream,  48; vagrants with lying tales, (9),  149, 154; none via Nestor in Pylos,  183; on Kalypso’s island (via Menelaos),  183; Odysseus’ own lying tales,  208–11; will not believe Eurykleia,  251–2 paradigm of Helen:  255 question of marriage to one of the suitors:  6, 12, 13, 15, 116, 144,

296

Index

159, 169, 172, 173, 200–1, 207–8, 211, 215, 216, 225–6, 230–1, 261; her dilemma,  172, 173, 215 recluse:  169, 207 ruse of the web:  13, 207–8, 261–2 thinks Odysseus will not return: 211, 252 wishes to die: 199, 220 —And Antinoös:  179, 200–1, 235 and Athene:  8, 13, 48–49, 180, 199; her gifts,  13; inspired by her,  198, 229; enhanced by her,  199; sent to sleep by her,  8, 180, 199, 217, 236; prays to her, and sent comforting dream,  48–49 and Eumaios: (145),  154, 166, 177–8, 191–2 and Eurykleia:  47–8, 212, 251–2 and Eurymachos:  179–80, 200, 235–6 and her maids:  13, 47–8, 190–1, 198–9, 206–7, 208, 211, 262 and Melantho:  207 and Odysseus:  200, 207–12, 215–17, 252–8; questions him,  207–8, 209, 215–16; tells him of the suitors, and the ruse of the web,  207–8; moved to tears by his stories of meeting Odysseus,  209, 210; tells him of dream of geese and eagle,  215– 16; announces intention to set up trial of the bow,  216; slow to recognise Odysseus,  252–3; tests him about their bed,  254; recognition, and yielding,  255; response to Teiresias’ prophecy,  256; exchange of their stories,  257; Odysseus’ instructions to her,  258 and the suitors: appears before them,  7–8, 179–80, 199–201, 230–6; shames them into giving

gifts,  200–1; Penelope on the suitors,  190–1, 192, 207–8, 211, 230, 257; hears all said at their last meal,  227 (see also ‘question of marriage . . . ’, ‘and Antinoös’, ‘and Eurymachos’ above) and Telemachos:  8, 181–2, 183–4, 199–200, 236, 253; wonders at his new authority, 8, (182),  236; criticises him,  199; criticised by him,  221, 253 —Chides Phemios,  7; hears of Telemachos’ mission to Pylos and Sparta, and suitors’ plans for ambush,  46–8, 179; berates Antinoös for plotting Telemachos’ death,  179; indignant at Antinoös’ treatment of beggar/Odysseus,  190–1; asks beggar/Odysseus to meet her,  191–2; weeps over Odysseus’ bow,  230; sets up the trial of the bow, (216),  229–30; will not believe Eurykleia, thinks it must have been a god killing the suitors,  251–2 Periboia, daughter of Eurymedon, mother of Nausithoös by Poseidon:  70 Periklymenos, son of Neleus and Chloris:  118 Perimedes, one of Odysseus’ companions:  113, 130–1 Pero, daughter of Neleus and Chloris, won by Melampous as bride for his brother:  118, 163 Perse, daughter of Ocean, mother by Helios of Kirke and Aietes:  104 Persephone, daughter of Zeus,  117, wife of Hades, goddess of the underworld:  110, 111, 112, 114, 117, 120, 125; her wood,  111 Perseus, son of Nestor:  29 Phaëthon, one of Dawn’s horses:  256

Index Phaëthousa, daughter of Hyperion and Neaira:  129 PHAIACIANS, inhabitants of Scheria: 51 etc.; stock of Poseidon,  139; close to the gods,  49, 65, 73; their history,  61, 70; no other mortals have contact with them,  65, 66; some ‘critical types’/ inhospitable to strangers,  66, 69; Alkinoös their king,  61, 65, 120; pirates,  69; give passage to men,  77, 88, 175; resented by Poseidon,  88; prophecy of Poseidon’s anger,  88, 140; its fulfilment,  140; libations to Hermes,  71 —their city:  66, 69–70; temple of Poseidon,  66; wood sacred to Athene,  67 their interests and skills: ships,  66, 69, 71, 75, 81; weaving,  71; games,  79, 81; dancing and song,  81–84; Alkinoös on their pleasures,  81 the magical speed of their ships:  69, 75, 87–88, 138 —Odysseus in Phaiacia:  59–139, 210, 257 —Suitors for Nausikaä,  66; assembly,  77–8; games,  79–81; gifts to Odysseus,  84–5, 119–20, 137–8, 139, 141, 144, 175, 256; escort Odysseus home, (72–3), 138–9, (175), (177); ship turned to stone by Poseidon on its return from Ithaka,  140; sacrifice to appease Poseidon, 140 (see also Alkinoös, Arete, Nausikaä) Phaidimos, king of the Sidonians, entertained Menelaos:  45, 161 Phaidra, heroine seen by Odysseus in the underworld:  119 Phaistos, city in S. central Crete:  27

297

Pharos, island off coast of Egypt:  40 Pheai, cape on coast of Elis, W. Peloponnese:  165 Pheidon, king of the Thesprotians:  153, 210–11 PHEMIOS, Ithakan bard, son of Terpios,  246, reluctant singer for the suitors:  4, 7–8, 176, 186, 246, 253, 268; chided by Penelope,  7; spared by Odysseus on recommendation of Telemachos,  246 —sings of homecoming of the Achaians:  7 sings at the dancing after death of suitors:  253 Pherai (1), city in Messenia, S.W. Peloponnese: home of Diokles,  30, 162 Pherai (2), city in Thessaly, home of Eumelos and Iphthime:  48 Pheres, son of Kretheus and Tyro:  118 PHILOITIOS, Odysseus’ cowherd:  222 etc.; the prosperity of his herds,  223 —and Odysseus:  223, 233–4; mourns Odysseus and prays for his return,  223, 233; loyalty established, and welcomes the revealed Odysseus,  233 —Serves at table for suitors:  224; weeps at sight of Odysseus’ bow,  230; locks door of yard, (234),  236–7; arms and joins Odysseus at the threshold,  241; with Eumaios, catches and binds Melanthios,  242–3; kills Peisandros,  244, and Ktesippos,  245; helps cleanse the house,  248; arms for battle against the Ithakans,  269 Philoktetes, son of Poias, leader at Troy of the Thessalians from

298

Index

Methone, etc.:  24; the greatest Achaian archer at Troy,  81 Philomeleïdes, wrestler beaten by Odysseus in Lesbos:  39, 183 Phoibos, epithet of Apollo:  26 etc. Phoinicia, country on the coast of Syria (Lebanon):  34, 152–3; visited by Menelaos,  34 Phoinicians, people of Phoinicia (q.v.): Phoinicians as seamen/ traders,  142, 152–3, 167–8 Phorkys, sea-god, father of Thoösa, grandfather of Polyphemos:  2; the harbour of Phorkys in Ithaka,  139, 144 Phronios, father of Noëmon:  18, 45 Phrontis, son of Onetor, Menelaos’ helmsman, killed by Apollo:  26 Phthia, area of S. Thessaly, home of Peleus and Achilleus:  122 Phylake, city in Thessaly, home of Phylakos and Iphikles:  118, 163 Phylakos, father of Iphikles, ruler of Phylake:  163 Phylo, one of Helen’s maids:  35 Pieria, mountainous area of Thessaly around Mt Olympos:  52 Pleiades, constellation:  56 Poias, father of Philoktetes:  24 Polites, one of Odysseus’ companions:  105 Polybos (1), father of Eurymachos:  9 etc. Polybos (2), host of Menelaos and Helen in Egyptian Thebes:  35 Polybos (3), Phaiacian craftsman:  84 Polybos (4), suitor:  244; killed by Eumaios,  244–5 Polydamna, Egyptian woman, wife of Thon, gave drugs to Helen:  37 Polydeukes, son of Tyndareos and Leda, brother of Kastor (1), alternates life and death:  119 Polykaste, youngest daughter of Nestor: bathes Telemachos,  30

Polyktor (1), co-builder of the fountain outside town of Ithaka:  185 Polyktor (2), father of Peisandros:  201 Polyneos, Phaiacian, son of Tekton, father of Amphialos:  79 Polypemon, father of Apheidas in Odysseus’ fiction:  265 Polypheides, seer, son of Mantios, father of Theoklymenos:  164 POLYPHEMOS, Cyclops, son of Poseidon,  2, 97, 99, 115, and Thoösa, 2: 2,  92–100, 105, 109, 131, 219, 256; shepherd,  92 etc.; his monstrous size,  92; cares nothing for Zeus,  94; Poseidon’s anger for his blinding, 2, (99),  115, 144 —his cave:  92, 93; the doorstone,  93, 95, 97 his club:  95 —Cannibal: killed and ate Antiphos, son of Aigyptios,  11; others of Odysseus’ men, a total of six,  94, 95 —Intoxicated,  96; blinded,  96–7; fooled by ‘Noman’ ruse,  96, 97, 98; and his ram,  98; taunted by Odysseus, and told his real name,  98–9; throws rocks at Odysseus’ ship,  98, 99–100; recalls prophecy,  99; prays to Poseidon, and curses Odysseus,  99 Polytherses, father of Ktesippos:  245 Ponteus, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Pontonoös, herald of Alkinoös:  72, 78, 138 POSEIDON, god, brother of Zeus: 1 etc.; god of the sea,  24, 40, 69, 121, 129, 255, 261; spectator of Aphrodite and Ares entrapped, stands bail for Ares,  83–4; shipwrecked and killed Aias (2),  42–3

Index —father of Polyphemos:  2, 97, 99, 115 father of: Nausithoös, by Periboia,  70; Neleus and Pelias, by Tyro (Poseidon impersonating Enipeus),  117–18; Otos and Ephialtes, by Iphimedeia,  119 —His anger at Odysseus: 1, 2, 56–9, 67, (99), 115, 139–40, 144 his future appeasement by Odysseus:  115, 256 —And Zeus:  139–40 and the Phaiacians: their patron,  69, 139; his temple in their city,  66; resents their giving passage to men,  88, 139–40; turns their ship to stone,  140 Athene’s deference to him:  67, 144 —Visits Ethiopians,  1, and returns,  56; feast in his honour at Pylos,  21–2; creates storm to wreck Odysseus’ raft,  56–8, 74 —Epithet: Earthshaker,  21 etc. Pramnian, a type of wine (location of Pramnos unknown):  105 Priam, king of Troy:  23 etc.; father of Kassandra,  121 Prokris, heroine seen by Odysseus in the underworld:  119 Proreus, young Phaiacian noble:  79 PROTEUS, god, the Old Man of the Sea: father of Eidotheë,  40; servant of Poseidon,  40; takes various shapes,  41, 42 —and Menelaos:  40–4, 183; tells Menelaos of his return, and the fates of other Achaians (Aias (2), Agamemnon, Odysseus),  42–4, 183; prophesies Menelaos’ translation to the Elysian plain,  44 Prymneus, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Psyra, small island in E. Aegean, W. of Chios:  24 Pylos, city and district in S.W. Peloponnese, home of Nestor:  3

299

etc.; home of Neleus,  29 etc.; original home of Melampous,  163 —Telemachos in Pylos:  21–31, 163–5, 183 Pyriphlegethon, river of the underworld:  111 Pytho, town in Phokis, the later Delphi:  78, 124; Apollo’s oracle there,  78 Raven’s Rock, landmark near Eumaios’ hut in Ithaka:  145 Rhadamanthys, ruler in the Elysian plain:  44; conveyed by the Phaiacians,  75 Rheithron, harbour in Ithaka:  4–5 Rhexenor, son of Nausithoös, brother of Alkinoös and father of Arete, killed by Apollo:  70, 72 Rumour:  6, 15; spreads news of death of suitors,  267 Salmoneus, father of Tyro:  117 Same/Samos, an island, probably the later Kephallenia, off W. Greece close to Ithaka:  6, 46, 49, 89, 159, 166, 173, 176, 207, 225; home of  24 of the suitors,  176 Samos,  see Same Scheria, the land of the Phaiacians:  51, 56, 57, 61, 70, 140 Sicilians, inhabitants of the island of Sicily:  226; Laertes’ Sicilian housekeeper, (4–5),  263, 266, 267; mother of the sons of Dolios,  267 Sicily:  265 (see also Sicilians) Sidon, city in Phoinicia:  143, 167 (see also Sidonians) Sidonians, inhabitants of Sidon, visited by Menelaos:  34, 45, 161; their king Phaidimos,  45, 161 Sintians, people of Lemnos:  82

300

Index

Sirens, singers who bewitch men to their doom, passed by Odysseus and his ship:  128–9, 130–1, 257; their song,  130 Sisyphos, his punishment in the underworld:  124 Skylla, six-headed monster living opposite Charybdis:  128–9, 131–2, 133, 135, 257; daughter of Krataïs,  129; her rock and cave,  128, 131–2 Skyros, island in central Aegean, the place of Neoptolemos’ rearing:  123 Solymoi, a people in Lycia, S. Asia Minor:  56 Sounion, cape at southern tip of Attika:  26 Sparta, city in Lakedaimon, home of Menelaos:  3 etc. —Telemachos in Sparta:  33–45, 145, 159–62, 183–4 Spinners, goddesses, Fates, determining men’s destiny at birth:  73 Stratios, son of Nestor:  29 Styx, river of the underworld:  111; the oath of the gods:  54 SUITORS: from Ithaka and other islands,  6, 173, 176, 207; their provenance and number (a total of 108 plus attendants),  176; in Odysseus’ house for three years,  144; Nestor had heard of them,  25; Menelaos’ reaction to news of them,  39; in the underworld,  259, 261–3 —ambush of Telemachos: suitors agree Antinoös’ proposal, 46, (48); set ambush,  49, 145, 150, 159; failure of ambush,  145, 159, 178, 180; response to failure,  178–9

assembly: (46),  178–9 Athene planning/promoting their doom: 144–5, 159–60, 174, 188, 203, 205–6, 224–6, 244, 245, (268) more decent feelings/ responses:  190 (criticism of Antinoös);  179, 197, 203, 224 (Amphinomos);  225–6 (Agelaos);  232, 245 (Leodes) no fear of gods’ vengeance:  148, 223, 239–40 (but cf. 179, 190)  prophecies of their doom:  14 (Halitherses);  39, 183 (Menelaos);  16, 145, 159 (Athene);  115 (Teiresias);  184, 226 (Theoklymenos);  162 (Helen);  191 (Penelope);  150, 176, 198, 216 (Odysseus);  232 (Leodes) public opinion:  12, 15–16, 25, 47, 172, 173, 178, 234, 235, 240, 253–4, 267–8 question of marriage to Penelope:  6, 12, 13, 15, 116, 144, 159, 169, 172, 173, 200–1, 207–8, 211, 215, 216, 225–6, 230–1, 261; will not leave until Penelope marries one of them,  13, 15, 201 the trial of the bow:  216–17, 229–37, 262 their amusements: backgammon,  3; beggarbaiting,  195–7; discus, etc.,  45, 184; song and dance,  4, 9, 201 their consumption:  3, 5–6, 12, 15, 39, 148–9, 173, 184, 191, 225, 227, 257 their insolent behaviour:  3, 5–6, 25, 144, 165, 172–3, 192, 198, 222, 225, 239–40; their behaviour seen as crime deserving (divine) punishment,  12, 148, 222, 226, 227, 245, 247, 252, 266, 268

Index their slaughter:  239–47, 262; news of it,  267; Odysseus’ fear of revenge,  220, 253, 258; Laertes’ fear of revenge,  266; as yet unburied,  262–3; their carrying out for burial,  267 —And Odysseus: give food to him as beggar,  188–9; encourage fight with Iros,  196–7; insults and missiles,  189–90, 202–3, 225, 262; indignant at his request to try bow,  234–5, 236; Odysseus revealed to them,  239–40; slaughtered by him,  239–47, 262 and Penelope: her appearances before them,  7–8, 179–80, 199–201, 230–32; their desire for her,  8, 199 (weak at the knees); berated by her for plotting Telemachos’ death,  179–80; shamed by her into giving gifts,  200–1; exchanges with Antinoös,  179, 200–1, 235; with Eurymachos,  179–80, 200, 235–6 and Telemachos: relations with him,  3, 8–9, 12–17, 172–3, 178–80, 182, 197, 198, 203, 224, 225–6, 236; amazed at his bold speech, 8, 203, 224, (225); at his skill in setting up the axes,  231; mock him,  17, 226; wish his death,  17, 18, 46, 48, 49, 145, 150, 159, 178–9, 224, 239 —Dissuaded from murder of Telemachos by Amphinomos,  179; indignant at Antinoös’ treatment of Odysseus,  190, cf. 203; unnatural laughter,  226; the trial of the bow,  216–17, 229–37, 262; Hermes conducts their ghosts to the underworld,  259, 261; Amphimedon’s account to

301

Agamemnon in the underworld of Odysseus’ return and the slaughter of the suitors,  261–3 (see also Agelaos, Amphinomos, Antinoös, Eurymachos, Eurynomos, Ktesippos, Leodes, Leokritos) Sun, god (see also Helios, Hyperion): his risings in Aiaia,  127; the Gates of the Sun,  259; watches for Hephaistos,  82–3 Syrië, unidentified island, possibly Syros, birthplace of Eumaios:  167 Tantalos, his punishment in the underworld:  124 Taphians, people from Taphos (q.v.):  3, 4, 9; Mentes their king,  3, 4, 9; traders,  4; pirates, (156),  167, 179 Taphos, unidentified place, home of the Taphians (q.v.):  9, 156, 179 Taygetos, mountain range in S. Peloponnese:  63 TEIRESIAS, Theban prophet, visited by Odysseus in the underworld:  110, 111, 112, 113, 114–16, 122, 132, 256, 257 —Uniquely retains his mind in the underworld,  110; sacrifice to him on Odysseus’ return,  111, 113; his prophecies to Odysseus,  115–16, 256; warns to avoid killing the cattle of the Sun,  115, 132 Tekton, Phaiacian, father of Polyneos:  79 Telamon, father of Aias (1):  123 TELEMACHOS, son of Odysseus and Penelope: 3 etc.; only son,  18; no brothers,  173; left new-born in the house when Odysseus went to Troy,  35, 114, 121–2;

302

Index

nursed by Eurykleia,  9, 181; resemblance to Odysseus,  5, 23, 35–6; Odysseus asks Antikleia in the underworld about him,  116 —attitude to Penelope’s marriage:  172, 173, 208, 215, 226, 231 believes Odysseus dead:  4, 5–6, 8–9, 26, 38, 164 breeding shows:  5, 34, 45 confident/assertive: 8, 12–14, 17, 44, 160, 163, 177, 182, 193, 196, 203, 224, 225, (231), 236, 269 diffident/pessimistic:  4, 5, 6, 12, 16, 21, 25, 36, 172 favourable omens:  11, 14, 162, 169, 191 fears the suitors will kill him: 6, 173, (182) growing authority: perceived by Penelope, 8, (182),  236; perceived by the suitors,  8, 203, 224, 225 need to live up to Odysseus/his breeding:  16, 21, 150, 177, 269 no longer a child: 7, 17, (49),  198, 199, 205, 207, 208, 225 on kingship:  8–9 on Penelope:  221, 230, 253 Orestes an example to him:  7, 25 suitors’ ambush, and its failure:  46, 48, 49, 145, 150, 159, 178, 180 summons and holds assembly of Ithakans:  11–16 —And Antinoös:  8–9, 12–14, 17, 188–9, 224 and Athene: 3–7, 11, 16, 18–19, 21–2, 25–6, (49), (51), (145), 159–60, (165),  182; enhanced by her,  11, 182; inspired by her,  7, 11, 16, 21, 22, 182; Athene his escort to and from Pylos,  16, 18–19, 21–8, 49, 51, 145, 159–60; she calls him back from

Sparta, and warns of the suitors’ ambush,  159–60 and Eumaios:  171–4, 180, 181, 187, 188, 192–3, 236; Eumaios’ concern for him,  150, loyalty to him,  159, love for him,  145, 171 and Eurykleia:  9, 17–18, 181, 205, 221–2, 247 and Eurymachos:  9, 15 and Helen:  161, 162 and Ktesippos:  225 and Menelaos in Sparta:  33–45, 145, 159–62, 183–4; hears stories of Odysseus at Troy,  37–38; hears that Odysseus is held by Kalypso,  43–44; summoned back by Athene,  159–60; sendoff, gifts, omen,  160–2 and Nestor in Pylos:  21–30, 183; no news of Odysseus, (24),  183; hears of murder of Agamemnon,  25–7; given chariot and horses, and Peisistratos as escort to Sparta, (27), (28),  30; avoids further hospitality,  163 and Odysseus:  171–7, 181, 196, 205–6, 231, 237, 241, 242, 246, 247, 253, 269; Odysseus revealed to him in Eumaios’ hut,  174–5; plans for destruction of suitors,  175–7, 205; lists number of suitors,  176; grief for suitors’ treatment of his father, (176),  190, 203; warned not to string bow,  231; advocates sparing of Medon and Phemios,  246; plans against revenge for suitors,  253; vies with Odysseus,  269 and Peisistratos:  21–2, 29, 30–9, 159–63 and Penelope:  8, 181–2, 183–4, 199–200, 236, 253; recounts

Index his journey to Pylos and Sparta,  183–4; critical of her,  221, 253; impresses her with his new authority,  8, (182), 236 and Theoklymenos:  163–4, 169–70, 182–3, 184, 226 and the suitors: his relations with them/views on them,  3, 8–9, 12–17, 172–3, 178–80, 182, 197, 198, 203, 224, 225–6, 236; fears they will kill him, 6, 173, (182); tells them to leave the house, 8, 14, (203); tells them to stop their violence, 224, (225) (see also ‘and Antinoös’, ‘and Eurymachos’, ‘and Ktesippos’ above) —Greets Athene/Mentes,  3; asks suitors for ship,  15; takes Eurykleia into his confidence, makes her swear not to tell Penelope of his journey,  17–18; voyage to Pylos,  19; in Pylos,  21–30, 163–5, 183; in Sparta,  33–45, 145, 159–62, 183–4; return from Pylos, with Theoklymenos,  163–5; arrival in Ithaka,  168–70; return to his house, and welcome by Eurykleia and Penelope,  181–2; with Odysseus, removes arms from hall,  205–6; sets up the axes,  231; nearly strings bow,  231; intervenes to ensure bow gets to Odysseus,  236; arms, and takes his stand by Odysseus,  237; kills Amphinomos, (198),  241; fetches armour,  241; left store-room door open,  242; kills Euryades,  244, Amphimedon,  244, Leokritos,  245; helps cleanse the house,  248; his execution of the disloyal maids,  248; mutilation

303

of Melanthios,  248–9; arms for battle against the Ithakans,  269; vies with Odysseus,  269 Telemos, prophet to the Cyclopes, son of Eurymos:  99 Telephos, father of Eurypylos:  123 Telepylos, city of the Laistrygonians:  102, 257 Temese, town in S.W. Italy noted for copper:  4 Tenedos, island in N.E. Aegean, off Troy:  24 Terpios, father of Phemios:  246 Theban, adjective from Thebes (1):  110, 112 Thebes (1), city in Boiotia: founded by Amphion (1) and Zethos,  118; ruled by Oidipous,  118; scene of Amphiaraos’ death (the ‘Seven against Thebes’),  164 Thebes (2), city in Egypt, famed for its wealth:  35 Themis, goddess of precedent and procedure:  12 THEOKLYMENOS, seer, son of Polypheides:  164; his ancestry,  163–4; in exile from Argos for manslaughter,  163, 164 —Meets Telemachos on shore at Pylos, and given passage,  163–4; interprets omen for Telemachos,  169; accommodated by Peiraios,  169, 182, 226; accommodated by Telemachos in Odysseus’ house,  182–3; prophesies that Odysseus is already in Ithaka, and sowing doom for suitors,  184; prophesies doom for all the suitors, and mocked by them,  226 Theseus, Athenian hero:  119, 125; attempted to carry off

304

Index

Ariadne,  119; friend of Peirithoös,  125 Thesprotians, people of Thesprotia in N.W. Greece:  153, 172, 179, 191, 210–11; their king Pheidon,  153, 210–11; molested by Taphian pirates,  179; allies of Ithaka,  179 Thetis, goddess, mother of Achilleus:  260–1 Thoas, Achaian warrior at Troy, son of Andraimon:  157 Thon, Egyptian visited by Menelaos and Helen, husband of Polydamna:  37 Thoön, young Phaiacian noble:  79 Thoösa, sea-nymph, daughter of Phorkys, mother by Poseidon of Polyphemos:  2 Thrace, country to N. of the Hellespont, favoured by Ares:  84 Thrasymedes, son of Nestor:  22, 29–30 Thrinakia, island where the Sun’s cattle are kept:  115, 129, 210 Thyestes, brother of Atreus, father of Aigisthos:  43 Tithonos, husband of Dawn:  51 Tityos, son of Earth:  75, 124; punished in the underworld for raping Leto,  124 Tritogeneia, epithet of Athene:  28 Trojans, people of Troy (Ilios):  78 etc.; 87, 200 Troy,  see Ilios True Cretans, one of the races of people in Crete:  208 Tydeus, father of Diomedes:  24 Tyndareos, husband of Leda, father of Kastor (1) and Polydeukes:  119; father of Klytaimnestra,  263 Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus, wife of Kretheus:  13, 117–18; fell in love with river(-god) Enipeus,  117; mother, by Poseidon (impersonating Enipeus), of

Neleus and Pelias,  117–18; mother, by Kretheus, of Aison, Amythaon, Pheres,  118 —Not a match for Penelope,  13; meets Odysseus in the underworld,  117–18 Wain, constellation, also known as Bear:  56 Wanderers, dangerous (clashing?) rocks, passed only by the ship Argo:  128, 257 White Rock, landmark on the way to the underworld:  259 Zakynthos, island off W. Peloponnese, S. of Ithaka:  6, 89, 173, 176, 207; home of twenty of the suitors,  176 Zethos, son of Zeus and Antiope, brother of Amphion (1), co-founder of Thebes (1):  118; husband of the nightingale (Aëdon), father of Itylos,  215 ZEUS, god, son of Kronos, husband and brother of Hera:  1 etc.; bedfellow of Leto,  124; ‘no deadlier god’,  223; brought ambrosia by doves,  128; killed Iasion,  53; appointed Aiolos warden of the winds,  101; willed the Trojan war, (23),  78, 151; hatred for Achaian army,  23–4, 124; hatred for family of Atreus,  121; Cyclopes care nothing for him,  94 —father of (gods): Aphrodite,  82, 83; Apollo,  83; Athene,  16 etc.; Hebe,  125; Hermes,  51 etc.; Muse,  1; Nymphs,  63, 92, 185; Persephone,  117 father of (mortals): Amphion (1) and Zethos, by Antiope,  118; Helen,  36 etc.; Herakles, by Alkmene,  118, 229; Minos,  124, 208

Index —And Athene:  2–3, 51, 268–9 and Hyperion:  134 and Poseidon:  139–40 conclave of gods in his house:  1–3, 51 feeder of the Nile:  42, 44 giver of men’s fortunes:  8, 64, 156, 189, 197–8 god of the household:  246 his oracle at Dodona:  153, 211 his will:  23, 51, 53, 78, 94, 119, 139–40, 177, 206, 262, 268 imposer of fate: 1–2, 89, 90, 100, 124, (219) protector of strangers, suppliants, and beggars:  65, 72, 94, 98, 141, 148, 152, 154, 179

305

sender of rain:  91, 96, 156 sender of sickness:  97 sender of signs:  14, 162, 221, 237 sender of storms:  26–7, 53, 74, 90, 133, 134, 135, 153, 257, 260 —Reflects on Aigisthos’ fate,  1–2; prophesies return of Odysseus,  51, (53); authorises Athene to bring Telemachos safe home,  51; sends Hermes to tell Kalypso to release Odysseus, (3), 51–2, (74);  wrecks Odysseus’ ship,  74, 135; wishes truce and harmony in Ithaka,  268–9; stops fighting with thunderbolt flung in front of Athene,  270