Odyssey

By then all the others, all who had escaped sheer destruction, were at home, safe from the war and from the sea. Him alone, longing for his homecoming and for his wife, the lady nymph Calypso, bright among goddesses, held back in her hollow caves, yearning to make him her husband. But when, as the seasons rolled round, the year came in which the gods had spun the thread for him to return home to Ithaca, even there he was not free of trials, even among his own people. All the gods pitied him except Poseidon, who raged unceasingly against godlike Odysseus until he reached his own land.

But Poseidon had gone to visit the Ethiopians far away, the Ethiopians who are split in two, the farthest of men, some where Hyperion sets and some where he rises. He had gone to receive a hecatomb of bulls and rams, and there he sat at the feast and took his pleasure. The other gods, meanwhile, were gathered together in the halls of Olympian Zeus, and the father of men and gods was the first to speak among them. He was thinking in his heart of the noble Aegisthus, whom Agamemnon’s son, far-famed Orestes, had killed, and with him in mind he spoke these words among the immortals:note

“Ah, how mortals blame the gods! They say their troubles come from us, when it is they themselves who, through their own reckless folly, suffer sorrows beyond their portion. Look at Aegisthus now. Beyond his portion he married the wedded wife of Atreus’ son and killed the man on his return, though he knew it meant sheer destruction. We had warned him beforehand. We sent Hermes, keen-sighted Argeïphontes, to tell him not to kill the man and not to court his wife: ‘For vengeance for the son of Atreus will come from Orestes, once he comes of age and longs for his own land.’ So Hermes spoke, but for all his good intent he could not sway Aegisthus’ mind. And now he has paid for everything at once.”

Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him: “Father of ours, son of Cronus, highest of all who rule, that man lies in a death he richly deserved. So may anyone else perish who does such things! But my heart is torn for wise-hearted Odysseus, the ill-fated man, who has long been suffering misery far from his loved ones on a sea-girt island, where the navel of the sea is. It is a wooded island, and a goddess has her home there, the daughter of baleful Atlas, who knows the depths of every sea and himself holds up the tall pillars that keep earth and sky apart.

It is his daughter who keeps the poor man there in his grief. Always, with soft and wheedling words, she charms him, so that he will forget Ithaca. But Odysseus longs to see even the smoke leaping up from his own land, and he longs to die. And still your own heart pays no heed, Olympian. Did Odysseus not please you beside the ships of the Argives, offering sacrifices in broad Troy? Why are you so angry with him, Zeus?” Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: “My child, what a word has escaped the barrier of your teeth! How could I ever forget godlike Odysseus, who is beyond all mortals in mind, and beyond them too in the sacrifices he has given to the immortal gods who hold broad heaven?note

No, it is Poseidon the Earth-holder who is stubbornly, endlessly furious with him, on account of the Cyclops whose eye he blinded: godlike Polyphemus, whose strength is the greatest among all the Cyclopes. The nymph Thoösa bore him, daughter of Phorcys who rules over the barren sea, after she lay with Poseidon in her hollow caves. Ever since then Poseidon the Earth-shaker does not quite kill Odysseus, but drives him wandering away from his native land. But come, let all of us here plan his homecoming, how he may get back. Poseidon will let go of his anger, for he will not be able to fight alone against all the immortal gods, against their will.” Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him:

“Father of ours, son of Cronus, highest of all who rule, if it truly pleases the blessed gods now that wise-minded Odysseus should come home to his own house, then let us send Hermes, the guide, Argeïphontes, to the island of Ogygia, so that he may quickly tell the nymph of the lovely hair our unerring decision: the homecoming of steadfast Odysseus, that he is to return. And I will go to Ithaca, to stir his son on all the more and put courage in his heart, so that he will call the long-haired Achaeans to an assembly and speak out against all the suitors, who keep on slaughtering his thronging sheep and his shambling, crook-horned cattle. And I will send him to Sparta and to sandy Pylos to ask about his dear father’s homecoming, in case he hears something, and so that good fame among men may be his.”

So she spoke, and she bound beneath her feet her beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, which carried her over the water and over the boundless earth as swift as the gusts of the wind. She took up her mighty spear, tipped with sharp bronze, heavy, huge and strong, with which she overpowers the ranks of heroes when the daughter of the mighty father is angry with them. Down she went, darting from the peaks of Olympus, and she stood in the land of Ithaca at Odysseus’ gateway, on the threshold of the courtyard, holding the bronze spear in her hand, in the likeness of a stranger, Mentes, leader of the Taphians. There she found the overbearing suitors. They were amusing themselves with board games in front of the doors, sitting on the hides of oxen they had slaughtered themselves. Heralds and busy attendants were serving them: some were mixing wine and water in the mixing bowls, others were wiping the tables with porous sponges and setting them out, and others were carving meat in plenty.note

Godlike Telemachus was by far the first to see her. He was sitting among the suitors, sad at heart, picturing his noble father in his mind: if only he would come from somewhere and scatter the suitors through the house, and win back his honor and rule over his own household! With these thoughts in his mind, sitting among the suitors, he caught sight of Athena. He went straight to the gateway, ashamed in his heart that a stranger should be left standing so long at the doors. Coming up close, he took her right hand and relieved her of the bronze spear, and he spoke to her winged words: “Greetings, stranger! With us you’ll find a friendly welcome. Then, once you’ve had your fill of supper, you can tell us what you need.” So he spoke and led the way, and Pallas Athena followed.

When they were inside the lofty house, he carried the spear and stood it against a tall pillar, in a rack of polished wood, where many other spears of steadfast Odysseus stood. He led her to a chair and seated her on it, spreading a linen cloth beneath her: a beautiful chair, finely worked, with a footstool under her feet. Beside it he set an inlaid seat for himself, apart from the others, the suitors, so that the stranger, put off by the din, would not lose his appetite for the meal after coming among such arrogant men, and so that he could ask him about his absent father. A maid brought water for their hands in a beautiful golden jug and poured it over a silver basin for them to wash, and beside them she drew up a polished table. The respected housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, adding many dishes, giving freely of what was on hand. A carver lifted platters of all kinds of meat and set them down, and placed golden cups beside them, and a herald came to them again and again, pouring them wine.

In came the overbearing suitors. They sat down in rows on the seats and chairs, and heralds poured water over their hands, maids heaped bread beside them in baskets, and young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with drink. They reached out their hands to the good things lying ready before them. But when the suitors had put away their desire for food and drink, their minds turned to other things, song and dance, for these are the crowning delights of a feast. A herald put a beautiful lyre into the hands of Phemius, who sang among the suitors under compulsion. He struck up on the lyre and began a fine song.

But Telemachus spoke to gray-eyed Athena, holding his head close to her so that the others would not hear: “Dear stranger, will you be offended at what I say? These men care for this sort of thing, the lyre and song—and why not, it’s easy, since they’re eating up another man’s livelihood without paying for it, the livelihood of a man whose white bones are rotting in the rain somewhere, lying on the mainland, or else the waves are rolling them in the sea. If they ever saw him come home to Ithaca, they would all pray to be quicker on their feet rather than richer in gold and clothes. But as it is he has perished, an evil death, and there is no comfort for us, not even if some man on earth says he will come. The day of his homecoming is lost.

But come, tell me this and give me a true account. Who are you among men, and where are you from? Where is your city, and your parents? What sort of ship did you come on? How did sailors bring you to Ithaca, and who did they claim to be? For I don’t suppose you got here on foot. And tell me this truly too, so that I know it well: are you new here, or are you a guest-friend of my father’s family? Many other men used to come to our house, since he too was one who went about among men.” Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke to him in turn:note

“Well then, I will tell you all this quite truly. I am Mentes, I declare, son of wise-hearted Anchialus, and I rule over the oar-loving Taphians. I have just put in here with my ship and my comrades, sailing over the wine-dark sea to men of foreign speech, to Temesa, for copper, and I carry gleaming iron. My ship is moored over there by the fields, away from the town, in the harbor of Rheithron, below wooded Neion. We claim to be guest-friends of each other’s families from long ago, as you’ll learn if you go and ask the old man, the hero Laertes. They say he no longer comes to town, but suffers his troubles far off in the country with an old woman to serve him, who sets food and drink before him whenever weariness takes hold of his limbs as he creeps along the slope of his vineyard.

How I wish I were the son of some fortunate man, whom old age overtook among his own possessions! But as it is, the most ill-fated of mortal men—he is the one they say I come from, since you ask me this.” Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke to him in turn: “Surely the gods have not made your line nameless for the future, since Penelope bore such a son as you. But come, tell me this and give me a true account: what feast is this, what gathering? What need have you of it? Is it a banquet or a wedding? It is certainly no meal where each man brings his share. How arrogantly, how outrageously they seem to me to be feasting through the house! Any man of sense who came among them would be indignant to see so many shameful things.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Stranger, since you ask me this and question me, this house was once on its way to being wealthy and beyond reproach, as long as that man was still here among his people. But now the gods, devising evil, have willed otherwise. They have made him vanish from sight as no other man has. I would not grieve for him so, even if he were dead, had he fallen among his comrades in the land of the Trojans, or in the arms of his friends once he had wound up the war. Then all the Achaeans would have heaped up a burial mound for him, and he would have won great glory for his son as well, in days to come.

But as it is, the Harpies have snatched him away without glory. He is gone, unseen, unheard of, and to me he has left pain and weeping. Nor is it for him alone that I groan and lament, since the gods have made other cruel troubles for me. All the nobles who hold power over the islands, Dulichium and Same and wooded Zacynthus, and all who rule over rocky Ithaca: every one of them is courting my mother and wearing away my house. She neither refuses the hateful marriage nor can bring herself to make an end of it. And they are eating away my household, and soon they’ll tear me to pieces too.” Then Pallas Athena, stirred to indignation, spoke to him:note

“For shame! You really are in sore need of Odysseus, gone so long, to lay his hands on these shameless suitors. If only he would come now and stand at the outer doors of the house, with his helmet and shield and two spears, just as he was when I first saw him in our house, drinking and enjoying himself on his way back from Ephyra, from Ilus son of Mermerus. Odysseus had gone there too on his swift ship, looking for a deadly poison to smear on his bronze-tipped arrows. Ilus would not give it to him, since he feared the indignation of the gods who live forever, but my father gave it to him, for he loved him dearly. If Odysseus, such a man as that, were to mix with the suitors, they would all find a swift death and a bitter marriage.

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Stranger, you say these things with kindly intent, like a father to his son, and I will never forget them. But come, stay a while now, eager though you are for your journey, so that once you have bathed and refreshed your heart, you may go to your ship happy in spirit, taking a gift, precious and very beautiful, to be a keepsake from me, the kind of gift dear guest-friends give one another.” Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him: “Don’t hold me back any longer now, eager as I am for my journey. Whatever gift your heart urges you to give me, give it when I come back again, for me to take home. Choose a very beautiful one, and it will earn you its worth in return.”

So gray-eyed Athena spoke and departed. Like a bird she flew up and away, and in his heart she put strength and courage, and made him think of his father even more than before. He sensed it in his mind and was amazed in his heart, for he thought it was a god. At once he went among the suitors, a godlike man. The famous bard was singing for them, and they sat listening in silence. He sang of the Achaeans’ bitter homecoming from Troy, which Pallas Athena had laid upon them. From the upper room the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, took his wondrous song to heart, and she came down the high stairway of her house, not alone, for two maids went with her.

When she, bright among women, reached the suitors, she stood beside a pillar of the strongly built roof, holding her shining veil before her cheeks, with a trusty maid standing on either side of her. Then, weeping, she spoke to the godlike bard: “Phemius, you know many other songs that enchant mortals, deeds of men and gods that bards make famous. Sing them one of those as you sit here, and let them drink their wine in silence. But stop this song, this bitter song, which always wears away the heart in my breast, since an unforgettable grief has come upon me above all others. So dear a man I long for, always remembering him: my husband, whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her:note

“Mother, why do you begrudge the trusty bard his giving pleasure in whatever way his mind moves him? It isn’t the bards who are to blame. Zeus, I think, is to blame, who gives to men who eat bread, to each as he pleases. No one can blame this man for singing the evil fate of the Danaans, for people praise most the song that comes newest to their ears. Let your heart and spirit bear to listen. Odysseus was not the only one who lost his day of homecoming at Troy; many other men perished too. Go to your rooms and look after your own work, the loom and the distaff, and tell your maids to get on with their work. Speaking will be the concern of men, all of them, and of me most of all, for mine is the authority in this house.”

Amazed, she went back to her rooms, for she took her son’s thoughtful words to heart. She went up to the upper room with her maids, and there she wept for Odysseus, her dear husband, until gray-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids. But the suitors broke into uproar throughout the shadowy halls, and every one of them prayed to lie beside her in bed. Then thoughtful Telemachus began to speak among them: “Suitors of my mother, overbearing in your arrogance, for now let us feast and enjoy ourselves, and let there be no shouting, since it is a fine thing to listen to a bard such as this one, like the gods in voice. But in the morning let us all go and sit in assembly, so that I may tell you my word plainly: leave these halls. Arrange other feasts for yourselves, eating your own possessions, taking turns from house to house.

But if this seems better and more profitable to you, to destroy one man’s livelihood without paying for it, then go on devouring it. I will call upon the gods who live forever, in the hope that Zeus may somehow grant that deeds be paid back in kind. Then you would perish inside this house, and no one would pay for you.” So he spoke, and they all bit their lips and marveled at Telemachus, that he had spoken so boldly. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke to him: “Telemachus, the gods themselves must surely be teaching you to talk big and speak boldly. May the son of Cronus never make you king in sea-girt Ithaca, though it is yours by birth, from your father.”note

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Antinous, will you be angry with me for what I say? I would gladly win that too, if Zeus should grant it. Or do you say it’s the worst thing that can befall a man? It’s no bad thing to be king: a king’s house quickly grows rich, and he himself is held in greater honor. But there are many other lords of the Achaeans in sea-girt Ithaca, young and old, and one of them may have this, since noble Odysseus is dead. But I will be master of our own house and of the slaves whom noble Odysseus won as plunder for me.” Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him:

“Telemachus, it lies on the knees of the gods which of the Achaeans shall be king in sea-girt Ithaca. But may you keep your possessions yourself and be master in your own house. May no man ever come to wrest your possessions from you by force, against your will, while Ithaca is still a place where people live. But I want to ask you, my good friend, about the stranger. Where does this man come from? What land does he claim as his? Where are his family and his native fields? Does he bring some news of your father’s coming, or has he come here on some business of his own? How suddenly he sprang up and was gone, and didn’t stay for us to know him! And yet he didn’t look like a lowborn man in the face.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him:

“Eurymachus, my father’s homecoming is lost, surely. So I no longer trust any news, should any come from anywhere, nor do I care for any prophecy my mother may seek when she calls a seer into the hall. This stranger is a guest-friend of my father’s from Taphos. He says he is Mentes, son of wise-hearted Anchialus, and he is lord of the oar-loving Taphians.” So Telemachus spoke, but in his heart he knew the immortal goddess. They turned to dancing and lovely song and took their pleasure, waiting for evening to come; and as they took their pleasure, dark evening came on. Then each of them went home to lie down. But Telemachus went to bed where his chamber had been built, high up in the beautiful courtyard, in a place with a view all round, pondering many things in his mind.

With him, carrying blazing torches, went Eurycleia, wise in good counsel, daughter of Ops son of Peisenor. Laertes had once bought her with his own wealth when she was still in her first youth, and paid twenty oxen for her. He honored her in his halls as much as his faithful wife, but he never lay with her, for he shrank from his wife’s anger. She it was who carried the blazing torches with him. Of all the maids she loved him most, and she had nursed him when he was little. He opened the doors of the strongly built chamber, sat down on the bed and took off his soft tunic, and put it into the hands of the shrewd old woman. She folded the tunic and smoothed it, hung it on a peg beside the corded bed, and went out of the chamber. She pulled the door to by its silver handle and drew the bolt home with the strap. There all night long, wrapped in a fleece of sheep’s wool, he pondered in his mind the journey Athena had shown him.

When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, the dear son of Odysseus rose from his bed and put on his clothes. He slung his sharp sword around his shoulder, bound fine sandals beneath his shining feet, and went out of his chamber looking like a god. At once he ordered the clear-voiced heralds to summon the long-haired Achaeans to assembly. They made the proclamation, and the men gathered very quickly. And when they had gathered and were all assembled, he went to the assembly with a bronze spear in his hand. He did not go alone: two swift dogs went with him. And Athena poured a wondrous grace over him.

“Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and what I have to say. We have never once held an assembly or a session since godlike Odysseus went away in the hollow ships. So who has called us together now? What great need has come upon him, whether he is one of the young men or one of the older? Has he heard some news of the army coming home, news he could tell us plainly because he learned it first? Or is there some other public matter he wants to raise and speak about? He seems a good man to me. May he prosper! May Zeus bring about some good for him, whatever his heart desires.” So he spoke, and the dear son of Odysseus rejoiced at the omen in his words. He did not stay seated much longer, for he was eager to speak, and he stood up in the middle of the assembly. The herald Peisenor, a man of thoughtful counsel, put the staff into his hand. Then he turned first to the old man and spoke to him:

“Old man, the one who gathered the people is not far off, and you will soon know him yourself: it is I. Grief has come upon me more than on anyone. I have not heard any news of the army coming home, news I could tell you plainly because I learned it first, nor do I want to raise or speak about any other public matter. It is my own need, for trouble has fallen on my house, and it is twofold. First, I have lost my noble father, who was once king among you here and was as gentle as a father. And now there is something far worse, which will soon shatter my whole house utterly and destroy all my livelihood.

‘Young men, my suitors, since godlike Odysseus is dead, wait, eager though you are for my marriage, until I finish this shroud, so that my yarn won’t be wasted and lost. It is a burial shroud for the hero Laertes, for the time when the deadly fate of grievous death lays him low. I don’t want any of the Achaean women in the land to blame me if he lies without a shroud, a man who won such great possessions.’ So she spoke, and our proud hearts were persuaded. Then by day she would weave at the great loom, but at night she would unravel it, with torches set beside her. So for three years she kept her trick hidden and deceived the Achaeans. But when the fourth year came and the seasons rolled round, one of her women who knew it well told us, and we caught her unraveling the splendid web.

So she finished it, against her will, under compulsion. Now here is the suitors’ answer to you, so that you yourself may know it in your heart, and all the Achaeans may know it: send your mother away, and order her to marry whichever man her father bids and who pleases her. But if she keeps tormenting the sons of the Achaeans much longer, relying in her heart on the gifts Athena gave her beyond others: skill in beautiful handiwork, and a good mind, and cunning such as we have never heard of in anyone, not even among the women of old, the Achaean women of lovely hair who lived before, Tyro and Alcmene and Mycene of the fine crown. Not one of them had wits like Penelope’s. Yet in this one thing she has not planned rightly.note

For I will suffer harm from her father, and some god will send me other troubles, since my mother, as she left the house, would call down the hateful Furies, and I would face the indignation of men. So I will never speak that word. But if your own hearts feel indignation at this, get out of my halls. Arrange other feasts for yourselves, eating your own possessions, taking turns from house to house. But if this seems better and more profitable to you, to destroy one man’s livelihood without paying for it, then go on devouring it. I will call upon the gods who live forever, in the hope that Zeus may somehow grant that deeds be paid back in kind. Then you would perish inside this house, and no one would pay for you.”

So spoke Telemachus, and far-seeing Zeus sent two eagles flying from high on a mountain peak. For a while they flew with the gusts of the wind, close beside each other, their wings outstretched. But when they reached the middle of the clamorous assembly, they wheeled about and beat their wings rapidly. They looked down on the heads of all, and their eyes foretold death. Then, tearing each other’s cheeks and necks with their talons, they darted away to the right over the people’s houses and city. The men were amazed at the birds when they saw them with their own eyes, and they pondered in their hearts what was going to come to pass. Then the old hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, spoke among them, for he alone surpassed everyone of his generation at reading birds and declaring what was fated. With good will toward them he addressed them and spoke:

“Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and what I have to say. It is to the suitors above all that I speak and declare these things, for a great disaster is rolling toward them. Odysseus will not be away from his friends much longer. Already, I think, he is somewhere near, sowing death and doom for these men, every one of them. And there will be trouble for many others of us who live in clear-skied Ithaca. Let us take thought well beforehand how we may put a stop to them. Or better, let them stop of their own accord, for that is better for them, and at once. I am not prophesying without experience, but with sure knowledge. For I say that everything has been fulfilled for him just as I told him when the Argives were embarking for Ilium and resourceful Odysseus went with them.

But I’ll tell you plainly, and it will surely come to pass: if you, with all your old lore, lead on a younger man with your talk and goad him into anger, first of all it will go worse for him, and he won’t be able to accomplish anything against these men anyway. And on you, old man, we will lay a fine that will gall your heart to pay. It will be a bitter grief to you. To Telemachus I myself will give this advice, in front of everyone: let him order his mother to go back to her father’s house. Her people will arrange the marriage and prepare the bride-gifts, a great many, as many as ought to go with a dear daughter. For I don’t think the sons of the Achaeans will give up their troublesome wooing before then, since we fear no one at all, certainly not Telemachus, for all his many words. Nor do we care about any prophecy that you, old man, may utter. It will come to nothing, and you’ll only be hated all the more.

For I am going to Sparta and to sandy Pylos to learn about the homecoming of my father, who has been gone so long. Perhaps some mortal can tell me, or I may hear a rumor from Zeus, which more than anything spreads report among men. If I hear that my father is alive and on his way home, then, worn down as I am, I could still hold out for a year. But if I hear that he is dead and no longer living, then I will come home to my dear native land, heap up a mound for him and pay him funeral honors, a great many, as is fitting, and give my mother to a husband.” So he spoke and sat down, and Mentor rose among them. He was a companion of excellent Odysseus, and when Odysseus left in the ships, he had entrusted his whole household to him: it was to obey the old man, and Mentor was to keep everything safe. With good will toward them he addressed them and spoke:note

“Hear me now, men of Ithaca, and what I have to say. Let no sceptered king ever again be eager to be kind and gentle, or keep what is right in his mind. Let him always be harsh and do lawless deeds, since not one of the people he ruled remembers godlike Odysseus, though he was as gentle as a father. Still, I don’t begrudge the overbearing suitors their violent deeds, done out of the evil scheming of their minds. They are staking their own heads when they violently devour the house of Odysseus and say he will never come home. It’s the rest of the people I’m indignant with: the way you all sit there in silence and never once rebuke them and restrain the suitors, though they are few and you are many.” Then Leocritus, son of Euenor, answered him:

“Mentor, you mischief-maker, you witless fool, what are you saying, urging them to make us stop? It’s a hard thing to fight over a feast against men who outnumber you. Even if Odysseus of Ithaca came back in person and set his heart on driving the noble suitors out of his hall as they feasted in his house, his wife would get no joy from his coming, however much she longs for him. No, he would meet a shameful death right there, if he fought against so many. What you’ve said is not right. Come on, people, scatter, each of you to your work. As for this boy, Mentor and Halitherses can speed him on his journey, since they were his father’s companions from the start. But I think he’ll sit here for a long time, collecting his news in Ithaca, and he’ll never make this journey.”

So he spoke, and quickly broke up the assembly. The people scattered, each to his own house, and the suitors went to the house of godlike Odysseus. But Telemachus went off by himself to the seashore, washed his hands in the gray salt water, and prayed to Athena: “Hear me, you who came to our house yesterday as a god and told me to go by ship over the misty sea to learn about the homecoming of my father, so long gone. All of this the Achaeans are holding up, and most of all the suitors, in their wicked arrogance.” So he spoke in prayer, and Athena came close to him, looking like Mentor in both build and voice, and addressing him she spoke winged words:

“Telemachus, you won’t be a coward or a fool from now on, if your father’s fine strength has really been instilled in you—and what a man he was for carrying through both word and deed! Then this journey of yours won’t be in vain or come to nothing. But if you are not his son and Penelope’s, then I have no hope that you will accomplish what you have in mind. Few sons, after all, turn out like their fathers: most are worse, and only a few are better. But since you won’t be a coward or a fool from now on, and the cunning of Odysseus hasn’t wholly deserted you, there is hope that you will see this work through.”

So spoke Athena, daughter of Zeus, and Telemachus did not linger long once he had heard the goddess’s voice. He set off for the house, troubled at heart, and found the overbearing suitors in the hall, skinning goats and singeing fat hogs in the courtyard. Antinous came straight up to Telemachus with a laugh, clasped his hand, and spoke to him, calling him by name: “Telemachus, you braggart, unchecked in your fury, don’t let any other harm, in word or deed, weigh on your heart. Just eat and drink with me, the way you used to. The Achaeans will see to all of this for you—a ship and picked oarsmen—so you can get to holy Pylos all the quicker in search of news of your noble father.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Antinous, there’s no way I can dine with you arrogant men and keep quiet, and enjoy myself in peace. Isn’t it enough that in the past you suitors cut down so many of my fine possessions, while I was still a child? But now that I’m grown and learn by listening to what others say, and the spirit within me is growing, I will try to bring evil doom down on you, whether I go to Pylos or stay here in this land. I am going, and the journey I speak of won’t be in vain—as a passenger, since I have no ship or oarsmen of my own. That, I suppose, is how you thought it best.”

He spoke, and easily pulled his hand out of Antinous’ hand. The suitors were busy preparing the feast throughout the house, and they mocked him and jeered at him, and one of the arrogant young men would say something like this: “Telemachus is plotting our murder, no doubt about it. He’ll bring back men from sandy Pylos to help him, or even from Sparta, he’s so terribly eager. Or maybe he wants to go to Ephyre, that rich land, to fetch life-destroying poisons from there, throw them into the mixing bowl, and kill us all.” And another of the arrogant young men would say: “Who knows? Maybe he too will go off in a hollow ship and perish far from his own people, wandering just like Odysseus.note

That way he’d make even more work for us: we’d have to divide up all his possessions, and give the house to his mother to keep, and to whoever marries her.” So they spoke. But he went down into his father’s high-roofed storeroom, a wide one, where gold and bronze lay piled up, and clothing in chests, and plenty of fragrant oil. In it stood jars of old, sweet-tasting wine, holding the unmixed, divine drink, ranged in a row against the wall, in case Odysseus should ever come home, even after suffering many hardships. Close-fitted double doors shut it in, and a housekeeper was in charge of it night and day, who guarded everything with her shrewd and wide-ranging mind—Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, son of Peisenor. Telemachus called her into the storeroom and said to her:

“Nurse, come, draw off some wine for me in jars—sweet wine, the finest after the one you’re keeping in mind of that ill-fated man, in case Odysseus, sprung from Zeus, should somehow come home, escaping death and doom. Fill twelve, and seal them all with lids. And pour me barley meal into well-stitched skins—let there be twenty measures of milled barley. You alone must know. Get it all gathered together, for I’ll pick it up this evening, once my mother has gone upstairs and is thinking of bed. I’m going to Sparta and sandy Pylos to learn about my dear father’s homecoming, if I can hear anything.”

So he spoke, and his dear nurse Eurycleia let out a wail, and lamenting she spoke winged words: “Why, dear child, has this idea come into your head? Where do you want to go, out over the wide world—you, an only son, so dearly loved? He has perished far from his native land, Odysseus sprung from Zeus, among strangers. And these men, the moment you’re gone, will plot evil against you behind your back, so that you die by some trick, and they themselves share out everything here. No, stay here and sit tight among your own things. There’s no need for you to suffer hardship on the barren sea and go wandering.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her:

“Take heart, nurse: this plan is not without a god behind it. But swear you won’t tell my dear mother any of this until the eleventh or twelfth day comes, or until she misses me herself and hears I’ve gone, so that she won’t ruin her lovely face with weeping.” So he spoke, and the old woman swore the great oath of the gods not to tell. And when she had sworn and completed the oath, she immediately drew off wine for him in jars and poured barley meal into well-stitched skins. And Telemachus went into the house and mixed with the suitors.

Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, thought of something else. Taking the likeness of Telemachus, she went all over the city, and standing beside each man she spoke to him and told them all to gather at evening by the swift ship. She also asked Noemon, the splendid son of Phronius, for a swift ship, and he gladly agreed. The sun set and all the streets grew dark, and then she dragged the swift ship down to the sea and put in it all the gear that well-benched ships carry. She moored it at the far end of the harbor, and the good companions gathered around in a body, and the goddess spurred each one on.

Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, thought of something else. She set off for the house of godlike Odysseus, and there she poured sweet sleep over the suitors. She muddled them as they drank and knocked the cups from their hands. They got up to go to sleep throughout the city and did not stay sitting long, since sleep was settling on their eyelids. But gray-eyed Athena called Telemachus out of the stately hall and spoke to him, looking like Mentor in both build and voice: “Telemachus, your well-greaved companions are already sitting at the oars, waiting for you to give the word to start. Come, let’s go, so we don’t hold up our journey any longer.” So speaking, Pallas Athena swiftly led the way, and he followed in the goddess’s footsteps. And when they had come down to the ship and the sea, they found the long-haired companions on the shore. And Telemachus, in his sacred strength, spoke among them:

“Come on, friends, let’s fetch the provisions. Everything is already gathered in the hall. My mother knows nothing about it, nor do the other maids; only one has heard of it.” So speaking he led the way, and they went with him. They carried everything down and stowed it in the well-benched ship, as the dear son of Odysseus told them. Then Telemachus went aboard the ship; Athena went first and sat down in the stern, and Telemachus sat down close beside her. The men cast off the stern cables, then climbed aboard themselves and sat down at the benches. And gray-eyed Athena sent them a favorable wind, a fresh West Wind, singing over the wine-dark sea.

Telemachus called out to his companions and told them to take hold of the rigging, and they heard his call. They raised the pine mast, set it in the hollow mast-box, and made it fast with forestays, and they hauled up the white sails with twisted oxhide ropes. The wind filled the belly of the sail, and the dark wave roared loudly around the stem as the ship sped on, and she ran over the waves, making her way. Then, when they had made the rigging fast throughout the swift black ship, they set up mixing bowls brimful of wine and poured libations to the immortal gods who live forever, and most of all to the gray-eyed daughter of Zeus. All night long and into the dawn the ship cut her way.

The Sun sprang up, leaving the lovely lake, into the bronze sky, to shine for the immortals and for mortal men upon the grain-giving earth. And they came to Pylos, the well-built citadel of Neleus. There on the seashore the people were making sacrifice of all-black bulls to the dark-haired Earth-shaker. There were nine companies of seats, five hundred men sat in each, and each company held out nine bulls. As they were tasting the innards and burning the thigh-pieces for the god, the travelers put straight in to shore, hauled up and furled the sails of their balanced ship, moored her, and stepped out themselves. Telemachus stepped out of the ship, and Athena led the way. The goddess, gray-eyed Athena, was first to speak to him:note

“Telemachus, there’s no call for shyness now, not the least bit. This is why you sailed across the sea: to learn about your father—where the earth has hidden him and what fate he met. So come, go straight to Nestor, tamer of horses. Let’s find out what counsel he keeps hidden in his breast. Beg him yourself to tell you the plain truth. He won’t lie to you; he is a very wise man.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Mentor, how am I to go? How am I to greet him? I have no practice yet in shrewd speaking, and a young man feels shame to question an older one.”

Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke to him again: “Telemachus, some things you will think of yourself, in your own mind, and others a god will prompt; for I don’t believe you were born and raised without the gods’ good will.” So Pallas Athena spoke, and swiftly led the way, and he followed in the goddess’s footsteps. They came to the gathering and the seats of the men of Pylos, where Nestor sat with his sons, while around him his companions were preparing the feast, roasting some of the meat and spitting more. When they saw the strangers, they all came crowding together, welcomed them with their hands, and invited them to sit.

Nestor’s son Pisistratus was first to come up close. He took them both by the hand and sat them down at the feast on soft fleeces on the sea sand, beside his brother Thrasymedes and his father. He gave them portions of the innards and poured wine into a golden cup, and, greeting her with it, he spoke to Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who holds the aegis: “Pray now, stranger, to lord Poseidon, for it is his feast you have come upon in coming here. And when you have poured a libation and prayed, as is right, then give this man the cup of honey-sweet wine to pour as well, since I think he too prays to the immortals: all men have need of the gods. But he is younger, my own age, so I’ll give the golden cup to you first.”

So saying, he put the cup of sweet wine into her hand. Athena was pleased with this thoughtful, just young man, because he had given the golden cup to her first, and at once she prayed earnestly to lord Poseidon: “Hear me, Poseidon, Earth-holder, and do not begrudge us, who pray to you, the fulfillment of these tasks. To Nestor first of all, and to his sons, grant glory; and then give the rest, all the people of Pylos, a gracious return for their splendid hecatomb. And grant, too, that Telemachus and I may go home having accomplished what we came here for in our swift black ship.”

So she prayed—and she herself was bringing it all to pass. Then she gave Telemachus the fine two-handled cup, and Odysseus’ dear son prayed in the same way. When they had roasted the outer flesh and drawn it off the spits, they divided the portions and feasted a glorious feast. But when they had put away their desire for food and drink, Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, was first to speak among them: “Now is the better time to question the strangers and ask who they are, since they’ve had their fill of food. Strangers, who are you? From where do you sail the watery ways? Are you on some business, or do you roam at random over the sea like pirates, who wander, staking their own lives and bringing harm to men of other lands?”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him, taking courage—for Athena herself had put courage in his heart, so that he might ask about his absent father, and so that good fame might be his among men: “Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, you ask where we come from, and I will tell you. We have come from Ithaca, beneath Mount Neion, and the business I speak of is private, not public. I am following the wide report of my father, in the hope of hearing something—godlike, steadfast Odysseus, who they say once fought at your side and sacked the city of the Trojans. All the others who fought against the Trojans, we have heard where each of them perished in grim destruction; but even his destruction the son of Cronus has left unknown.

No one can say for certain where he perished—whether he was overcome on land by enemy men or out on the open sea among the waves of Amphitrite. That is why I have come now to your knees, in case you are willing to tell me of his grim destruction, if perhaps you saw it with your own eyes or heard the tale of his wanderings from someone else; for beyond all men his mother bore him to misery. Don’t soften anything out of respect for me or pity, but tell me plainly how you came to witness it. I beg you, if ever my father, noble Odysseus, promised you some word or deed and carried it out in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered so much, remember it now for my sake, and tell me the truth.”

Then Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, answered him: “My friend, you’ve reminded me of the misery we endured in that land, we sons of the Achaeans, unchecked in our fury—all we went through on ships over the misty sea, roaming after plunder wherever Achilles led us, and all our fighting around the great city of lord Priam. There the best of us were killed. There lies warlike Ajax, there Achilles, there Patroclus, a counselor equal to the gods, and there my own dear son, strong and flawless both, Antilochus, surpassingly swift of foot and a fighter too. And many other evils we suffered besides. Who among mortal men could tell them all?

Not even if you stayed five years, or six, asking about all the evils the noble Achaeans suffered there—you’d grow weary and go back to your native land before the end. For nine years we were stitching up evil for them, busy with every kind of trick, and the son of Cronus barely brought it to an end. There no one ever wished to match him face to face in cunning, since godlike Odysseus far surpassed everyone in every kind of trick—your father, if you really are his son. Awe takes hold of me as I look at you. Your way of speaking is just like his; you’d never think a younger man could speak so fittingly. All that time godlike Odysseus and I never spoke at odds, whether in the assembly or in council; with one heart, with mind and shrewd counsel, we planned how things might go best for the Argives.

So I came home, dear child, without news, and I know nothing of the others, which of the Achaeans were saved and which perished. But all that I have learned, sitting in my halls, you shall hear, as is right; I won’t hide it from you. They say the Myrmidons, famed spearmen, came home safely, led by the glorious son of great-hearted Achilles; and Philoctetes came home safely too, the splendid son of Poeas. Idomeneus brought back to Crete all his companions who escaped the war, and the sea took none of them from him. As for the son of Atreus, you have heard yourselves, though you live far away, how he came home and how Aegisthus devised his grim destruction. But Aegisthus paid for it dreadfully. So good a thing it is for a man who dies to leave a son behind, since that son, too, took vengeance on his father’s murderer, crafty Aegisthus, who had killed his famous father.

“My friend, since you’ve reminded me of this and spoken of it: they say many suitors, for your mother’s sake, are plotting evil in your halls against your will. Tell me, are you willingly giving way to them, or do the people throughout the land hate you, following some voice from a god? Who knows whether he may come one day and pay them back for their violence, either alone or with all the Achaeans behind him? If only gray-eyed Athena would choose to love you as she cared for glorious Odysseus back then in the land of the Trojans, where we Achaeans suffered griefs—I’ve never seen the gods show love so openly as Pallas Athena openly stood by him—if she would choose to love you like that and care for you in her heart, then some of them would forget all about marriage.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Old man, I don’t think that word will ever come true. What you’ve said is far too much; awe takes hold of me. That could never happen for me, however much I hoped, not even if the gods willed it so.” Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke to him: “Telemachus, what a word has escaped the barrier of your teeth! A god can easily save a man, if he wishes, even from far away. For my part, I would rather suffer many hardships and then come home and see the day of homecoming, than come home and perish at my own hearth, as Agamemnon perished through the treachery of Aegisthus and his own wife. But death, which comes to all alike, not even the gods can ward off from a man they love, when the deadly fate of grievous death lays him low.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Mentor, let’s not talk of this any more, troubled though we are. For him there is no true homecoming now; the immortals have already devised death and black doom for him. But now I want to search out and ask Nestor about something else, since beyond all others he knows what is just and what is wise. They say he has been king over three generations of men, so that he looks to me like an immortal. Nestor, son of Neleus, tell me the truth: how did the son of Atreus, wide-ruling Agamemnon, die? Where was Menelaus? What destruction did crafty Aegisthus devise for him, to kill a far better man than himself? Was Menelaus away from Achaean Argos, wandering somewhere else among men, so that Aegisthus grew bold and struck him down?”

Then Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, answered him: “Well then, my child, I’ll tell you the whole truth. You can guess for yourself how it would have turned out if the son of Atreus, fair-haired Menelaus, coming back from Troy, had found Aegisthus still alive in the halls. Then no one would have heaped up a mound of earth over him even in death. No, the dogs and the birds would have torn him apart as he lay on the plain far from the city, and not one of the Achaean women would have wept for him, so monstrous was the deed he plotted. We were sitting over there at Troy, toiling through one ordeal after another, while he, at his ease in a corner of horse-pasturing Argos, kept trying to beguile Agamemnon’s wife with words.

At first noble Clytemnestra refused the shameful deed, for her heart was sound. And there was a bard with her too, whom the son of Atreus, when he set out for Troy, had strictly charged to watch over his wife. But when the fate of the gods bound her and she was overcome, Aegisthus took the bard to a desert island and left him there to be prey and plunder for the birds. Then he led her to his own house, she as willing as he. He burned many thigh-pieces on the holy altars of the gods and hung up many offerings, woven cloth and gold, now that he had accomplished a great deed his heart had never hoped to achieve.

The son of Atreus and I were sailing together on our way from Troy, the best of friends. But when we reached holy Sunium, the cape of Athens, Phoebus Apollo came upon Menelaus’ helmsman with his gentle arrows and killed him as he held the steering-oar of the speeding ship in his hands. This was Phrontis son of Onetor, who surpassed every tribe of men at steering a ship when storms drove hard. So Menelaus was held back there, eager though he was to be on his way, to bury his comrade and give him funeral honors. But when he too set out over the wine-dark sea in the hollow ships and came racing to the steep headland of Malea, far-seeing Zeus devised a hateful voyage for him. He poured blasts of shrill winds on him, and the waves swelled huge, like mountains.note

But I urge you, I tell you, go to Menelaus. He has only lately come back from abroad, from people no one would ever hope in his heart to return from, once storms had driven him off course into a sea so vast that not even the birds come back from it within the year, so huge and terrible it is. Go now with your ship and your companions. Or if you’d rather go by land, there’s a chariot and horses at hand, and my sons as well, who will escort you to bright Lacedaemon, where fair-haired Menelaus lives. Beg him yourself to tell you the plain truth. He won’t lie to you; he is a very wise man.” So he spoke, and the sun set and darkness came on. Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke among them:

“Old man, all you have told us is right and proper. But come, cut out the tongues and mix the wine, so that we can pour libations to Poseidon and the other immortals and then think of bed; it’s time for it. The light has already gone down under the darkness, and it isn’t fitting to sit long at the feast of the gods; we should go home.” So spoke the daughter of Zeus, and they listened to her words. Heralds poured water over their hands, and young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with drink and served it out to everyone, first pouring a few drops into each cup. They threw the tongues into the fire, then stood and poured libations. But when they had poured libations and drunk as much as their hearts desired, Athena and godlike Telemachus both made to go back to the hollow ship. But Nestor held them back, and rebuked them with these words:

“Zeus forbid it, and the other immortal gods, that you should leave my house for your swift ship as if from someone utterly without clothes, some pauper who has no cloaks or blankets to speak of in his house for himself or his guests to sleep in softly! But I have cloaks and fine blankets. Surely the dear son of this man Odysseus will not lie down on a ship’s deck as long as I’m alive, and after me there are sons left in my halls to entertain strangers, whoever comes to my house.” Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him:

“That was well said, dear old man, and Telemachus ought to do as you say, since that is far better. So he’ll go along with you now, to sleep in your halls; but I’ll go to the black ship to put heart into our companions and tell them everything. I’m the only older man among them, I tell you; the others, who come along out of friendship, are younger men, all the same age as great-hearted Telemachus. I’ll lie down there tonight by the black hollow ship. And in the morning I’m going to the great-hearted Caucones, where a debt is owed me, and not a recent one or a small one. As for him, since he has come to your house, send him on his way with a chariot and your son, and give him horses, the swiftest you have at running and the best in strength.”

With these words gray-eyed Athena went away in the likeness of a sea-eagle, and amazement seized everyone who saw it. The old man marveled at what his eyes had seen. He took Telemachus by the hand and spoke to him, calling him by name: “My friend, I don’t expect you’ll turn out a coward or a weakling, if the gods go with you as escorts while you’re still so young. That was none other of those who live in the houses of Olympus than the daughter of Zeus, most glorious Tritogeneia, who honored your noble father too among the Argives. Come, lady, be gracious, and grant me noble fame, to me and my children and my honored wife. And in return I’ll sacrifice to you a yearling heifer, broad-browed and unbroken, which no man has ever yet led under the yoke. I’ll sacrifice her to you with gold poured around her horns.”note

So he spoke in prayer, and Pallas Athena heard him. Then Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, led them, his sons and his sons-in-law, to his own fine house. When they reached the lord’s glorious house, they sat down in rows on chairs and high seats, and as they came in the old man mixed them a bowl of sweet wine, which the housekeeper had opened in its eleventh year, loosening the lid. The old man mixed a bowl of this, and as he poured a libation he prayed long to Athena, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus.

But when they had poured libations and drunk as much as their hearts desired, they went off to bed, each to his own home. But Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, had Telemachus, the dear son of godlike Odysseus, sleep there in the house, on a corded bed under the echoing portico, and beside him Pisistratus of the good ash spear, leader of men, the one among his sons in the halls who was still unmarried. He himself slept in the inner room of the lofty house, and his wife, the lady of the house, made ready the bed and bedding for him.

When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, rose from his bed. He went out and sat down on the polished stones that stood in front of his high doors, white and glistening as if with oil. Neleus used to sit on them in days gone by, a counselor equal to the gods; but he had long since been overcome by his fate and gone down to Hades, and now Gerenian Nestor, guardian of the Achaeans, sat on them in his turn, holding the scepter. His sons came out of their chambers and gathered around him together: Echephron and Stratius, Perseus and Aretus and godlike Thrasymedes. Then a sixth joined them, the hero Pisistratus, and they brought godlike Telemachus and seated him beside them. Then Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, began to speak among them:

“Quickly, my dear children, do what I want, so that first of all the gods I may win the favor of Athena, who came to me plainly at the rich feast of the god. Come, let one of you go to the plain for a heifer, and have the herdsman in charge of the cattle drive her here as fast as he can. Let another go to great-hearted Telemachus’ black ship and bring all his companions, leaving just two behind. Let another tell the goldsmith Laerces to come here, to pour gold around the heifer’s horns. The rest of you stay here together, and tell the maids inside to prepare a feast throughout the glorious house, and to bring seats, and firewood to set around, and clear water.”

So he spoke, and they all set busily to work. The heifer came from the plain; the companions of great-hearted Telemachus came from the swift, balanced ship; and the smith came holding his bronze tools in his hands, the instruments of his craft, anvil and hammer and well-made tongs, with which he worked the gold. And Athena came to receive her sacrifice. The old horseman Nestor handed over the gold, and the smith worked it and poured it around the heifer’s horns, so that the goddess might delight in seeing the offering. Stratius and noble Echephron led the heifer by the horns.

Then they lifted the heifer from the broad-pathed earth and held her, and Pisistratus, leader of men, cut her throat. When the dark blood had flowed out of her and life had left her bones, they quickly cut her apart and at once carved out the thigh-bones, all in due order, wrapped them in fat folded double, and laid raw pieces on top. The old man burned them on split wood and poured sparkling wine over them, while the young men beside him held five-pronged forks in their hands. But when the thighs were burned up and they had tasted the innards, they cut up the rest and threaded it on spits, and roasted it, holding the pointed spits in their hands.

Meanwhile lovely Polycaste, youngest daughter of Nestor son of Neleus, bathed Telemachus. When she had bathed him and rubbed him richly with oil, and thrown a fine cloak and a tunic around him, he stepped out of the bath looking like the immortals in form, and went and sat down beside Nestor, shepherd of the people. When they had roasted the outer flesh and drawn it off the spits, they sat down and feasted, and good men rose to wait on them, pouring wine into golden cups. But when they had put away their desire for food and drink, Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, began to speak among them:

“My sons, come, bring fine-maned horses for Telemachus and yoke them to a chariot, so that he can get on with his journey.” So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed, and quickly yoked the swift horses to the chariot. The housekeeper put bread and wine in it, and the kind of dainties that kings fostered by Zeus eat. Then Telemachus stepped up into the beautiful chariot, and beside him Nestor’s son Pisistratus, leader of men, mounted the chariot and took the reins in his hands. He touched the horses with the whip to start them, and the pair flew off willingly toward the plain and left the steep citadel of Pylos behind. All day long they shook the yoke they bore between them.

The sun set and all the streets grew dark, and they came to Pherae, to the house of Diocles, son of Ortilochus, whose father was the Alpheus. There they spent the night, and he set before them the gifts due to guests. When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, they yoked the horses and mounted the inlaid chariot, and drove out through the gateway and the echoing portico. Pisistratus touched the horses with the whip to start them, and the pair flew off willingly. They came to the wheat-bearing plain, and there they pressed on to the end of their journey, so well did the swift horses carry them. The sun set and all the streets grew dark.note

They came to hollow Lacedaemon with its many ravines and drove up to the house of glorious Menelaus. They found him in his house giving a wedding feast for his many kinsmen, for his son and for his peerless daughter. The daughter he was sending to the son of Achilles, breaker of men. Long ago at Troy he had promised and nodded his assent that he would give her, and now the gods were bringing the marriage to pass. So he was sending her off with horses and chariots to go to the famous city of the Myrmidons, over whom her bridegroom ruled. For his son he was bringing home from Sparta the daughter of Alector. This son, mighty Megapenthes, had been born to him late in life by a slave woman, for the gods granted Helen no more children once she had borne her first, a lovely daughter, Hermione, who had the beauty of golden Aphrodite.note

“Here are two strangers, Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, two men who look like the offspring of great Zeus. Tell me: shall we unyoke their swift horses for them, or send them on to someone else who will make them welcome?” Then, deeply vexed, fair-haired Menelaus said to him: “You were no fool before, Eteoneus, son of Boethous, but now you babble nonsense like a child. Surely the two of us ate plenty of other men’s hospitality on our way here, hoping that Zeus would someday put an end to our misery. Go, unyoke the strangers’ horses, and bring the men themselves inside to feast.”

So he spoke, and Eteoneus hurried out through the hall and called the other ready attendants to come along with him. They loosed the sweating horses from the yoke and tied them at the horses’ mangers, threw spelt before them and mixed in white barley. They leaned the chariots against the gleaming walls of the entrance and led the men themselves into the godlike house. When they saw it they marveled at the house of the king cherished by Zeus, for a radiance like the sun’s or the moon’s lay over the high-roofed house of glorious Menelaus. But when they had had their fill of gazing, they stepped into well-polished bathtubs and bathed.

So he spoke, and taking in his hands the rich roasted chine of beef that had been set before him as his own portion of honor, he put it before them. And they put out their hands to the good things lying ready before them. But when they had put away their desire for food and drink, Telemachus spoke to Nestor’s son, holding his head close so that the others would not hear: “Look, son of Nestor, dear to my heart, at the flash of bronze all through the echoing halls, and of gold and amber, of silver and ivory. The court of Olympian Zeus must look like this inside, with such untold wealth. Awe takes hold of me as I look.”

Fair-haired Menelaus caught what he was saying, and he addressed them and spoke winged words: “Dear children, no mortal could rival Zeus, for his halls and his possessions are deathless. Among men, there may be someone who could rival me in possessions, or there may not. It was only after much suffering and much wandering that I brought them home in my ships, and I came back in the eighth year. I wandered to Cyprus and Phoenicia and to the Egyptians; I reached the Ethiopians and the Sidonians and the Erembi, and Libya, where the lambs have horns from the moment they are born, for there the ewes give birth three times in the full round of a year.

There neither lord nor shepherd goes short of cheese or meat or sweet milk; the flocks give milk to suckle all year round. While I was wandering in those parts, gathering much wealth, another man killed my brother, by stealth, when he least expected it, through the treachery of his accursed wife. So it gives me no joy to be lord of these possessions. You must have heard all this from your fathers, whoever they are, for I suffered a great deal, and I lost a house that was a fine place to live in and held many good things. I wish I lived in my halls with only a third of that wealth, and that those men were safe who died back then in wide Troy, far from Argos, the pastureland of horses.

So he spoke, and stirred in Telemachus a longing to weep for his father. Tears fell from his eyelids to the ground when he heard of his father, and with both hands he held his purple cloak up before his eyes. Menelaus noticed him, and then he pondered in his mind and heart whether to let him speak of his father himself, or first to question him and test him on every point. While he was turning this over in his mind and heart, Helen came out of her fragrant, high-roofed chamber, like Artemis of the golden distaff.

With her came Adreste, who set a well-made chair for her; Alcippe brought a rug of soft wool, and Phylo brought a silver workbasket. Alcandre had given it to her, the wife of Polybus, who lived in Egyptian Thebes, where the greatest wealth lies stored in men’s houses. Polybus had given Menelaus two silver bathtubs, two tripods and ten talents of gold, and his wife, separately, gave Helen beautiful gifts: she presented her with a golden distaff and a silver basket on wheels, its rims finished in gold. This was the basket the maid Phylo brought and set beside her, filled with finely spun yarn, and across it lay the distaff, loaded with violet-dark wool. Helen sat down on the chair, with a footstool under her feet, and at once she questioned her husband on every point:

“Do we know, Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, who these men claim to be who have come to our house? Am I mistaken, or am I right? Still, my heart bids me speak. For I tell you, I have never yet seen anyone, man or woman, so like another—awe takes hold of me as I look—as this man is like the son of great-hearted Odysseus, Telemachus, whom that man left a newborn child at home when for my sake, shameless creature that I was, you Achaeans came to Troy, bent on bold war.” Then fair-haired Menelaus answered her: “I see it too now, wife, just as you compare them. Those were his feet, those his hands, the glances of his eyes, his head and the hair above it.

And just now, as I was remembering Odysseus and telling of all the toil and misery he went through for my sake, the boy let fall a bitter tear from under his brows, holding his purple cloak up before his eyes.” Then Pisistratus, son of Nestor, spoke to him in turn: “Menelaus, son of Atreus, cherished by Zeus, leader of the people, this is truly that man’s son, as you say. But he is modest, and in his heart he thinks it improper, on coming here for the first time, to make a show of forward talk in front of you, whose voice we both delight in as if it were a god’s. Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, sent me along with him as his escort, for he longed to see you, so that you might offer him some advice, or some help.

A son has many troubles in his halls when his father is gone and he has no one else to help him, as it is now with Telemachus: his father is gone, and there is no one else among the people who could ward off ruin.” Then fair-haired Menelaus answered him: “Oh! So the son of a man very dear to me has come to my house, a man who for my sake endured many trials. I used to say that when he came I would welcome him above all the other Argives, if far-seeing Olympian Zeus had granted the two of us a homecoming over the sea in our swift ships. I would have given him a city to live in in Argos and built him a house, bringing him from Ithaca with his possessions and his son and all his people, and clearing out one of the cities that lie round about and are under my rule.

Then, living here, we would often have been together, and nothing would have parted us in our friendship and our delight in each other, until the black cloud of death had covered us. But the god himself, I suppose, must have begrudged us this, the god who made that unhappy man, alone of all, miss his homecoming.” So he spoke, and stirred in them all a longing to weep. Argive Helen wept, born of Zeus; Telemachus wept, and Menelaus, son of Atreus; nor did the son of Nestor keep his eyes free of tears, for he remembered in his heart peerless Antilochus, whom the splendid son of shining Dawn had killed. Remembering him, he spoke winged words:note

“Son of Atreus, old Nestor always said you were wise beyond all mortals, whenever we spoke of you in his halls and questioned one another. So now, if you possibly can, do as I ask. I take no pleasure in weeping after supper; besides, early-born Dawn will come. Not that I find any fault in weeping for any mortal who has died and met his fate. This is the only tribute we can pay to wretched mortals: to cut our hair and let tears fall down our cheeks. My own brother is dead too, by no means the worst of the Argives. You must have known him; I never met him or saw him myself, but they say Antilochus was above the rest, fast above all in running, and a fighter.”

Then fair-haired Menelaus answered him: “My friend, you have said all that a sensible man would say and do, even one older than you. You are the son of such a father, and so your words are sensible too. Easily recognized is the offspring of a man for whom the son of Cronus spins out good fortune at his marriage and at his birth, as now he has granted Nestor all his days, from first to last, to grow old in comfort in his halls, and to have sons who are sensible and the best with the spear. So let us leave off the weeping we fell into just now and turn our thoughts again to supper; let them pour water over our hands. In the morning too there will be stories for Telemachus and me to tell each other in full.”

So he spoke, and Asphalion poured water over their hands, the ready attendant of glorious Menelaus. And they put out their hands to the good things lying ready before them. Then Helen, born of Zeus, had another thought. At once she cast a drug into the wine they were drinking, a drug that banishes grief and anger and brings forgetfulness of every sorrow. Whoever swallowed it, once it was mixed in the bowl, would not shed a tear down his cheeks all that day, not even if his mother and father died, not even if men cut down his brother or his own dear son with bronze right in front of him, and he watched it with his own eyes.

Such cunning drugs the daughter of Zeus possessed, good ones, given her by Polydamna, the wife of Thon, an Egyptian woman. There the grain-giving land yields drugs in the greatest number, many good and many deadly, mixed together, and every man is a physician, skilled beyond all other people, for they are of the race of Paeëon. When she had put the drug in and ordered the wine to be poured, she spoke again in answer: “Menelaus, son of Atreus, cherished by Zeus, and you here, sons of noble men—it is the god Zeus who gives good and bad, now to one man, now to another, for he can do all things. So now feast, sitting here in the hall, and enjoy hearing stories, for I’ll tell you one that suits the occasion.note

I could not tell you all of them or name them, all the exploits of steadfast Odysseus, but here is one thing that strong man did and dared in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered hardship. He disfigured himself with shameful blows, threw wretched rags around his shoulders like a servant, and slipped into the wide-streeted city of his enemies. He disguised himself as another man, a beggar, though he was nothing of the kind beside the Achaeans’ ships. Looking like that, he slipped into the Trojans’ city, and none of them suspected a thing. I alone recognized him for who he was, and I questioned him, but he cleverly evaded me.

Then fair-haired Menelaus answered her: “Yes, wife, all this you have told rightly. Before now I have come to know the counsel and the mind of many heroes, and I have traveled over much of the earth, but never yet have I seen with my own eyes anyone with a heart like steadfast Odysseus’. Here is another thing that strong man did and dared, inside the polished horse, where all of us, the best of the Argives, sat waiting to bring slaughter and death to the Trojans. Then you came there—some god must have urged you, one who wished to grant glory to the Trojans—and godlike Deiphobus followed you as you went.note

Three times you walked around the hollow ambush, feeling it all over, and you called out the best of the Danaans by name, making your voice sound like the wives of all the Argives. Now I and the son of Tydeus and godlike Odysseus were sitting in the middle, and we heard you calling. The two of us were eager and started up, wanting either to go out or to answer at once from inside, but Odysseus held us back and stopped us, for all our eagerness. Then all the other sons of the Achaeans kept silent; only Anticlus wanted to answer you. But Odysseus clamped his jaws shut with his strong hands and never let go, and so saved all the Achaeans; he held him like that until Pallas Athena led you away.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him:

“Son of Atreus, Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, leader of the people, that makes it all the more painful. None of this kept grim destruction from him, not even if the heart within him had been made of iron. But come, send us off to bed, so that we can lie down now and take our pleasure in sweet sleep.” So he spoke, and Argive Helen told her maids to set beds under the portico, to lay fine purple blankets on them and spread rugs over these, and to put woolly cloaks on top for covering. They went out of the hall with torches in their hands and made up the beds, and the herald led the guests out. So they slept there in the forecourt of the house, the hero Telemachus and Nestor’s splendid son. But the son of Atreus slept in the innermost part of the lofty house, and beside him lay long-robed Helen, bright among women.

When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, Menelaus of the great war cry rose from his bed and put on his clothes. He slung his sharp sword around his shoulder, bound his fine sandals under his shining feet, and went out of his chamber, like a god to look upon. He sat down beside Telemachus, and spoke to him and called him by name: “What need has brought you here, hero Telemachus, to shining Lacedaemon over the broad back of the sea? Is it a public matter or a private one? Tell me this truly.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Son of Atreus, Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, leader of the people, I’ve come to see if you can give me any news of my father.

My house is being eaten up, my rich farmlands are ruined, and the house is full of hostile men who keep slaughtering my thronging sheep and my shambling, crook-horned cattle—my mother’s suitors, men of overweening arrogance. That is why I have come now to your knees, in case you are willing to tell me of his grim destruction, if perhaps you saw it with your own eyes or heard the tale of his wanderings from someone else; for beyond all men his mother bore him to misery. Don’t soften anything out of respect for me or pity, but tell me plainly how you came to witness it. I beg you, if ever my father, noble Odysseus, promised you some word or deed and carried it out in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered so much, remember it now for my sake, and tell me the truth.”

Then fair-haired Menelaus, deeply troubled, said to him: “Oh, the shame of it! So they wanted to sleep in the bed of a strong-hearted man, cowards that they are themselves! It’s as when a doe has laid her newborn, suckling fawns to sleep in the lair of a mighty lion and goes off ranging over the hillsides and grassy glens to graze, and then he comes back to his lair and brings an ugly death on both of them—so Odysseus will bring an ugly death on those men. If only, father Zeus and Athena and Apollo, he were the man he was once in well-built Lesbos, when he stood up in a quarrel to wrestle Philomeleides and threw him down hard, and all the Achaeans cheered—if only Odysseus, being such a man, might meet the suitors face to face: they would all find a swift death and a bitter marriage.

As for what you ask and beg of me, I wouldn’t swerve aside and tell you something else, nor will I deceive you. But of all that the unerring Old Man of the Sea told me, I will hide no word from you or keep anything back. In Egypt, eager as I was to come home, the gods still held me back, because I had not offered them perfect hecatombs; and the gods always wanted their commands to be remembered. Now, there is an island out in the surging sea, off Egypt, which they call Pharos, as far out as a hollow ship can travel in a whole day when a shrill wind blows behind her. In it is a harbor with good anchorage, from which men launch their balanced ships into the sea after drawing dark water.note

There the gods kept me for twenty days, and no winds ever appeared blowing out to sea, the winds that speed ships over the broad back of the sea. And now all our provisions would have been used up, and the men’s strength too, if one of the gods had not pitied me and saved me: Eidothea, daughter of mighty Proteus, the Old Man of the Sea; for it was her heart above all that I had moved. She met me as I wandered alone, apart from my companions; for they were always roaming around the island fishing with bent hooks, and hunger gnawed at their bellies. She came and stood close by me and spoke to me:

‘Are you such a fool, stranger, so utterly simple-minded? Or are you letting things slide on purpose and enjoying your suffering? You’ve been held on this island so long now, and you can find no way out, and your companions’ hearts grow faint.’ So she spoke, and I answered her: ‘I’ll tell you plainly, whichever of the goddesses you are, that I’m not held here of my own will; I must have offended the immortals who hold the wide heaven. But you tell me—for the gods know everything—which of the immortals is hobbling me and has barred me from my way, and tell me of my homecoming, how I may go over the fish-filled sea.’

So I spoke, and she, bright among goddesses, answered at once: ‘Then I will tell you, stranger, very truly. There is an unerring Old Man of the Sea who often comes here, immortal Proteus of Egypt, who knows the depths of every sea, the servant of Poseidon. They say he is my father, that he begot me. If you could somehow lie in wait and catch hold of him, he would tell you your way and the measures of your journey, and your homecoming, how you may go over the fish-filled sea. And he will tell you too, you whom Zeus cherishes, if you wish it, whatever evil and good has been done in your halls while you have been away on your long and painful journey.’

So she spoke, and I answered her: ‘Then you yourself must devise an ambush for the divine old man, so that he doesn’t somehow see me first, or learn of it beforehand, and slip away from me; for a god is hard for a mortal man to master.’ So I spoke, and she, bright among goddesses, answered at once: ‘Then I will tell you, stranger, very truly. When the sun has climbed to the middle of the sky, the unerring Old Man of the Sea comes up out of the salt water under the breath of the West Wind, hidden in its dark ripples. When he has come out he lies down to sleep in the hollow caves, and around him the flippered seals, brood of the lovely daughter of the sea, sleep in a herd, having come up out of the gray salt water, breathing out the bitter smell of the deep sea.

There I will bring you at the first light of dawn and lay you down in a row. You must choose carefully three companions, the best you have by your well-benched ships. And I’ll tell you all the old man’s tricks. First he will count the seals and go over them; but when he has counted them all off by fives and looked them over, he will lie down among them like a shepherd among his flocks of sheep. As soon as you see him laid down to sleep, then let strength and force be your concern: hold him there, however he strains and struggles to escape. He will try you by turning into everything that creeps on the earth, and into water and fierce blazing fire; but you must hold him steadily and squeeze him all the harder.

Meanwhile she had plunged into the broad bosom of the sea and brought four sealskins up out of the water, all freshly flayed; she was plotting a trick against her father. She scooped out beds in the sand of the shore and sat waiting, and we came up very close to her. She laid us down in a row and threw a skin over each of us. That would have been a most terrible ambush, for the deadly stench of the sea-bred seals tormented us terribly—who would lie down beside a beast of the sea? But she herself saved us and thought of a great relief: she brought ambrosia and put it under each man’s nose, with its very sweet fragrance, and it killed the stench of the beast.

‘But you ought to have offered fine sacrifices to Zeus and the other gods before you embarked, so as to reach your native land as quickly as possible, sailing over the wine-dark sea. For it is not your fate to see your loved ones and reach your well-built house and your native land until you have gone once more to the water of Egypt, the heaven-fed river, and offered holy hecatombs to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven. Then the gods will grant you the journey you long for.’ So he spoke, and my heart was broken within me, because he told me to go back over the misty sea to Egypt, a long and painful journey. But even so I answered him and said:note

‘All this I will do, old man, just as you command. But come, tell me this and give me a true account: did all the Achaeans whom Nestor and I left behind when we set out from Troy come home with their ships unharmed, or did any of them die a cruel death on board his ship, or in the arms of his friends, once he had wound the war to its end?’ So I spoke, and he answered me at once: ‘Son of Atreus, why do you ask me this? You have no need to know it, or to learn what is in my mind; and I tell you, you won’t stay dry-eyed for long once you’ve heard it all. Many of them were killed, and many were left alive; but only two leaders of the bronze-clad Achaeans perished on the way home—as for the fighting, you were there yourself. And one, I think, is still alive somewhere, held back on the wide sea.

Ajax was destroyed along with his long-oared ships. First Poseidon drove him onto the great rocks of Gyrae, and saved him from the sea; and he would have escaped his doom, hated though he was by Athena, if he had not let fly an arrogant boast in his great blindness: he said he had escaped the great gulf of the sea in spite of the gods. Poseidon heard his loud boasting, and at once he took his trident in his mighty hands and struck the Gyrean rock and split it apart. One part stayed where it was, but the broken piece, the one Ajax had sat on at first in his great blindness, fell into the sea and carried him down into the boundless, surging deep. So he perished there, when he had drunk the salt water.note

Your brother, I think, escaped the fates of death and got away in his hollow ships; queenly Hera saved him. But just when he was about to reach the steep headland of Malea, a storm wind snatched him up and carried him, groaning heavily, over the fish-filled sea to the far edge of the land, where Thyestes once had his home, but where Thyestes’ son Aegisthus was living then. But when from there too a safe homecoming appeared, and the gods turned the wind back again and they reached home, he stepped joyfully onto his native land, and touched his native soil and kissed it, and many hot tears poured from him, so glad he was to see his land.

So he spoke, and my heart was broken within me. I sat on the sand and wept, and my heart no longer wished to live and see the light of the sun. But when I had had my fill of weeping and rolling on the ground, then the unerring Old Man of the Sea said to me: ‘Son of Atreus, weep no longer like this, so long and so unceasingly, for we’ll get nowhere by it; but try as quickly as you can to reach your native land. For either you will find him still alive, or Orestes will have killed him before you, and you may arrive in time for the funeral.’ So he spoke, and my heart and proud spirit were warmed again within my breast, grieving though I was, and I spoke winged words to him:

‘These two I know of now. But you, name the third man, the one who is still alive and held back somewhere on the wide sea, or else dead. I want to hear it, grieved as I am.’ So I spoke, and he answered me at once: ‘The son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca. I saw him on an island, shedding big tears, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who keeps him there by force. He cannot reach his native land, for he has no ships with oars and no companions to carry him over the broad back of the sea.

As for you, Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, it is not your destiny to die and meet your fate in horse-pasturing Argos. The immortals will send you to the Elysian Plain at the ends of the earth, where fair-haired Rhadamanthys lives, where life is easiest for men. There is no snow there, no long winter, never any rain; Ocean always sends up the breezes of the shrill-blowing West Wind to cool men. This is because you have Helen, and in the gods’ eyes you are the son-in-law of Zeus.’ So he spoke, and dived under the surging sea. But I went back to the ships with my godlike companions, and my heart was in turmoil as I went.note

When we had come down to the ship and the sea, and had made our supper ready, and ambrosial night came on, we lay down to sleep on the shore of the sea. When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, first of all we dragged the ships down into the bright sea and set up the masts and sails in the balanced ships; then we went aboard ourselves and sat down at the benches, and sitting in order we struck the gray sea with our oars. Back into the river of Egypt, fed from the sky, I brought the ships to a stop, and offered perfect hecatombs. And when I had stilled the anger of the gods who live forever, I heaped up a mound for Agamemnon, so that his fame might never be quenched. When I had done all this I set off for home, and the immortals gave me a fair wind and quickly sent me back to my own native land.

Whatever gift you give me, let it be a treasure to keep. But I won’t take horses to Ithaca; I’ll leave them here for you yourself, to be your delight. You rule over a broad plain, with plenty of clover in it, and galingale, wheat and spelt and broad-eared white barley. In Ithaca there are no wide courses to run on, no meadow at all; it’s a land for goats, and lovelier than horse country. None of the islands that slope down into the sea is fit for driving horses or rich in meadows, and Ithaca least of all.” So he spoke, and Menelaus, good at the war cry, smiled, stroked him with his hand, and spoke to him and called him by name:

“You come of good blood, dear child, to judge by what you say. So I’ll exchange these gifts for you; I can do that. Of all the gifts that lie stored as treasures in my house, I’ll give you the one that is most beautiful and most precious. I’ll give you a finely wrought mixing-bowl. It is solid silver, and its rims are finished in gold, the work of Hephaestus. The hero Phaedimus, king of the Sidonians, gave it to me, when his house sheltered me as I passed there on my way home; and now I want to give it to you.” So they talked like this with each other, while the banqueters were arriving at the house of the godlike king. They drove in sheep and brought wine that makes men strong, and their wives with lovely headbands sent them bread.

So they were busy over the meal in the halls. But the suitors, in front of Odysseus’ hall, were amusing themselves throwing the discus and the javelin on the leveled ground, where they had before, full of arrogance. Antinous was sitting there, and godlike Eurymachus, the leaders of the suitors and by far the finest of them in excellence. Noemon, son of Phronius, came up to them and put a question to Antinous: “Antinous, do we have any idea in our minds or not when Telemachus will be back from sandy Pylos? He went off with my ship, and I need it to cross over to spacious Elis, where I have twelve mares, and hardy mules with them, still unbroken. I’d like to drive one of them off and break it in.”

So he spoke, and they were astounded in their hearts; they had not thought he had gone to Pylos, the city of Neleus, but that he was somewhere there on the estate, out with the flocks or with the swineherd. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, said to him: “Tell me truly: when did he go, and what young men went with him? Picked men of Ithaca, or his own hired men and slaves? He could manage that as well. And tell me this truly, so that I know it well: did he take the black ship from you by force, against your will, or did you give it to him willingly, because he talked you round?” Then Noemon, son of Phronius, answered him:

“I gave it to him myself, willingly. What else would anyone do, when a man like that, with cares weighing on his heart, asks for something? It would be hard to refuse the gift. The young men who went with him are the best in the land after ourselves. And I saw Mentor going aboard as their leader—or a god, though he looked like Mentor in every way. But this is what puzzles me: I saw noble Mentor here yesterday at dawn, and yet at that time he had already boarded the ship for Pylos.” So he spoke and went off to his father’s house, and the proud hearts of both men were filled with indignation. They made the suitors sit down together and stopped their games. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke among them in distress; his darkened heart was filled to the brim with fury, and his eyes were like blazing fire:

“Look at that! Telemachus has carried out a great thing, and an insolent one—this journey. And we said it would never come off! Against the will of all of us, a mere boy simply goes off like this, hauling down a ship and picking the best men in the land. He’ll start being trouble, and worse later on. May Zeus destroy his strength before he reaches the full measure of manhood! But come, give me a swift ship and twenty companions, so that I can lie in wait and watch for him myself as he comes back, in the strait between Ithaca and rugged Samos. Then this voyaging in search of his father will end in misery for him.”note

So he spoke, and they all approved and urged him on. Then at once they got up and went into the house of Odysseus. Nor was Penelope long without hearing of the plans the suitors were devising deep in their minds. The herald Medon told her; he had overheard their counsels while he was outside the courtyard and they were weaving their scheme within. He went through the house to bring the news to Penelope, and as he stepped over the threshold Penelope spoke to him: “Herald, why have the proud suitors sent you? To tell the maids of godlike Odysseus to stop their work and prepare a feast for them?

May they never court again, never gather anywhere else, but dine here now for the last and very last time! You who keep gathering here and eating away so much of the livelihood, the property of wise Telemachus—did you never hear from your fathers in the old days, when you were children, what kind of man Odysseus was among your parents? He never did or said anything out of measure to anyone in the land, though that is the way of godlike kings: one man they’ll hate, another they’ll favor. But he never did any reckless wrong to any man at all. Your spirit and your shameful deeds are plain to see, and there’s no gratitude afterward for good deeds done.” Then Medon, whose mind was wise, spoke to her in turn:

“If only, my queen, this were the worst of it! But the suitors are planning another thing, far greater and more grievous—may the son of Cronus not bring it to pass. They are eager to kill Telemachus with the sharp bronze on his way home. He has gone in search of news of his father, to holy Pylos and to bright Lacedaemon.” So he spoke, and her knees and her heart gave way where she sat. For a long time she could not speak; her eyes filled with tears, and her full voice was choked. At last she answered him: “Herald, why has my son gone? He had no need to board swift-going ships, which serve men as horses of the sea and cross the great expanse of water. Was it so that not even his name would be left among men?”

Then Medon, whose mind was wise, answered her: “I don’t know whether some god stirred him, or his own heart moved him to go to Pylos, to learn of his father’s homecoming or what fate he has met.” So he spoke and went off through the house of Odysseus. A heart-destroying grief poured over her; she could no longer bear to sit on a chair, though there were many in the house, but sat down on the threshold of her well-built chamber, lamenting piteously. Around her the maids wailed softly, all who were in the house, young and old. And Penelope, sobbing hard, spoke among them:

“Listen, friends. The Olympian has given me sorrows beyond all the women who were born and raised in my time. First I lost a noble husband with a lion’s heart, outstanding among the Danaans in every kind of excellence, a noble man, whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos. And now the storm-winds have snatched my beloved son away from the halls without a word, and I never even heard that he had set out. Heartless women! Not one of you thought to wake me from my bed, though you knew perfectly well in your hearts when he went off to the black hollow ship. If I had learned he was planning this journey, he would certainly have stayed, however eager for the road—or else he would have left me dead in the halls.

I knew all this, and I gave him everything he asked for, bread and sweet wine. But he made me swear a great oath not to tell you before the twelfth day had come, or until you missed him yourself and heard that he had gone, so that you wouldn’t mar your lovely skin with weeping. Now wash, put clean clothes on your body, go up to the upper rooms with your attendant women, and pray to Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis; for then she may save him even from death. And don’t trouble an old man who is troubled enough. I don’t think the line of Arceisius’ son is altogether hateful to the blessed gods; there will still be someone, I think, to hold the high-roofed house and the rich fields that lie far off.”note

So she spoke, and lulled her weeping and kept her eyes from tears. Penelope washed, put clean clothes on her body, went up to the upper rooms with her attendant women, put barley grains in a basket, and prayed to Athena: “Hear me, child of Zeus who bears the aegis, Atrytone: if ever resourceful Odysseus burned fat thigh-pieces of ox or sheep to you in his halls, remember them now for my sake, save my dear son, and ward off the suitors in their wicked arrogance.” So saying she raised the women’s cry of prayer, and the goddess heard her. But the suitors broke into uproar throughout the shadowy halls, and one of the arrogant young men would say something like this: “The queen so many have courted is surely getting our wedding ready, and has no idea that murder has been prepared for her son.”note

So one would say, but they did not know how things really stood. Then Antinous addressed them and spoke among them: “You fools, keep clear of all such arrogant talk, every one of you, or someone may carry word of it even inside. Come, let us get up quietly, just as we are, and carry out the plan that we have all agreed on in our hearts.” So saying he picked out twenty of the best men, and they went off to the swift ship and the shore of the sea. First of all they dragged the ship down into deep water, set the mast and sails in the black ship, and fitted the oars in their leather straps, all in due order, and spread out the white sails; and their high-spirited attendants brought them their armor.

They anchored her well out in the roadstead and came ashore themselves; there they took their supper and waited for evening to come. But wise Penelope lay there in the upper room without food, having tasted neither food nor drink, pondering whether her flawless son would escape death or be brought down by the arrogant suitors. As a lion broods, afraid, in a crowd of men, when they draw their cunning ring around him, so she was brooding when sweet sleep came over her; she sank back and slept, and all her limbs went slack.

Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, thought of something else. She made a phantom, and gave it the form of a woman, Iphthime, daughter of great-hearted Icarius, whom Eumelus had married, whose home was in Pherae. She sent it to the house of godlike Odysseus, to make Penelope, in her grief and lamenting, cease from her weeping and tearful wailing. It entered the chamber past the strap of the bolt, stood above her head, and spoke to her: “Are you asleep, Penelope, your dear heart troubled? The gods who live at ease don’t allow you to weep or grieve, since your son will still come home; he has done no wrong at all against the gods.” Then wise Penelope answered her, slumbering very sweetly at the gates of dreams:note

“Why have you come here, sister? You never used to come before, since your home is very far away. And you tell me to stop my misery and the many pains that torment me in my mind and heart—I who first lost a noble husband with a lion’s heart, outstanding among the Danaans in every kind of excellence, a noble man, whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos. And now my beloved son has gone off in a hollow ship, a child, who knows little of hard work or of assemblies. For him I grieve even more than for that other one. For him I tremble, and I fear he may come to some harm, either among the people of the land he has gone to, or on the sea; for many enemies are plotting against him, eager to kill him before he reaches his native land.”

Then the shadowy phantom answered her: “Take heart, and don’t be so very afraid in your mind. He has a guide going with him such as other men too have prayed to stand at their side—for she has the power—Pallas Athena. She pities you in your grief, and she has sent me now to tell you this.” Then wise Penelope spoke to her in turn: “If you really are a god and have heard a god’s voice, then come, tell me about that unhappy man as well: is he still alive somewhere and seeing the light of the sun, or is he already dead and in the house of Hades?” Then the shadowy phantom answered her:

“About him I won’t tell you plainly whether he is alive or dead. It’s a bad thing to babble empty words.” So saying it slipped away past the bolt of the doorpost into the breath of the winds. And the daughter of Icarius started up from sleep, and her dear heart was warmed, because so clear a dream had rushed to her in the dead of night. But the suitors went aboard and sailed the watery ways, pondering sheer murder for Telemachus in their minds. There is a rocky island in the middle of the sea, between Ithaca and rugged Samos—Asteris, not large, with twin harbors in it where ships can lie at anchor. There the Achaeans waited in ambush for him.

Dawn rose from her bed beside lordly Tithonus to bring light to the immortals and to mortals. The gods sat down in assembly, and among them was Zeus who thunders on high, whose power is greatest. Athena spoke to them of the many sorrows of Odysseus, calling them to mind, for it troubled her that he was in the house of the nymph: “Father Zeus, and you other blessed gods who live forever, let no sceptered king ever again be eager to be kind and gentle, or keep what is right in his mind. Let him always be harsh and do lawless deeds, since not one of the people he ruled remembers godlike Odysseus, though he was as gentle as a father.note

No, he lies on an island suffering bitter pains, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who keeps him there by force. He cannot reach his native land, for he has no ships with oars and no companions to carry him over the broad back of the sea. And now, on top of this, they are eager to kill his beloved son on his way home. He went for news of his father to holy Pylos and to bright Lacedaemon.” Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: “My child, what a word has escaped the barrier of your teeth! Wasn’t it you yourself who planned this very scheme, that Odysseus should come back and pay those men out? As for Telemachus, escort him with skill, since you can, so that he reaches his native land quite unharmed and the suitors sail back in their ship with nothing done.”

He spoke, and turned to Hermes, his dear son: “Hermes, since you are our messenger in all other things as well, tell the nymph of the lovely hair our unerring decision: the homecoming of steadfast Odysseus, that he is to go home with no escort of gods or of mortal men. On a raft lashed with many bonds, suffering hardships, he will reach fertile Scheria on the twentieth day, the land of the Phaeacians, who are close kin to the gods. They will honor him in their hearts like a god and send him in a ship to his own native land. They will give him bronze and gold in plenty, and clothing, a great deal of it, more than Odysseus would ever have won for himself from Troy if he had come home unharmed with his allotted share of the spoils. For it is his fate to see his loved ones and to reach his high-roofed house and his native land.”

So he spoke, and the guide Argeïphontes did not disobey. At once he bound on his feet his beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, which carried him over the water and over the boundless earth as swift as the gusts of the wind. He took the wand with which he charms the eyes of men, whomever he wishes, and with which he also wakes the sleeping. With this in his hands the strong Argeïphontes flew. Touching down on Pieria, he dropped from the upper air onto the sea, and then sped over the waves like a gull, which hunts for fish down the dread gulfs of the barren sea and wets its thick-set wings in the brine. Like this, Hermes rode over the many waves.

So the goddess spoke, and set beside him a table she had filled with ambrosia, and mixed red nectar. Then the guide Argeïphontes ate and drank. But when he had dined and satisfied his heart with food, then at last he answered her and said: “You ask me, goddess to god, why I have come. Well, I will tell you my errand truthfully, since you bid me. It was Zeus who ordered me to come here, against my will. Who would willingly race across such an endless stretch of salt water? And there’s no city of mortals nearby to offer the gods sacrifices and choice hecatombs. But there is no way for any other god to get around the mind of aegis-bearing Zeus, or to make it come to nothing.

He says you have a man here with you more wretched than all the rest of those who fought around the city of Priam for nine years, and in the tenth sacked the city and set off for home. But on their way home they sinned against Athena, and she roused an evil wind against them and towering waves. There all the others, his brave companions, perished, but the wind and the waves carried him here and brought him to shore. Now Zeus orders you to send him away as quickly as you can. It is not his lot to die here, far from his loved ones; it is still his fate to see his loved ones and to reach his high-roofed house and his native land.” So he spoke, and Calypso, bright among goddesses, shuddered, and she spoke to him winged words:

“You are cruel, you gods, and jealous beyond all others! You begrudge goddesses who sleep openly with men, if one of them makes a mortal her dear husband. So it was when rosy-fingered Dawn took Orion: you gods who live at ease begrudged her him, until chaste Artemis of the golden throne came upon him in Ortygia and killed him with her gentle arrows. So it was, too, when Demeter of the lovely hair gave in to her heart and lay in love with Iasion in a thrice-plowed fallow field. Zeus did not go long without hearing of it, and he struck him dead with his bright thunderbolt. And so now, you gods, you begrudge me a mortal man by my side. It was I who saved him when he was astride the keel, all alone, after Zeus had struck his swift ship with his bright thunderbolt and shattered it in the middle of the wine-dark sea.note

“Then send him off now, and beware the anger of Zeus, or he may hold a grudge and turn harsh against you later.” So he spoke, and the strong Argeïphontes went away. The lady nymph went to great-hearted Odysseus, since she had heard the message of Zeus. She found him sitting on the shore. His eyes were never dry of tears, and his sweet life was ebbing away as he wept for his homecoming, since the nymph no longer pleased him. At night, it’s true, he slept beside her in the hollow caves, because he had to, unwilling beside a willing woman. But by day he would sit on the rocks and the beaches, racking his heart with tears and groans and griefs, and would gaze out over the barren sea, shedding tears. She who was bright among goddesses stood close by and spoke to him:

“Poor man, don’t grieve here any longer, and don’t let your life waste away. I am ready now to send you off, and gladly. Come, cut long beams and fit them together with the bronze into a broad raft, and fix decking on it, high up, so that it can carry you over the misty sea. I will stow bread and water and red wine on board, as much as you could want, to keep hunger away, and I’ll dress you in clothes. And I’ll send a fair wind behind you, so that you reach your native land quite unharmed, if the gods are willing, who hold the broad heaven and are stronger than I am, both to plan and to bring about.”

So she spoke, and much-enduring, godlike Odysseus shuddered, and he spoke to her winged words: “This is something else you’re planning, goddess, and not my send-off at all, when you tell me to cross the great gulf of the sea on a raft, dreadful and hard as it is. Not even swift, well-balanced ships cross it, though they rejoice in a wind from Zeus. I won’t set foot on a raft against your will, unless you bring yourself, goddess, to swear me a great oath that you are not plotting some other harm and trouble for me.” So he spoke, and Calypso, bright among goddesses, smiled, stroked him with her hand, and spoke and addressed him:

“What a rogue you are, and no fool, to have thought of saying such a thing! Now let earth be my witness to this, and the broad heaven above, and the down-flowing water of the Styx, which is the greatest and most dreadful oath for the blessed gods: I am not plotting some other harm and trouble for you. No, what I have in mind and am planning for you is just what I would devise for myself, if such a need ever came upon me. For I too have a mind that knows what is right, and the heart in my breast is not made of iron. It knows pity.”note

So she spoke, and she, bright among goddesses, led the way quickly, and he followed in the goddess’s footsteps. The goddess and the man came to the hollow cave, and he sat down on the chair from which Hermes had risen. The nymph set all kinds of food beside him to eat and drink, the things that mortal men eat, and she herself sat facing godlike Odysseus, and her maids set ambrosia and nectar beside her. They reached out their hands to the good things lying ready before them. But when they had had their fill of food and drink, Calypso, bright among goddesses, was the first to speak:

“Lady goddess, don’t be angry with me for this. I know it all perfectly well myself: wise Penelope is a lesser sight than you, in looks and in stature, for she is mortal, and you are immortal and ageless. But even so, I want and long all my days to go home and see the day of homecoming. And if some god shatters me again on the wine-dark sea, I will bear it, with a heart in my breast that has learned to endure suffering. I have already suffered a great many things and toiled through a great many, among the waves and in war. Let this be added to the rest.” So he spoke, and the sun set and darkness came on. The two of them went into the inmost part of the hollow cave and took their pleasure in love, staying side by side.

When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, Odysseus at once put on a cloak and tunic. The nymph herself put on a great silvery robe, fine-spun and lovely; around her waist she fastened a beautiful golden belt, and on her head she set a veil. Then she began to plan great-hearted Odysseus’ journey home. She gave him a great axe that fitted well in his hands, made of bronze and sharpened on both sides, with a very beautiful handle of olive wood, firmly fixed in it. Then she gave him a well-polished adze. She led the way to the far edge of the island, where tall trees grew: alder and poplar, and fir that reached up to the sky. They had been dead a long time and were well seasoned, so they would float lightly for him.

The goddess put a skin of dark wine on board for him, and another, a big one, full of water, and provisions in a leather bag. She put in plenty of good things to eat, all he could wish for, and she sent a fair wind blowing, gentle and warm. Godlike Odysseus was glad of the breeze and spread his sails to it. He sat and steered skillfully with the steering oar, and sleep never fell on his eyelids. He kept watching the Pleiades and Boötes, who sets late, and the Bear, which men also call the Wagon. The Bear wheels round in one place and keeps watch on Orion, and she alone has no share in the baths of Ocean. Calypso, bright among goddesses, had told him to keep this star on his left hand as he crossed the sea.note

So he spoke. He gathered the clouds, seized his trident in his hands and stirred up the sea. He roused the blasts of every kind of wind and covered land and sea together with clouds, and night rushed down from the sky. The East Wind and the South Wind clashed together, and the stormy West Wind, and the North Wind born in the bright sky, rolling a great wave before him. Then Odysseus’ knees and his heart gave way, and deeply troubled he spoke to his own great-hearted spirit: “Oh, poor wretch that I am, what will become of me in the end? I’m afraid the goddess told me the whole truth when she said I would have my fill of suffering out at sea, before I reached my native land. Now it is all coming true.

Look at the clouds Zeus is wreathing over the wide sky! He has stirred up the sea, and the blasts of every kind of wind are rushing on. Now my sheer destruction is certain. Three and four times blessed were the Danaans who died back then in broad Troy, doing a service for the sons of Atreus. If only I had died and met my fate on the day the Trojans in their crowds hurled their bronze-tipped spears at me over the body of the dead son of Peleus! Then I would have had my funeral rites, and the Achaeans would have spread my fame. Now it is my fate to be caught by a miserable death.” As he said this, a great wave crashed down on him from above, rushing on him terribly, and spun the raft around.note

He himself was thrown far from the raft, and the steering oar slipped from his hands. A terrible squall of clashing winds came and snapped his mast in the middle, and sail and yard fell far off into the sea. The wave held him under for a long time. He could not quickly struggle up from under the rush of the great wave, because the clothes bright Calypso had given him weighed him down. At long last he came up and spat the bitter brine out of his mouth, while it streamed in torrents down from his head. Worn out as he was, even then he did not forget the raft. He lunged after it through the waves and caught hold of it, and he sat down in the middle of it, trying to escape death’s end.

“Poor unlucky man, why is Poseidon the Earth-shaker so furiously angry with you that he keeps planting so many troubles in your path? Still, for all his eagerness, he won’t destroy you. Just do as I tell you; you don’t seem to me to lack sense. Strip off these clothes and leave the raft for the winds to carry off. Then swim with your arms and strive to reach the land of the Phaeacians, where it is your fate to escape. Here, take this veil and tie it around under your chest. It is immortal, and with it you need not fear harm or death. When you have touched the mainland with your hands, untie it and throw it back into the wine-dark sea, far from the shore, and turn your face away.”

So saying, the goddess gave him the veil. She herself plunged back into the surging sea like a sea-bird, and the dark wave covered her. But much-enduring, godlike Odysseus could not decide what to do, and deeply troubled he spoke to his own great-hearted spirit: “Oh no, I hope this isn’t another of the immortals weaving a trick against me, telling me to get off my raft! No, I won’t obey her yet. I saw the land with my own eyes, and it’s a long way off, the land where she said I would find refuge. Here’s what I’ll do instead, and it seems best to me. As long as the timbers hold together in their joints, I’ll stay right here and endure my sufferings. When the waves shake the raft to pieces, then I’ll swim, since I can’t think of a better plan.”

While he was turning this over in his mind and heart, Poseidon the Earth-shaker raised up a great wave, terrible and cruel, arching over him, and drove it down on him. As a strong wind shakes a heap of dry chaff and scatters it this way and that, so the wave scattered the long timbers of the raft. But Odysseus got astride one timber, as if he were riding a racehorse, and stripped off the clothes bright Calypso had given him. At once he tied the veil around under his chest and fell headlong into the sea, spreading out his arms, eager to swim. The lord Earth-shaker saw him, and shaking his head he spoke to his own heart:

“Go on, then. Suffer plenty of hardships and wander over the sea, until you come among men cherished by Zeus. Even so, I don’t expect you’ll complain that you got too little trouble.” So he spoke, and he whipped up his horses with their lovely manes and came to Aegae, where his glorious house stands. But Athena, daughter of Zeus, had other plans. She blocked the paths of the other winds and ordered them all to stop and go to rest. Then she roused the swift North Wind and broke the waves before Odysseus, so that Odysseus, sprung from Zeus, could escape death and doom and come among the oar-loving Phaeacians. For two nights and two days he drifted on the heavy swell, and many times his heart foresaw destruction.

When Dawn of the lovely hair brought the third day to its end, the wind dropped at last and there was a windless calm. A great wave lifted him up, and as he peered out keenly he caught sight of land close by. As welcome as a father’s life seems to his children when he has lain sick, suffering harsh pains and wasting away for a long time because some hateful god has attacked him, and then, to their joy, the gods free him from his affliction—so welcome did the land and the woods seem to Odysseus, and he swam on hard, eager to set his feet on the shore. But when he was as far off as a man’s shout can carry, he heard the thunder of the sea against the reefs. The great wave crashed and roared against the dry land, belching terribly, and everything was wrapped in sea-foam. There were no harbors there to hold ships, and no sheltered anchorage,

But suppose I swim on further along the coast, hoping to find somewhere a shelving beach or a harbor. Then I’m afraid the squall will snatch me up again and carry me, groaning heavily, out onto the fish-filled sea. Or some god may even set a great sea-monster on me out of the deep, one of the many that famous Amphitrite breeds. I know how the famous Earth-shaker hates me.” While he was turning this over in his mind and heart, a great wave carried him toward the rugged shore. His skin would have been stripped off there and his bones crushed, if the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, had not put a thought in his mind. He rushed forward, grabbed the rock with both hands, and clung to it groaning until the great wave had gone by.note

So he escaped that wave. But as it flowed back it rushed at him and struck him again, and it flung him far out to sea. As pebbles cling thick to the suckers of an octopus dragged from its den, so the skin was torn from his strong hands and left on the rocks, and the great wave covered him. Poor Odysseus would have perished then, beyond what fate allowed, if gray-eyed Athena had not given him presence of mind. He came up out of the wave where it surges toward the land, swam along outside the breakers, and kept looking toward the land, hoping to find somewhere a shelving beach or a harbor. At last, still swimming, he came to the mouth of a fair-flowing river. This seemed to him the best place, clear of rocks and sheltered from the wind as well. He recognized the river as it streamed out toward him, and he prayed to it in his heart:

“Hear me, lord, whoever you are. I have prayed long and hard to reach you, and I come to you fleeing out of the sea from Poseidon’s threats. Even the immortal gods respect a man who comes to them as a wanderer, as I now come to your stream and to your knees after all my struggles. Have pity on me, lord: I declare myself your suppliant.” So he spoke. At once the river stopped his current and held back the waves. He made the water calm in front of Odysseus and brought him safely into the river’s mouth. Then both his knees and his strong arms gave way, for the sea had crushed the heart in him.note

His whole body was swollen, and sea-water gushed in streams from his mouth and nostrils. He lay breathless and speechless, barely able to move, and a terrible weariness came over him. When he had got his breath back and his spirit had come back into his heart, he untied the goddess’s veil from his body. He let it go into the river where it runs into the sea, and the great wave carried it back down the current, and at once Ino caught it in her own hands. Then Odysseus moved away from the river, sank down among the reeds and kissed the grain-giving earth. Deeply troubled, he spoke to his own great-hearted spirit:

“Oh no, what am I to do? What will become of me in the end? If I keep watch through the comfortless night here by the river, I’m afraid the cruel frost and the fresh dew together will be too much for me, faint as I am from exhaustion. And a cold breeze blows off the river in the early morning. But suppose I climb the slope into the shady wood and fall asleep in the thick bushes, hoping that the cold and weariness will leave me and sweet sleep will come over me. Then I fear I’ll become prey and spoil for wild beasts.” As he thought it over, this second course seemed the better one. He set off into the wood, and he found it near the water, in a spot open on every side. There he crept under two bushes growing from the same spot, one a wild olive and the other an olive.

The force of the damp winds never blew through them, and the shining sun never struck them with its rays, and the rain never soaked right through them, so thick and intertwined they grew. Odysseus crept underneath them. At once he heaped up a bed for himself with his own hands, a broad one, for a great drift of fallen leaves lay there. There were enough leaves to shelter two or three men in winter weather, however harsh it might be. Much-enduring, godlike Odysseus was glad when he saw them. He lay down in the middle and heaped the drift of leaves over himself. As a man who lives at the far edge of the farmland, with no neighbors near, buries a glowing brand in dark ashes, saving the seed of fire so that he need not fetch a light from somewhere else, so Odysseus covered himself with the leaves. Then Athena poured sleep over his eyes and closed his eyelids, so that sleep might quickly release him from his painful weariness.

So he slept there, much-enduring, godlike Odysseus, overcome by sleep and weariness. But Athena went to the land and city of the Phaeacians. They had once lived in spacious Hypereia, near the Cyclopes, overbearing men who kept plundering them and were stronger than they were. From there godlike Nausithous had moved them and led them away, and he settled them in Scheria, far from men who labor for their bread. He drove a wall around the city, built houses, made temples for the gods, and divided up the fields. But he had already been overcome by his fate and gone down to Hades, and Alcinous was ruling then, a man whose wisdom came from the gods. It was to his house that the goddess went, gray-eyed Athena, planning a homecoming for great-hearted Odysseus.note

That’s how a good name spreads among people, and it makes your father and lady mother happy. So let’s go and do the washing as soon as dawn appears. I’ll come along to help you, so you can get ready as quickly as possible, because you won’t be a girl for much longer. Already the best men of the whole land are courting you—of all the Phaeacians, your own people. Come on, then: early in the morning urge your glorious father to have the mules and a wagon harnessed, to carry the sashes and robes and shining coverlets. And for you yourself it’s much better to go that way than on foot, since the washing pools are a long way from the city.”

So speaking, gray-eyed Athena went away to Olympus, where they say the seat of the gods stands forever firm. It is not shaken by winds or ever soaked by rain, and snow does not come near it; clear air spreads all around it, cloudless, and a white radiance plays over it. There the blessed gods take their delight all their days. There the gray-eyed goddess went, once she had made her meaning plain to the girl. Soon fair-throned Dawn came and woke Nausicaa of the lovely robes. At once she wondered at her dream, and went through the house to tell her parents, her dear father and her mother. She found them at home. Her mother was sitting by the hearth with her serving-women, spinning yarn dyed with sea-purple; her father she met just as he was going out of doors to join the famous lords at the council, where the noble Phaeacians had summoned him. She stood very close to her dear father and said:

“Daddy dear, won’t you have the wagon harnessed for me, the tall one with the good wheels, so I can take our fine clothes to the river to wash? They’re lying around dirty. And it’s only right for you, when you sit among the leading men deliberating, to have clean clothes on. You also have five dear sons living in the house, two married and three bachelors in their prime, and they always want freshly washed clothes to wear when they go dancing. I have to think about all of this.” So she spoke, for she was too shy to speak of her own ripening marriage to her dear father. But he understood it all, and answered her with these words: “I don’t begrudge you the mules, child, or anything else. Go. The servants will harness the wagon for you, the tall one with the good wheels, fitted with its frame on top.”

So saying, he called to the servants, and they obeyed. Outside they got the smooth-running mule wagon ready, led the mules under the yoke and harnessed them to the wagon, while the girl brought the shining clothes out of her chamber and laid them in the polished wagon. Her mother packed a box with food of every kind, all the heart could want, and put in savory things too, and poured wine into a goatskin; and the girl climbed onto the wagon. Her mother also gave her liquid olive oil in a golden flask, so that she and her serving-women could anoint themselves after bathing. She took the whip and the shining reins and touched up the mules to get them going. There was a clatter of hooves, and the mules pulled steadily on, carrying the clothes and the girl herself—and not her alone: the other handmaids went along with her.

When they came to the lovely stream of the river, where the washing pools were that never ran dry, and plenty of clear water welled up and flowed over them, enough to clean even the dirtiest things, there they unhitched the mules from the wagon and drove them along the eddying river to graze on the honey-sweet grass. They took the clothes from the wagon in their arms, carried them into the dark water, and trampled them in the trenches, quickly, racing one another. When they had washed them and cleaned off all the dirt, they spread them out in a row along the seashore, where the sea washed the pebbles up onto the beach most cleanly. Then they bathed, rubbed themselves richly with oil, and had their meal on the riverbanks, waiting for the clothes to dry in the sunshine.

But when she was about to set off home again, after yoking the mules and folding the fine clothes, then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, had another idea: that Odysseus should wake up and see the lovely-eyed girl, so that she might lead him to the city of the Phaeacians. So the princess threw the ball to one of her handmaids. She missed the handmaid and threw it into a deep eddy, and they all let out a long shriek. Godlike Odysseus woke up, sat up, and turned things over in his mind and heart: “Oh, wretched me, whose land have I come to now? Are they violent and savage and unjust, or kind to strangers, with minds that fear the gods?

It sounded as if a high cry of girls rang around me—of nymphs, who haunt the steep peaks of the mountains, and the springs of rivers, and the grassy meadows. Or am I somewhere near human beings who speak? Well, I’ll go and find out for myself, and see.” So speaking, godlike Odysseus crept out from under the bushes, and with his strong hand he broke a leafy branch from the thick wood, to hold around his body and cover his genitals. He went forward like a mountain-bred lion, trusting in his strength, who goes out through rain and wind with his eyes blazing; he goes in among the cattle or the sheep, or after the wild deer, and his belly drives him to attack the flocks and even to enter a well-built fold—so Odysseus was about to go among the girls with the lovely hair, naked as he was, for need had come upon him.

He appeared terrible to them, all fouled with brine, and they scattered this way and that along the jutting beaches. Only the daughter of Alcinous stayed, for Athena put courage in her heart and took the fear from her limbs. She stood her ground, facing him. And Odysseus pondered whether to clasp the lovely-eyed girl by the knees and beg her, or just to stand apart and beg her with gentle words to show him the city and give him clothes. As he thought it over, this seemed the better course: to stand apart and beg her with gentle words, in case the girl was angered at heart if he clasped her knees. At once he spoke, gently and shrewdly:note

“I implore you, my lady—are you a goddess or a mortal? If you are a goddess, one of those who hold wide heaven, I would liken you most closely to Artemis, daughter of great Zeus, in beauty, stature and form. But if you are one of the mortals who live upon the earth, three times blessed are your father and your lady mother, and three times blessed your brothers. Their hearts must always glow with happiness because of you, when they watch such a young sapling entering the dance. But happiest at heart beyond all others is the man who outdoes the rest with his bride-gifts and leads you home. I have never yet set eyes on such a mortal, man or woman; awe takes hold of me as I look at you.

“Stranger, you don’t seem to be a bad man or a foolish one. It is Olympian Zeus himself who deals out happiness to people, to the good and the bad, to each as he wishes; he must have given you this lot, and you have to bear it all the same. But now that you have come to our city and our land, you won’t lack clothing or anything else that a hard-pressed suppliant ought to have when he meets with someone. I will show you the town, and tell you the name of the people. The Phaeacians hold this city and land, and I am the daughter of great-hearted Alcinous, on whom the strength and power of the Phaeacians depend.” She spoke, and called to her handmaids with the lovely hair:

“Stop, my handmaids! Where are you running off to, just because you’ve seen a man? You surely don’t think he’s an enemy? There is no man living, and there never will be, who could come to the land of the Phaeacians bringing war, for we are very dear to the immortals. We live far away in the surging sea, at the very edge of the world, and no other mortals have dealings with us. No, this is some poor wanderer who has come here, and we must take care of him now; for all strangers and beggars come from Zeus, and a gift, however small, is welcome. So give the stranger food and drink, my handmaids, and bathe him in the river, where there’s shelter from the wind.”

So she spoke, and they stopped and called to one another, and they sat Odysseus down in a sheltered spot, as Nausicaa, daughter of great-hearted Alcinous, had told them. Beside him they laid clothes, a cloak and a tunic, and gave him liquid olive oil in the golden flask, and told him to bathe in the river’s stream. Then godlike Odysseus said to the handmaids: “Handmaids, stand off over there, so that I can wash the brine from my shoulders myself and rub myself with oil—it’s been a long time since oil touched my skin. I won’t bathe in front of you; I’m ashamed to strip naked when I’ve come among girls with lovely hair.”

So he spoke, and they went off a distance and told the girl. And godlike Odysseus washed from his skin with river water the brine that caked his back and his broad shoulders, and from his head he scrubbed the scurf of the barren sea. When he had washed himself all over and rubbed himself with oil, and put on the clothes the unmarried girl had given him, Athena, born of Zeus, made him taller to look at and sturdier, and from his head she made his hair fall in curls, like the hyacinth flower. As when a skilled man overlays silver with gold, one whom Hephaestus and Pallas Athena have taught every kind of craft, and the work he finishes is full of grace, so she poured grace over his head and shoulders.

So she spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed, and set food and drink beside Odysseus. Then much-enduring, godlike Odysseus drank and ate ravenously, for he had gone a long time without food. But white-armed Nausicaa had another idea. She folded the clothes and put them in the fine wagon, yoked the strong-hoofed mules, and climbed up herself. Then she urged Odysseus on, and spoke to him and addressed him: “Get up now, stranger, and come to the city, so that I can take you to my wise father’s house, where I promise you’ll meet all the best of the Phaeacians.

But do it like this—you don’t seem to me to lack sense. As long as we’re going through the fields and the farmland, walk quickly with the handmaids behind the mules and the wagon, and I’ll lead the way. But when we come to the city—there’s a high wall around it, and a fine harbor on either side of the city, and the entrance is narrow; the curved ships are drawn up along the road, for every one of them has its own berth. There too is their meeting place, around the fine shrine of Poseidon, built of quarried stones set deep in the ground. There they look after the gear of their black ships, the cables and sails, and plane the oars down. For the Phaeacians care nothing for the bow or the quiver, only for masts and the oars of ships and well-balanced ships, in which they take pride as they cross the gray sea.

That’s what they’ll say, and it would be a disgrace to me. I’d blame any other girl myself who did such things, who kept company with men against the wishes of her father and mother while they were still alive, before her wedding was held in the open. So, stranger, listen carefully to what I tell you, so that you can get an escort and a homecoming from my father as soon as possible. Near the road you’ll find a splendid grove of poplars sacred to Athena; a spring flows in it, and there’s a meadow all around. My father has his estate there, and a flourishing orchard, as far from the city as a man’s shout carries. Sit down there and wait for a while, until we get to town and reach my father’s house.

The sun set, and they came to the famous grove sacred to Athena, where godlike Odysseus sat down. At once he prayed to the daughter of great Zeus: “Hear me, child of Zeus who bears the aegis, Atrytone! Listen to me now at last, since you never listened before, when I was being battered, when the famous Earth-shaker battered me. Grant that I come among the Phaeacians as a friend, and one to be pitied.” So he spoke in prayer, and Pallas Athena heard him. But she did not yet appear to him face to face, for she respected her father’s brother; and he kept up his furious rage against godlike Odysseus until he reached his own land.note

So he prayed there, much-enduring, godlike Odysseus, while the strength of the two mules carried the girl to the city. When she reached her father’s glorious house, she halted them at the gateway, and her brothers, like the immortals, gathered around her. They unyoked the mules from the wagon and carried the clothes inside. She herself went to her chamber, and an old woman from Apeire lit a fire for her: Eurymedusa, her chamber-maid, whom curved ships had once brought from Apeire. The people had picked her out as a prize of honor for Alcinous, because he ruled over all the Phaeacians and the people listened to him as to a god. She had raised white-armed Nausicaa in the hall. Now she lit the fire for her and made ready her supper inside.

Then Odysseus set out to go to the city. Athena, kindly disposed toward Odysseus, poured a thick mist around him, so that none of the great-hearted Phaeacians who met him would taunt him or ask him who he was. But just as he was about to enter the lovely city, the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, met him there in the likeness of a young girl carrying a pitcher. She stopped in front of him, and godlike Odysseus asked her: “My child, won’t you guide me to the house of Alcinous, the man who rules over the people here? I’ve come here as a stranger, worn out by suffering, from far away, from a distant land, so I don’t know any of the people who live in this city and this country.”

Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke to him in turn: “Well then, stranger, father, I’ll show you the house you ask for, since it lies close to my own excellent father’s. But walk on just as you are, in silence, and I’ll lead the way. Don’t look at anyone or question anyone. The people here don’t much put up with strangers, and they give no warm welcome to anyone who comes from elsewhere. Trusting in their swift, quick ships, they cross the great gulf of the sea, since the Earth-shaker granted them that; their ships are as quick as a wing or a thought.”

So she spoke, and Pallas Athena led the way quickly, and he followed in the goddess’s footsteps. The Phaeacians, famed for their ships, did not notice him as he walked through the city among them, for Athena of the lovely hair, the dread goddess, would not allow it: with kindness in her heart she had poured a wondrous mist over him. Odysseus marveled at the harbors and the well-balanced ships, at the meeting-places of the heroes themselves, and at the long walls, high and topped with stakes, a wonder to see. But when they reached the glorious house of the king, the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, was the first to speak:

“This, stranger, father, is the house you asked me to show you. You’ll find the lords whom Zeus cherishes feasting at their banquet. Go on inside, and don’t be afraid at heart: a bold man comes off better in every venture, even if he comes from some other land. In the hall you’ll first come upon the queen. Arete is the name she’s called by, and she comes from the very same forebears who gave birth to King Alcinous. First, Nausithous was born to Poseidon the Earth-shaker and Periboea, the loveliest of women in looks, youngest daughter of great-hearted Eurymedon, who was once king over the overweening Giants. But he brought his reckless people to destruction, and was destroyed himself. Poseidon lay with her, and she bore a son, great-hearted Nausithous, who ruled among the Phaeacians. Nausithous fathered Rhexenor and Alcinous.

So she spoke, and gray-eyed Athena went away over the barren sea and left lovely Scheria. She came to Marathon and to Athens of the wide streets, and entered the solid house of Erechtheus. But Odysseus went toward the glorious house of Alcinous, and his heart turned over many things as he stood there before reaching the bronze threshold. For a gleam as of the sun or the moon lay over the high-roofed house of great-hearted Alcinous. Walls of bronze ran this way and that, from the threshold to the innermost room, with a frieze of dark-blue enamel along the top. Golden doors closed in the solid house; silver doorposts stood on the bronze threshold, the lintel above them was silver, and the door-handle gold.note

There much-enduring, godlike Odysseus stood and gazed. But when he had gazed at everything to his heart’s content, he quickly stepped over the threshold into the house. He found the leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians pouring libations from their cups to keen-sighted Argeïphontes, to whom they always poured last, when they turned their thoughts to bed. Much-enduring, godlike Odysseus went through the house, wrapped in the thick mist that Athena had poured around him, until he came to Arete and King Alcinous. Odysseus threw his arms around Arete’s knees, and at that moment the god-sent mist streamed away from him. They all fell silent throughout the house when they saw the man, and they marveled as they looked. Then Odysseus made his plea:note

“Arete, daughter of godlike Rhexenor, after much suffering I come to your husband and to your knees, and to these feasters. May the gods grant them prosperity in their lives, and may each of them hand down to his children the wealth in his halls and whatever honor the people have given him. But as for me, make ready a passage home, to bring me quickly to my native land, since I have long been suffering hardships far from my own people.” So he spoke, and sat down on the hearth in the ashes beside the fire, and they all were hushed in silence. At last the old hero Echeneus spoke out. He was the eldest of the Phaeacian men, and excelled in speaking, knowing many things of long ago. With good intent he addressed them and said:note

“Alcinous, this is not the better way, nor is it fitting, for a stranger to sit on the ground at the hearth in the ashes, while these men hold back, waiting for your word. Come, raise the stranger up and seat him on a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix wine, so that we may pour a libation to Zeus who delights in thunder, who attends on suppliants, who deserve respect. And let the housekeeper give the stranger supper from what is in store.” When the sacred strength of Alcinous heard this, he took Odysseus, wise and of subtle cunning, by the hand, raised him from the hearth and seated him on a shining chair, making his son, manly Laodamas, get up from it; he sat next to him, and was the son he loved most.

A maid brought water for washing in a beautiful golden pitcher and poured it over a silver basin for him to wash his hands, and beside him she drew up a polished table. The respected housekeeper brought bread and set it before him, adding many dishes, giving freely of what she had. And much-enduring, godlike Odysseus drank and ate. Then the might of Alcinous spoke to the herald: “Pontonous, mix a bowl and serve wine to everyone throughout the hall, so that we may pour a libation to Zeus who delights in thunder, who attends on suppliants, who deserve respect.” So he spoke, and Pontonous mixed the honey-sweet wine and served it out to all, first pouring a few drops into each cup. But when they had poured their libations and drunk as much as their hearts desired, Alcinous addressed them and said:

“Hear me, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians, so that I may say what the heart in my breast bids me. Now that you’ve feasted, go home and lie down to rest. At dawn we’ll call more of the elders together, entertain the stranger in our halls and offer fine sacrifices to the gods; and after that we’ll give thought to his passage home, so that the stranger, free of toil and distress, may reach his native land under our escort, rejoicing, quickly, even if he comes from very far away, and suffer no harm or hardship on the way before he sets foot on his own land. There, after that, he must suffer whatever fate and the grim Spinners spun for him with their thread at his birth, when his mother bore him.

And I could tell of still more troubles, all that I have endured by the will of the gods. But let me eat my supper, distressed as I am. There is nothing more shameless than the hateful belly, which forces a man to think of it, however worn down he is and however much grief he has in his heart. So it is with me: I have grief in my heart, but the belly keeps bidding me eat and drink, makes me forget everything I’ve suffered, and demands to be filled. But you, as soon as dawn appears, make haste to set me, wretched as I am, on my native soil, after all my suffering. Let life leave me, once I’ve seen my possessions, my servants and my great high-roofed house.”

So he spoke, and they all approved and urged that the stranger be sent on his way, since he had spoken fittingly. But when they had poured their libations and drunk as much as their hearts desired, they went home to lie down, each to his own house; but godlike Odysseus was left behind in the hall, and beside him sat Arete and godlike Alcinous, while the maids cleared away the dishes of the feast. White-armed Arete was the first to speak, for when she saw his fine clothes she recognized the cloak and tunic, which she herself had made with her serving women; and she spoke winged words to him:

“Stranger, I will ask you this first myself: who are you, and where are you from? Who gave you these clothes? Didn’t you say you came here after wandering over the sea?” Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: “It’s hard, my queen, to tell my troubles from start to finish, since the gods of heaven have given me so many. But I will tell you this, what you ask and inquire about. There is an island, Ogygia, that lies far off in the sea. There lives the daughter of Atlas, crafty Calypso of the lovely hair, a dread goddess, and no one keeps company with her, neither god nor mortal man. But some god brought me, wretched as I am, alone to her hearth, after Zeus had struck my swift ship with his blazing thunderbolt and shattered it in the middle of the wine-dark sea.

There all the rest of my good companions perished, but I clasped the keel of the curved ship in my arms and was carried along for nine days; on the tenth, in the black night, the gods brought me to the island of Ogygia, where Calypso of the lovely hair lives, a dread goddess. She took me in, loved me warmly and cared for me, and kept saying she would make me immortal and ageless all my days; but she never won over the heart in my chest. There I stayed for seven years without a break, and I was always wetting with my tears the immortal clothes that Calypso had given me. But when the eighth year came round, then at last she urged me and bade me go home, whether at a message from Zeus or because her own mind had changed.

“Hero, don’t blame your blameless daughter for that. She did tell me to follow along with her serving women, but I didn’t want to, out of fear and shame, in case your heart should grow angry when you saw it; for we tribes of men on earth are quick to suspicion.” Then Alcinous answered him in turn and said: “Stranger, the heart in my chest is not the kind to be angered without cause; it’s better for everything to be in due measure. If only—father Zeus, and Athena, and Apollo!—a man like you, thinking as I think, would take my daughter and be called my son-in-law, and stay here! I would give you a house and possessions, if you were willing to stay; but no one among the Phaeacians will keep you here against your will. May that never be pleasing to father Zeus.

As for your passage home, I set it for this day, so that you know it well: tomorrow. Then you will lie overcome by sleep, while they row over the calm sea, until you reach your native land and your house, or wherever you wish to go—even if it is much farther away than Euboea, which those of our people who saw it say is the farthest of all lands, when they took fair-haired Rhadamanthys to visit Tityus, the son of Earth. They went there, completed the journey without toil on that same day, and made the return trip home. You’ll see for yourself in your own mind how far my ships are the best, and my young men, at tossing up the sea with the oar-blade.” So he spoke, and much-enduring, godlike Odysseus rejoiced, and he prayed, calling on the god by name, and said:note

“Father Zeus, may Alcinous bring about everything he has said! Then his glory would never be quenched over the grain-giving earth, and I would reach my native land.” So they spoke such words to one another. White-armed Arete told her maids to set up a bed in the portico and lay fine purple blankets on it, spread rugs over them, and put woolly cloaks on top to cover him. They went out of the hall with torches in their hands, and when they had busily spread the sturdy bed, they came and stood beside Odysseus and urged him: “Get up and come to bed, stranger; your bed is made.” So they spoke, and the thought of lying down to sleep was welcome to him. So there much-enduring, godlike Odysseus slept on the corded bed in the echoing portico; and Alcinous lay down in the innermost room of the high house, and beside him lay the lady his wife, who had prepared their bed and bedding.

When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, the sacred might of Alcinous rose from his bed, and up rose Odysseus too, sprung from Zeus, sacker of cities. The sacred might of Alcinous led them to the Phaeacians’ place of assembly, which had been built for them beside the ships. When they arrived, they sat down side by side on the polished stones. Meanwhile Pallas Athena went up and down through the city in the likeness of wise-hearted Alcinous’ herald, planning the homecoming of great-hearted Odysseus. She stood beside each man and spoke to him: “Come now, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians, come to the assembly and learn about the stranger who has just arrived at the house of wise-hearted Alcinous after wandering over the sea. In build he is like the immortals.”

So saying, she stirred the strength and spirit of each man. Quickly the assembly place and its seats filled with people gathering, and many gazed in wonder when they saw Laertes’ wise-hearted son. Athena had poured wondrous grace over his head and shoulders and made him taller and broader to look at. She wanted all the Phaeacians to welcome him as a friend, to hold him in awe and respect, and she wanted him to come through the many contests in which the Phaeacians would test Odysseus. But when they had gathered and were all assembled together, Alcinous addressed them and spoke among them: “Hear me, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians, so that I may say what the heart in my breast bids me. This stranger—I don’t know who he is—has come to my house in his wanderings, whether from the men of the east or of the west. He urges us to give him passage home, and begs that it be made sure.

Let us press on with his passage, as we have done before. For no one else who comes to my house stays here long, grieving for want of passage. Come, let us drag a black ship down to the bright sea, one sailing for the first time, and let fifty-two young men be chosen from among the people, those who have proved themselves the best. When you have all tied the oars fast at the benches, come ashore. Then come to our house and busy yourselves with a quick meal; I will provide well for everyone. These are my orders to the young men. But the rest of you, sceptered lords, come to my fine house, so that we may make the stranger welcome in the halls, and let no one refuse. And call the divine bard Demodocus; for to him above all a god has given song, to delight in whatever way his heart prompts him to sing.”

Having spoken, he led the way, and the sceptered lords followed with him, while a herald went to fetch the divine bard. The fifty-two chosen young men went, as he had ordered, to the shore of the barren sea. When they had come down to the ship and the sea, they dragged the black ship down into deep water and set the mast and sail in the black ship. They fitted the oars in their leather straps, all in due order, and spread out the white sails. They moored her well out in the water, and then they went their way to the great house of wise-hearted Alcinous. The colonnades, the courtyards and the rooms were filled with men gathering; there were many of them, young and old.

And they reached out their hands to the good things lying ready before them. But when they had put away their desire for food and drink, the Muse moved the bard to sing the famous deeds of men. He chose a song whose fame had by then reached the wide heaven: the quarrel of Odysseus and Achilles son of Peleus. He sang how they once fought with violent words at a rich feast of the gods, and how Agamemnon, lord of men, was glad at heart that the best of the Achaeans were quarreling. For so Phoebus Apollo had told him in prophecy at holy Pytho, when he crossed the stone threshold to consult the oracle. At that time the beginning of woe was rolling on for Trojans and Danaans through the plans of great Zeus.note

This was the song the famous bard sang. But Odysseus took his great purple cloak in his strong hands, drew it down over his head and covered his handsome face, for he was ashamed before the Phaeacians to shed tears from under his brows. Each time the divine bard paused in his singing, Odysseus would wipe away his tears and take the cloak from his head. Then he would take up a two-handled cup and pour a libation to the gods. But whenever the bard began again, and the best of the Phaeacians urged him to sing because they delighted in his words, Odysseus would cover his head again and weep. Then he shed his tears unnoticed by all the others. Alcinous alone noticed and observed him, sitting next to him, and heard him groaning heavily. At once he spoke among the oar-loving Phaeacians:

“Hear me, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians. We have now satisfied our hearts with the shared feast and with the lyre, which is the companion of the rich feast. Now let us go out and try all kinds of contests, so that when the stranger has returned home, he may tell his friends how far we surpass others at boxing and wrestling, at jumping and running.” Having spoken, he led the way, and they followed with him. The herald hung the clear-toned lyre on its peg, took Demodocus by the hand and led him out of the hall. He led him along the same road the others were taking, the best of the Phaeacians, on their way to marvel at the contests.

They went their way to the place of assembly, and a great crowd went with them, thousands of them. Many fine young men stood up. Up rose Acroneus and Ocyalus and Elatreus, Nauteus and Prymneus and Anchialus and Eretmeus, Ponteus and Proreus, Thoön and Anabesineus, and Amphialus, son of Polyneus, son of Tecton. Up rose Euryalus too, the equal of Ares, the bane of men, the son of Naubolus. After peerless Laodamas, he was the best of all the Phaeacians in looks and build. And up stood the three sons of peerless Alcinous: Laodamas, Halius and godlike Clytoneus. These first tested each other at running.note

“Come, friends, let’s ask the stranger whether he knows some contest and has learned it. In build he’s certainly no weakling—look at his thighs and calves, and both his arms, and his sturdy neck, and his great strength. Nor is he past his prime; but he has been broken by many hardships. For I say there is nothing worse than the sea for wrecking a man, however strong he may be.” Then Euryalus answered him in turn and said: “Laodamas, you’ve spoken quite rightly. Go now yourself and challenge him, and put it to him.” When Alcinous’ good son heard this, he went and stood in the middle and spoke to Odysseus:

“Come on, stranger, good father, you try your hand at the contests too, if you’ve learned any; and you look like a man who knows his contests. For there’s no greater glory for a man, as long as he lives, than what he achieves with his own feet and hands. So come, try, and scatter the cares from your heart. Your journey won’t be put off much longer; your ship has already been launched, and the crew is ready.” Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Laodamas, why do you all urge these things on me to mock me? Cares are on my mind far more than contests. I have suffered a great deal before and toiled a great deal, and now I sit in your assembly longing for my homecoming, begging the king and all the people.”

Then Euryalus answered him in turn, and taunted him to his face: “No, stranger, I don’t take you for a man skilled in contests, of the many kinds there are among men. You look to me like someone who travels back and forth in a ship with many oarlocks, a captain of sailors who are merchants. You’re the kind who keeps his cargo in mind and keeps an eye on his freight and his grabbing profits. You don’t look like an athlete.” Then resourceful Odysseus, looking at him from under his brows, said to him: “Stranger, that was not well said; you seem like a reckless man. So it is that the gods do not give their graces to all men alike—not build, nor mind, nor eloquence.

One man is rather unimpressive in looks, but a god crowns his form with words, and people look at him with delight. He speaks without faltering, with a winning modesty, and he stands out among those gathered, and as he goes through the town they gaze on him as on a god. Another, again, is like the immortals in looks, but no grace crowns his words. So it is with you. Your looks are outstanding, and not even a god could fashion them otherwise, but your mind is empty. You have stirred the heart in my breast by speaking so improperly. I am no novice at contests, as you claim. I think I was among the first, as long as I could trust in my youth and my hands.

“Even a blind man, stranger, could tell your mark by feeling for it, since it isn’t mixed in with the crowd but lies far in front. In this contest at least you can be confident: no Phaeacian will reach this, let alone throw past it.” So she spoke, and much-enduring, godlike Odysseus was glad, rejoicing because he saw a kindly friend in the arena. Then he spoke among the Phaeacians in a lighter tone: “Reach that now, young men. Soon I’ll throw another after it, I think, as far as this, or even farther. And of the rest, if anyone’s heart and spirit urge him, let him come here and try me, since you have made me very angry. Boxing or wrestling or even running, I don’t refuse anything. Let anyone of all the Phaeacians try, except Laodamas himself.

For he is my host: who would fight with a man who treats him as a friend? Senseless and worthless is the man who challenges his host to a contest in a foreign land; he ruins everything for himself. But of the others I refuse no one, nor do I scorn any. I want to know them and test them face to face. For I am not bad at any of the contests there are among men. I know well how to handle the polished bow. I would be the first to hit my man with an arrow in a throng of enemies, even if a great many of my companions stood close beside me shooting at men. Only Philoctetes surpassed me with the bow in the land of the Trojans, whenever we Achaeans shot.note

So he spoke, and they all fell hushed in silence. Alcinous alone answered him and said: “Stranger, what you say among us is not ungracious. You wish to show the excellence that goes with you, angry that this man stood beside you in the arena and taunted you—though no mortal who knew in his heart how to speak fittingly would belittle your excellence. So come now, listen to what I say, so that you may tell it to some other hero too, when you are feasting in your halls beside your wife and your children. Then you will remember our excellence, and the skills Zeus has given to us too, generation after generation since our fathers’ time.

We are not faultless boxers or wrestlers. But we run swiftly on our feet and are the best with ships. Always dear to us are the feast and the lyre and dances, changes of clothes, warm baths and bed. But come, all you who are the best dancers of the Phaeacians, dance and play. Then the stranger, when he has returned home, may tell his friends how far we surpass others in seafaring and running, in dancing and song. And let someone go at once and bring Demodocus the clear-toned lyre, which lies somewhere in our house.” So spoke godlike Alcinous, and the herald rose to fetch the hollow lyre from the king’s house.

Then the stewards stood up, nine chosen men in all, public officials who managed everything well at the games. They smoothed the dancing floor and widened a fine space for the dance. The herald came near, bringing Demodocus the clear-toned lyre, and he then went into the middle. Around him stood boys in their first youth, skilled in dancing, and they struck the sacred dancing floor with their feet. Odysseus gazed at the flashing of their feet and marveled in his heart. Then the bard, playing the lyre, struck up a lovely song about the love of Ares and fair-crowned Aphrodite. He sang how they first lay together in the house of Hephaestus, secretly; how Ares gave her many gifts and shamed the bed and marriage of lord Hephaestus. But at once a messenger came to Hephaestus: Helios, who had seen them lying together in love.

As soon as Hephaestus heard the painful story, he went his way to his forge, brooding evil in his heart. He set the great anvil on its block and forged bonds that could not be broken or loosed, so that the pair would stay fast where they were. When he had made his trick, in his anger at Ares, he went his way to the bedchamber where his own bed lay. All round the bedposts he spread the bonds in a circle, and many hung down from above, from the roof-beam, like fine spider-webs. No one could see them, not even the blessed gods, so very cunningly were they made.

So he spoke, and to her it seemed a welcome thing to lie with him. The two of them went to the bed and lay down to sleep, and all around them poured the cunning bonds of wise Hephaestus, so that they could not move a limb or lift one. And then at last they knew there was no escape. The famous lame god came up close to them, having turned back before he reached the land of Lemnos, for Helios had kept watch for him and told him the story. He went toward his own house, grieved at heart. He stood in the doorway, and savage anger seized him, and he gave a terrible shout and called out to all the gods:

“Father Zeus, and you other blessed gods who live forever, come here and see a laughable thing, a thing not to be borne: how Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, is forever dishonoring me because I’m lame, and loves destructive Ares, because he is handsome and sound of foot, while I was born a weakling. Yet no one else is to blame for that, only my two parents. I wish they had never fathered me! But you’ll see where these two have climbed into my bed and are sleeping together in love, and the sight of it pains me. Still, I don’t expect they’ll want to lie like this even a little longer, however much in love they are. Soon neither of them will want to sleep. But the trick and the bonds will hold them until her father pays me back every one of the bride-gifts I put in his hands for the sake of his shameless girl—for his daughter is beautiful, but she has no self-control.”

So he spoke, and the gods gathered at the house with the bronze floor. Poseidon the Earth-holder came; Hermes the helper came; and lord Apollo who works from afar came. But the goddesses stayed at home, each of them, out of modesty. The gods, the givers of good things, stood in the doorway, and unquenchable laughter rose among the blessed gods as they looked at the craft of wise Hephaestus. And this is what one would say, glancing at his neighbor: “Bad deeds don’t prosper. The slow catches the swift—just as now Hephaestus, slow as he is, has caught Ares, though he’s the swiftest of the gods who hold Olympus. Lame as he is, he caught him by craft. So Ares owes the adulterer’s fine.”

So they talked among themselves. And lord Apollo, son of Zeus, said to Hermes: “Hermes, son of Zeus, guide, giver of good things, would you really be willing to be pinned down in strong bonds and sleep in bed beside golden Aphrodite?” Then the guide, Argeïphontes, answered him: “If only that could happen, lord Apollo who shoots from afar! Let three times as many endless bonds hold me fast all round, and let you gods look on, and all the goddesses too—so long as I could sleep beside golden Aphrodite.” So he spoke, and laughter rose among the immortal gods. But no laughter took hold of Poseidon; he kept begging Hephaestus, the famous craftsman, to set Ares free. And he called out to him and spoke winged words:

“Set him free! I promise you that he will pay, as you demand, everything that is due, in the presence of the immortal gods.” Then the famous lame god said to him in turn: “Don’t ask this of me, Poseidon, Earth-holder. Pledges given for worthless men are worthless pledges. How could I hold you bound among the immortal gods, if Ares went off, escaping both the debt and the bonds?” Then Poseidon the Earth-shaker said to him in turn: “Hephaestus, if Ares does slip out of the debt and runs off, I myself will pay you this.” Then the famous lame god answered him: “It isn’t possible, nor would it be right, to refuse your word.”

So saying, mighty Hephaestus loosed the bonds. And the two, once they were free of the bonds, strong as they were, sprang up at once. He went off to Thrace, and laughter-loving Aphrodite came to Cyprus, to Paphos, where she has a precinct and a fragrant altar. There the Graces bathed her and anointed her with immortal oil, such as gleams on the gods who live forever, and dressed her in lovely clothes, a wonder to see. This was the song the famous bard sang; and Odysseus was delighted in his heart as he listened, and so were the rest, the Phaeacians of the long oars, men famous for ships.

Then Alcinous told Halius and Laodamas to dance by themselves, since no one could rival them. So they took in their hands a beautiful purple ball, which skilled Polybus had made for them. One of them would bend backward and toss it toward the shadowy clouds, and the other would leap high off the ground and catch it easily before his feet touched the earth again. And when they had tried their skill at throwing the ball straight up, they danced on the nourishing earth, quickly changing places, while the other young men stood around the arena beating time, and a great din went up. Then godlike Odysseus spoke to Alcinous: “Lord Alcinous, most renowned among all the people, you boasted that your dancers were the best, and so it has proved. Wonder takes hold of me as I watch.”

So he spoke, and the sacred might of Alcinous was glad, and at once he spoke among the oar-loving Phaeacians: “Hear me, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians. This stranger seems to me a man of real good sense. Come, let’s give him a guest-gift, as is fitting. There are twelve distinguished lords who rule as chiefs among the people, and I myself am the thirteenth. Let each of you bring him a freshly washed cloak and a tunic and a talent of precious gold. And let’s bring it all together quickly, so that the stranger can have it in his hands and go to dinner glad at heart. And let Euryalus make amends to him in person, with words and with a gift, since what he said was not at all fitting.”

So he spoke, and they all approved and urged it on, and each of them sent off a herald to fetch the gifts. And Euryalus answered him and said: “Lord Alcinous, most renowned among all the people, then I’ll make amends to the stranger, as you tell me. I’ll give him this sword, all of bronze, with a silver hilt and a sheath of freshly sawn ivory wrapped around it. It will be worth a great deal to him.” So saying, he placed the silver-studded sword in his hands, and he called out to him and spoke winged words: “Farewell, stranger, my father; and if any harsh word was spoken, may the storm winds snatch it up at once and carry it away. And may the gods grant that you see your wife and reach your native land, since you’ve been suffering hardships far from your own people for so long.”

Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Farewell to you too, my friend, with all my heart, and may the gods grant you prosperity. And may you never miss this sword in time to come, this sword you’ve given me, making amends with your words.” He spoke, and slung the silver-studded sword around his shoulders. The sun set, and the glorious gifts were there for him. The noble heralds carried them to the house of Alcinous, and the sons of excellent Alcinous received the beautiful gifts and set them beside their honored mother. The sacred might of Alcinous led the way, and they came in and sat down on the high chairs. Then the might of Alcinous spoke to Arete:

“Come here, wife, bring a splendid chest, the best one there is, and put a freshly washed cloak and a tunic in it yourself. And all of you, heat a bronze cauldron on the fire for him and warm some water, so that once he has bathed and seen all the gifts neatly laid out, the gifts the excellent Phaeacians brought here, he may enjoy the feast and the strains of the song as he listens. And I’ll give him this beautiful cup of mine, made of gold, so that he’ll remember me all his days as he pours libations in his hall to Zeus and the other gods.”

So he spoke, and Arete told her maids to set a great tripod over the fire as quickly as they could. They set the bath-tripod on the blazing fire, poured water into it, and took wood and kindled it beneath. The fire licked around the belly of the tripod, and the water grew warm. Meanwhile Arete brought out from the storeroom a beautiful chest for the stranger and put the splendid gifts in it, the clothing and gold the Phaeacians had given him; and in it she herself placed a cloak and a fine tunic, and she called out to him and spoke winged words:

“Now see to the lid yourself, and tie a knot on it quickly, so that no one robs you on the way when you’re sleeping a sweet sleep later as you travel in the black ship.” And when much-enduring, godlike Odysseus heard this, at once he fitted the lid and quickly tied an intricate knot on it, one that lady Circe had once taught him. Then the housekeeper told him to step into the tub and bathe straightaway, and his heart was glad to see the hot bath, since he had not often been cared for since he left the house of Calypso of the lovely hair. Until then he had been cared for constantly, like a god.note

When the maids had bathed him and anointed him with oil and put a fine cloak and tunic on him, he stepped out of the tub and went to join the men at their wine. And Nausicaa, who had her beauty from the gods, stood by the doorpost of the well-built hall and gazed at Odysseus in wonder as she saw him before her eyes, and she called out to him and spoke winged words: “Farewell, stranger, and when you’re in your native land again, remember me, since it’s to me first that you owe your life.” Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Nausicaa, daughter of great-hearted Alcinous, may Zeus, the loud-thundering husband of Hera, grant that I reach home and see the day of homecoming. Then even there I will pray to you as to a god, always, all my days. For it was you, young lady, who gave me my life.”

He spoke, and sat down on a chair beside King Alcinous. They were already serving out portions and mixing the wine. The herald came near, leading the trusty bard, Demodocus, honored by the people, and seated him in the middle of the feasters, propped against a tall pillar. Then resourceful Odysseus spoke to the herald, cutting off a piece of the chine of a white-tusked hog—and more of it was still left—with rich fat all around it: “Herald, here, give this meat to Demodocus to eat. I’ll greet him warmly, grieving though I am. For among all men on earth bards have their share of honor and respect, because the Muse has taught them the paths of song and loves the tribe of bards.”

So he spoke, and the herald carried it and put it in the hands of the hero Demodocus; he took it and was glad at heart. And they reached out their hands to the good things lying ready before them. But when they had put away their desire for food and drink, then resourceful Odysseus spoke to Demodocus: “Demodocus, I praise you above all mortal men. Either the Muse, daughter of Zeus, taught you, or Apollo; for you sing the fate of the Achaeans exactly as it was, in perfect order—all that the Achaeans did and suffered and toiled through—as if you had been there yourself or heard it from someone who was.

But come now, change your theme and sing of the building of the wooden horse, which Epeius made with Athena’s help, the trick that godlike Odysseus once brought into the citadel, after filling it with the men who sacked Ilium. If you tell me this properly, as it happened, I’ll tell all mankind at once that a god has graciously granted you the gift of inspired song.” So he spoke, and the bard, moved by the god, began, and let his song shine forth, taking it up from where the Argives had boarded their well-benched ships and were sailing away, having set fire to their huts, while the others, with glorious Odysseus, were already sitting in the Trojans’ place of assembly, hidden in the horse; for the Trojans themselves had dragged it up into the citadel.

So there it stood, while the Trojans sat around it and talked on and on without deciding anything. Three plans appealed to them: to split the hollow timber with the pitiless bronze, or to drag it to the top of the cliff and hurl it down the rocks, or to let it stand as a great offering to win the gods’ favor—and that was how it was in fact going to end. For it was their fate to perish once the city had taken in the great wooden horse, where all the best of the Argives sat, bringing death and doom to the Trojans. And he sang how the sons of the Achaeans poured out of the horse, leaving their hollow ambush, and sacked the city. He sang how they ravaged the steep city, each in a different place, but how Odysseus went to the house of Deiphobus like Ares, together with godlike Menelaus. There, he said, Odysseus dared the most terrible fighting and won through then too, thanks to great-hearted Athena.

This was the song the famous bard sang; but Odysseus melted, and tears from under his eyelids wet his cheeks. As a woman weeps, flinging herself on her dear husband, who has fallen in front of his city and his people, trying to keep the pitiless day from his town and his children; she sees him dying and gasping for breath, and clings to him and wails shrilly, while the enemy behind her beat her back and shoulders with their spears and lead her off into slavery, to a life of toil and misery, and her cheeks waste away with most pitiful grief—so Odysseus let fall pitiful tears from under his brows. Then he shed his tears unnoticed by all the others. Alcinous alone noticed and observed him, sitting next to him, and heard him groaning heavily. At once he spoke among the oar-loving Phaeacians:

“Hear me, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians: let Demodocus stop his clear-toned lyre now, for what he sings is hardly pleasing to everyone. Ever since we began dining and the divine bard struck up, our guest hasn’t once stopped his sorrowful lamenting. Some great grief, surely, has gripped his heart. So let the bard stop, so that we may all enjoy ourselves alike, hosts and guest; that is far better. For it’s for the sake of our honored guest that all this has been prepared, his passage home and the gifts we give him in friendship. To any man with even a little sense, a stranger and suppliant is as good as a brother. So now don’t you hide with crafty thoughts whatever I ask you; it’s better for you to speak.

Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: Lord Alcinous, most renowned among all peoples, it is a fine thing, truly, to listen to a bard like this one, whose voice is like the gods’. For I say there is no fulfillment more gracious than when good cheer fills the whole people, and the banqueters sit in rows throughout the house listening to a bard, and beside them the tables are laden with bread and meat, and the wine-steward draws wine from the mixing bowl, carries it round and pours it into the cups. This seems to me, in my heart, the finest thing there is.

But your heart has turned to asking about my sorrowful troubles, so that I may lament and groan still more. What shall I tell you first, then, and what last? For the gods of heaven have given me many troubles. First I will tell you my name, so that you too may know it, and so that afterward, if I escape the pitiless day, I may be your guest-friend, though the house I live in is far away. I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, known to all men for my tricks, and my fame reaches heaven. I live in clear-skied Ithaca. On it is a mountain, Neritus, with quivering leaves, standing out from afar; and around it lie many islands very close to one another, Dulichium and Same and wooded Zacynthus.

From Ilium the wind carried me and brought me to the Cicones, to Ismarus. There I sacked the city and killed the men. From the city we took their wives and many goods and divided them, so that no one, as far as it lay with me, would go off cheated of his fair share. Then I urged that we flee with nimble feet, but the others, the great fools, would not listen. There much wine was drunk, and they slaughtered many sheep along the shore, and shambling cattle with crooked horns. Meanwhile the Cicones who had got away called out to other Cicones, their neighbors, who were more numerous and better fighters, living inland, skilled at fighting men from chariots and, where need be, on foot.note

From there we sailed on, grieving at heart, glad to have escaped death, though we had lost our dear companions. Yet my curved ships did not go on until we had called three times on each of our poor companions who had died on the plain, cut down by the Cicones. Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer roused the North Wind against the ships with a terrible storm, and covered land and sea alike with clouds; and night rushed down from heaven. The ships were driven headlong, and the force of the wind tore their sails into three and four pieces. These we lowered into the ships, fearing destruction, and rowed the ships hard toward the mainland. There for two nights and two days on end we lay, eating our hearts out with weariness and grief.

They went off at once and mingled with the Lotus-eaters; and the Lotus-eaters did not plot destruction for our companions, but gave them lotus to taste. Whoever of them ate the honey-sweet fruit of the lotus no longer wished to bring back word or to return, but they wanted to stay there among the Lotus-eaters, feeding on lotus, and forget their homecoming. I brought them back to the ships by force, weeping, and dragged them under the benches in the hollow ships and tied them fast. Then I ordered the rest of my trusty companions to board the swift ships with all speed, so that no one else might eat the lotus and forget his homecoming. They quickly went aboard and sat down on the benches, and sitting in their rows they struck the gray sea with their oars.

From there we sailed on, grieving at heart. And we came to the land of the Cyclopes, arrogant and lawless, who, trusting in the immortal gods, neither plant anything with their hands nor plow. Everything grows for them unsown and unplowed—wheat and barley and vines, which bear wine from heavy clusters, and the rain of Zeus makes it grow for them. They have no assemblies for counsel and no laws. They live on the peaks of high mountains in hollow caves, and each one lays down the law for his children and his wives, and they pay no heed to one another.

Now a level island stretches out beyond the harbor, neither close to the land of the Cyclopes nor far off, a wooded island. Countless wild goats live on it, for no tread of men keeps them away, nor do hunters go there, men who suffer hardships in the woods as they range over the mountain peaks. Nor is it taken up by flocks or by plowing; unsown and unplowed all its days, it is empty of men and feeds bleating goats. For the Cyclopes have no ships with red-painted cheeks, nor are there shipwrights among them who could build well-benched ships to do all their errands, reaching the cities of men, the way men often cross the sea in ships to visit one another. Such craftsmen would have made the island a well-settled place for them as well.

So then all day long, until the sun went down, we sat feasting on endless meat and sweet wine; for the red wine in the ships had not yet run out, but there was still some left, since each crew had drawn plenty into jars when we took the sacred citadel of the Cicones. And we looked across at the land of the Cyclopes, who were close by, and saw their smoke and heard their voices and the bleating of their sheep and goats. When the sun set and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep on the shore of the sea. When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, I called an assembly and spoke among them all:

“The rest of you stay here for now, my trusty companions, while I go with my own ship and my own companions and find out about these men, who they are—whether they are insolent and savage and unjust, or kind to strangers, with minds that fear the gods.” So I spoke, and went on board, and ordered my companions to embark themselves and loose the stern cables. They quickly went aboard and sat down on the benches, and sitting in their rows they struck the gray sea with their oars.

Then I ordered the rest of my trusty companions to stay there by the ship and guard it, while I chose twelve of my best companions and set out. But I had with me a goatskin of dark wine, sweet wine, which Maron, son of Euanthes, had given me, the priest of Apollo who watched over Ismarus, because out of reverence we had protected him, together with his child and his wife; for he lived in the wooded grove of Phoebus Apollo. And he gave me splendid gifts: he gave me seven talents of well-wrought gold, he gave me a mixing bowl of solid silver, and then he drew off wine for me into twelve jars in all, sweet and unmixed, a drink fit for the gods. No one in the house knew of it, none of the servants or the maids, only he himself and his dear wife and a single housekeeper.

The drying racks were laden with cheeses, and the pens were crowded with lambs and kids. Each kind was penned separately: the firstlings by themselves, the middle ones by themselves, and the newborn by themselves again. And all the vessels were brimming with whey, the well-made pails and bowls into which he did his milking. Then my companions begged me, first, to take some of the cheeses and go back, and then to drive the kids and lambs quickly out of the pens to the swift ship and sail off over the salt water. But I did not listen—it would have been far better if I had—because I wanted to see the man himself, and whether he would give me guest-gifts. And when he appeared, he was not going to be a welcome sight to my companions.

There we lit a fire and made an offering, and we ourselves took some of the cheeses and ate, and sat waiting for him inside until he came back with his flocks. He was carrying a heavy load of dry wood to use at his supper, and he threw it down inside the cave with a crash, and in fear we scurried back into the far corner of the cave. Then he drove into the wide cave his fat flocks, all of those he milked, and left the males outside the door, the rams and the he-goats, out in the deep courtyard. Then he lifted high a great door-stone and set it in place, a massive thing: twenty-two good four-wheeled wagons could not have shifted it from the ground—so huge was the towering rock he set against the doorway. Then he sat down and milked the ewes and the bleating goats, all in due order, and put her young beneath each one.

“We are Achaeans, driven off course from Troy by every kind of wind over the great gulf of the sea. Heading for home, we have come by another way, by other paths—so, I suppose, Zeus wished to devise it. We are proud to be men of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, whose fame is now the greatest under heaven, so great a city did he sack and so many people did he destroy. And we in our turn have come to your knees, in the hope that you might give us a guest-gift or some other present, as is right toward strangers. Respect the gods, mighty one. We are your suppliants, and Zeus is the avenger of suppliants and strangers—Zeus, god of strangers, who walks beside strangers who deserve respect.”

So I spoke, and he answered me at once with a pitiless heart: “You’re a fool, stranger, or you’ve come from far away, to tell me to fear the gods or keep clear of them. The Cyclopes pay no heed to Zeus who bears the aegis, or to the blessed gods, since we are far stronger. I wouldn’t spare you or your companions to avoid the anger of Zeus, unless my own heart told me to. But tell me where you moored your well-made ship when you came—at the far end of the coast, maybe, or close by?—so that I may know.” So he spoke, testing me, but he did not get past me, for I knew a great deal; and I answered him in turn with crafty words:

“My ship was shattered by Poseidon the Earth-shaker. He drove her against the rocks at the edge of your land and brought her onto a headland, and the wind carried her in from the sea. But I, with these men here, escaped sheer destruction.” So I spoke, but he gave me no answer, with his pitiless heart. Instead he sprang up and flung out his hands at my companions. He seized two of them together and dashed them to the ground like puppies, and their brains ran out on the floor and soaked the earth. Then he cut them up limb by limb and made his supper of them. He ate like a mountain-bred lion and left nothing: entrails, flesh and marrow-filled bones.

We wept and lifted our hands to Zeus at the sight of those cruel deeds, and helplessness gripped our hearts. But when the Cyclops had filled his huge belly, eating human flesh and drinking unmixed milk on top of it, he lay down inside the cave, stretched out among his flocks. Then I made a plan in my great heart. I would go up close, draw the sharp sword from beside my thigh, feel for the spot with my hand, and stab him in the chest where the midriff holds the liver. But a second thought held me back. We too would have perished right there in sheer destruction, because we could never have pushed the massive stone he had set against the high doorway away with our hands. So then, groaning, we waited for bright Dawn.

When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, he lit the fire again and milked his splendid flocks, all in due order, and put her young beneath each one. But when he had busily finished his tasks, he seized two men together once again and made his meal of them. After his meal he drove his fat flocks out of the cave, easily lifting away the great door-stone, and then set it back again, as a man might put the lid on a quiver. With loud whistling the Cyclops turned his fat flocks toward the mountain, and I was left behind, brooding on evil deep in my heart, in case I might somehow take revenge and Athena grant me glory.

And this seemed to my mind the best plan. Beside the pen lay the Cyclops’ great club, of green olive wood. He had cut it to carry once it had dried. Looking at it, we judged it as big as the mast of a black ship with twenty oars, a broad-beamed merchantman that crosses the great gulf of the sea. That was how long it was, and how thick it looked. I stood over it and cut off about a fathom’s length, handed it to my companions and told them to shave it down. They made it smooth, and I stood by and sharpened the tip. Then I took it at once and hardened it in the blazing fire. After that I laid it carefully away, hiding it under the dung, which lay scattered in great heaps all through the cave. And I told the others to cast lots to decide who would dare to lift the stake with me and grind it into his eye when sweet sleep came over him.

“Here, Cyclops, drink some wine, now that you’ve eaten human flesh, so you can find out what kind of drink our ship had stored away. I was bringing it to you as an offering, in the hope that you’d pity me and send me home. But your raging is past all bearing. Cruel one, how will any other man, of all the many in the world, ever come to you again, when you’ve acted against all that’s right?” So I spoke, and he took it and drained it, and he was hugely pleased as he drank the sweet drink. Then he asked me for a second bowl: “Give me more, and be generous, and tell me your name right now, so I can give you a guest-gift that will please you. The grain-giving earth bears wine from heavy-clustered grapes for the Cyclopes too, and the rain of Zeus makes it grow for them. But this is a drop drawn off from ambrosia and nectar.”

So he spoke, and I handed him the gleaming wine again. Three times I brought it and gave it to him, and three times he drained it in his folly. But when the wine had got round the Cyclops’ wits, then I spoke to him with soothing words: “Cyclops, you ask me my famous name, and I’ll tell it to you. And you give me the guest-gift, as you promised. Nobody is my name. Nobody is what they call me, my mother and my father and all my companions.” So I spoke, and he answered me at once with pitiless heart: “Nobody I’ll eat last, after his companions, and the others before him. That will be your guest-gift.”note

He spoke, toppled backward and fell flat on his back, and lay there with his thick neck twisted to one side, and sleep, the all-conqueror, took hold of him. Wine and lumps of human flesh gushed from his throat as he belched, heavy with wine. Then I drove the stake deep under the heaped embers until it grew hot, and I put heart into all my companions with my words, so that none of them would shrink back in fear and leave me. But when the olive stake, green as it was, was just about to catch fire and was glowing fiercely, I brought it out of the fire and close to him, and my companions stood around me. Then some god breathed great courage into us.

“Friends, Nobody is killing me by trickery, not by force!” And they answered him and spoke winged words: “Well, if no one is forcing you, alone as you are, then it’s a sickness sent by great Zeus, and there’s no escaping that. You’d better pray to your father, lord Poseidon.” So they spoke as they went away, and my heart laughed within me at how my name and my flawless cunning had fooled them. But the Cyclops, groaning and racked with pain, groped with his hands and took the stone away from the doorway. Then he sat down in the entrance with his arms spread wide, to catch anyone who tried to slip out among the sheep. That was how foolish, it seems, he hoped I was.note

But I was planning how things might turn out best, whether I could find some escape from death for my companions and for myself. I wove every kind of trick and scheme, as a man does when his life is at stake, for great evil was close at hand. And this seemed to my mind the best plan. There were rams, well fed and thick of fleece, handsome and big, with wool dark as violets. These I quietly bound together in threes with the well-twisted withies on which the Cyclops slept, that monster with his lawless mind. The one in the middle would carry a man, and the other two went on either side, keeping my companions safe.

“My dear ram, why are you the last of the flock to leave the cave like this? You never used to lag behind the sheep. You were always far the first to graze on the tender blossoms of the grass, with your long strides, first to reach the streams of the rivers, first to be eager to come back to the fold in the evening. Now you’re the very last of all. Surely you’re grieving for your master’s eye, which a wicked man blinded with his wretched companions, after he’d overpowered my wits with wine—Nobody, who I tell you hasn’t escaped destruction yet. If only you could feel as I do and had a voice to tell me where he’s skulking from my fury! Then his brains would be dashed out on the floor and splattered all over the cave as I smashed him, and my heart would find some relief from the evils that no-good Nobody has brought me.”

So saying, he sent the ram away from him out of the door. When we had gone a little way from the cave and the courtyard, I first freed myself from under the ram and then untied my companions. Quickly we drove off those long-shanked sheep, rich with fat, taking many a turn, until we reached the ship. Our dear companions were glad to see those of us who had escaped death, but they groaned and wept for the others. I wouldn’t let them weep, though: I nodded with my brows to each man to stop, and ordered them to throw the many fine-fleeced sheep aboard quickly and sail off over the salt water. They quickly went aboard and sat down on the benches, and sitting in their rows they struck the gray sea with their oars. But when I was as far off as a man’s shout carries, I called to the Cyclops with mocking words:

“Cyclops, so it wasn’t a weakling’s companions after all that you were going to eat in your hollow cave by brute force! Your evil deeds were bound to catch up with you, you cruel wretch, since you didn’t shrink from eating guests in your own house. That’s why Zeus and the other gods have paid you back.” So I spoke, and he grew angrier still at heart. He broke off the peak of a great mountain and hurled it. It came down just in front of the dark-prowed ship, and only just missed the tip of the steering oar. The sea surged up under the falling rock, and the backwash, a swell from the open sea, quickly carried the ship toward the land and drove it to reach the shore.

But I took a very long pole in my hands and pushed the ship off and away, and urged my companions on, signaling with nods of my head for them to fall to their oars so that we might escape out of danger. They leaned forward and rowed. But when we had crossed twice as much sea and were that far off, I called to the Cyclops again, though my companions all around tried to hold me back with soothing words, one from one side, one from another: “Reckless man, why do you want to provoke a savage? Just now he threw that missile into the sea and drove the ship back to land, and we thought we’d die right there. If he’d heard any of us make a sound or speak, he’d have smashed our heads and the ship’s timbers together with a jagged rock—that’s how far he throws.” So they spoke, but they didn’t persuade my great heart, and I called back to him again with an angry heart:

“Cyclops, if any mortal man ever asks you about the shameful blinding of your eye, tell him it was Odysseus, sacker of cities, who blinded you—the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca.” So I spoke, and he groaned and answered me: “Oh, no! So the prophecies spoken long ago have come true for me. There was once a seer here, a good and great man, Telemus son of Eurymus, who excelled at prophecy and grew old prophesying among the Cyclopes. He told me that all this would come to pass one day: that I would lose my sight at the hands of Odysseus. But I always expected some big, handsome man to come here, clothed in great strength. And now a puny, no-good weakling has blinded my eye, after he overpowered me with wine.

But come here, Odysseus, so I can set guest-gifts before you and urge the famous Earth-shaker to give you safe passage home. I’m his son, and he declares he’s my father. He himself will heal me, if he wishes, and no one else, none of the blessed gods or of mortal men.” So he spoke, and I answered him: “I only wish I could rob you of life and of your days and send you into the house of Hades, as surely as not even the Earth-shaker will heal your eye.” So I spoke, and then he prayed to lord Poseidon, stretching out his hands to the starry sky:

“Hear me, Poseidon, Earth-holder, dark-haired: if I truly am yours and you declare that you are my father, grant that Odysseus, sacker of cities, never reaches home—the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca. But if it is his fate to see his own people and reach his well-built house and his native land, may he come late and in misery, having lost all his companions, on someone else’s ship, and find troubles in his house.” So he spoke in prayer, and the dark-haired god heard him. Then he lifted again a far bigger stone, swung it round and hurled it, putting measureless force behind it. It came down just behind the dark-prowed ship, and only just missed the tip of the steering oar. The sea surged up under the falling rock, and the wave carried the ship forward and drove it to reach the shore.

When we reached the island where the rest of our well-benched ships were waiting together, and our companions sat around them grieving, always watching for us, we ran our ship onto the sand there and stepped out ourselves onto the seashore. We took the Cyclops’ sheep out of the hollow ship and divided them up, so that no one would go away cheated of his fair share. But when the sheep were shared out, my well-greaved companions gave the ram to me alone, as a special prize. I sacrificed him on the shore to Zeus of the dark clouds, son of Cronus, who rules over all, and burned the thigh pieces. But he took no notice of the offerings. Instead he was planning how all my well-benched ships and my trusty companions might be destroyed.

So then all day long, until the sun went down, we sat feasting on endless meat and sweet wine. When the sun went down and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep on the seashore. When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, I urged my companions on and ordered them to go aboard themselves and loose the stern cables. They quickly went aboard and sat down on the benches, and sitting in their rows they struck the gray sea with their oars. From there we sailed on, grieving at heart, glad to have escaped death, but having lost our dear companions.

We came to the island of Aeolia. There lived Aeolus, son of Hippotas, dear to the immortal gods, on a floating island. All around it runs a wall of unbreakable bronze, and the rock rises up sheer and smooth. Twelve children were born to him in his halls, six daughters and six sons in the prime of youth, and he gave his daughters to his sons to be their wives. They feast forever beside their dear father and their devoted mother, and countless good things lie before them. All day the house, rich with the savor of roasting meat, echoes round the courtyard, and at night they sleep beside their modest wives on coverlets and on corded beds. To their city and their fine house we came.

For nine days we sailed on, night and day alike, and on the tenth our native land came into sight at last. We were so close that we could see men tending their fires. Then sweet sleep came over me in my weariness, for I had been working the sheet of the ship the whole time and had not handed it to any of my companions, so that we would reach our native land sooner. But my companions talked among themselves and said that I was bringing home gold and silver, gifts from great-hearted Aeolus, son of Hippotas. And one of them would say, glancing at his neighbor, “Unbelievable! How loved and honored this man is by everyone, in whatever people’s city and land he arrives!

He’s bringing home plenty of fine treasures from the spoils of Troy, while we, who’ve made the same journey, are heading home with empty hands. And now Aeolus has given him these as well, doing him a favor out of friendship. Come on, let’s take a quick look at what this is, and how much gold and silver is in the bag.” So they spoke, and my companions’ bad counsel won out. They untied the bag, and all the winds rushed out. At once the storm snatched the men up and carried them, weeping, out to sea, away from their native land. But I woke and pondered in my noble heart whether to throw myself from the ship and perish in the sea, or to endure it in silence and remain among the living.

But I endured and stayed, and lay in the ship with my head covered. And the ships were carried by the evil blast of wind back to the island of Aeolia, while my companions groaned. There we went ashore and drew water, and my companions quickly took their meal beside the swift ships. But when we had tasted food and drink, I took a herald and one companion with me and went to the famous house of Aeolus. I found him feasting beside his wife and his children. When we came into the house we sat down on the threshold by the doorposts, and they were amazed at heart and questioned us:

“How is it you’re here, Odysseus? What evil god has fallen on you? We sent you off with every care, so that you’d reach your native land and your home, or wherever you pleased.” So they spoke, and I answered them, grieving at heart: “My wicked companions brought me to ruin, and cruel sleep along with them. But set it right, my friends, for you have the power.” So I spoke, addressing them with gentle words, and they fell silent. But the father answered: “Get off this island, quickly, most shameful of living men! It isn’t right for me to help or send on his way a man who is hated by the blessed gods. Go! You’ve come here as one hated by the gods.”

So saying, he sent me from his house, groaning heavily. From there we sailed on, grieving at heart. The men’s spirits were worn down by the painful rowing, through our own folly, since there was no longer any sign of a wind to take us home. For six days we sailed on, night and day alike, and on the seventh we came to the steep citadel of Lamus, Telepylus in the land of the Laestrygonians, where herdsman hails herdsman as he drives his flock in, and the one driving out answers him. There a man who could do without sleep might earn double wages, one for herding cattle and the other for pasturing white sheep, for the paths of night and day lie close together. When we came there into the famous harbor, around which a sheer cliff rises unbroken on both sides, where two jutting headlands face each other at the mouth and the entrance is narrow, the others all steered their curved ships inside.note

From there we sailed on, grieving at heart, glad to escape death, though we had lost our dear companions. We came to the island of Aeaea, where lived Circe of the lovely hair, a dread goddess who speaks with a human voice, own sister of baleful Aeetes. Both were born of Helios, who brings light to mortals, and of their mother Perse, whom Ocean fathered. There we brought our ship in to the shore in silence, into a harbor where ships could shelter, and some god guided us. We disembarked and lay there for two days and two nights together, eating our hearts out with weariness and grief. But when Dawn of the lovely hair brought the third day to its fullness, I took my spear and sharp sword and went quickly up from the ship to a place with a wide view, in the hope of seeing the work of mortals and hearing their voices.note

“My friends, for all our grief we won’t go down to the house of Hades yet, not before our fated day arrives. Come, while there’s food and drink in the swift ship, let’s think about eating and not waste away with hunger.” So I spoke, and they quickly obeyed my words. They uncovered their faces there by the shore of the barren sea and gazed at the stag, for he was a very large beast. But when they had had their fill of gazing at him with their eyes, they washed their hands and prepared a glorious feast. So then all day long until the sun went down we sat feasting on meat in abundance and sweet wine, and when the sun went down and darkness came on, we lay down to sleep on the shore of the sea. When early-born Dawn appeared, rosy-fingered, I called an assembly and spoke among them all:

“Listen to what I have to say, companions, for all the hardships you’re suffering. My friends, we don’t know where the darkness lies or where the dawn, nor where the sun that brings light to mortals goes beneath the earth, nor where it rises. Still, let’s quickly consider whether any cunning plan is left to us. I don’t think there is. For I climbed to a rugged lookout and saw an island, ringed by the boundless sea. It lies low, and in the middle of it I saw with my own eyes smoke rising through the dense thickets and woods.” So I spoke, and their hearts broke within them as they remembered what Antiphates the Laestrygonian had done, and the violence of the great-hearted Cyclops, the eater of men. They wept aloud, shedding big tears, but nothing came of their lamenting.

Then I counted off all my well-greaved companions into two companies and gave each a leader: I led one, and godlike Eurylochus the other. Quickly we shook lots in a bronze-cheeked helmet, and out leapt the lot of great-hearted Eurylochus. He set off, and with him went twenty-two companions, weeping, and they left us behind, lamenting. In the glades they found Circe’s house, built of polished stone, in a place that could be seen from all around. Around it were mountain wolves and lions, whom she herself had bewitched by giving them evil drugs. They did not attack the men but rose up on their hind legs, fawning around them and wagging their long tails.

So he spoke, and they called out to her. At once she came out, opened the shining doors and invited them in, and they all followed her in their ignorance. But Eurylochus stayed behind, suspecting a trick. She led them in and seated them on chairs and high seats, and for them she stirred cheese, barley meal and pale honey into Pramnian wine; but into the food she mixed baneful drugs, so that they would utterly forget their native land. When she had given it to them and they had drunk it down, she at once struck them with her wand and penned them in the pigsties. They had the heads of pigs, and the voice, the bristles and the body, but their minds remained as steady as before. So they were penned in, weeping, and Circe threw them holm-oak acorns, oak acorns and cornel berries to eat, the kind of food that pigs, who sleep on the ground, always eat.

Eurylochus came straight back to the swift black ship to bring news of his companions and their bitter fate. Much as he wanted to, he could not utter a single word, his heart stricken with great grief. His eyes filled with tears, and his spirit was bent on wailing. But when we had all questioned him in astonishment, he told us how the rest of our companions had perished: “We went through the thickets as you ordered, glorious Odysseus. In the glades we found a fine house built of polished stone, in a place that could be seen from all around. Someone was going to and fro at a great loom inside, singing clearly—a goddess or a woman—and the men called out to her.

At once she came out, opened the shining doors and invited them in, and they all followed her in their ignorance. But I stayed behind, suspecting a trick. They vanished, all of them together, and not one of them came out again, though I sat there a long while keeping watch.” So he spoke, and I slung my great bronze sword with its silver studs around my shoulders, and my bow as well, and told him to lead me back the same way. But he clasped my knees with both hands and begged me, and lamenting he spoke winged words to me: “Don’t take me there against my will, you whom Zeus has nurtured. Leave me here. I know you won’t come back yourself, and you won’t bring back any of your companions either. No, let’s get away quickly with these men here. We could still escape the evil day.”

So he spoke, and I answered him: “Eurylochus, you can stay here in this place, eating and drinking beside the hollow black ship. But I will go: a hard necessity is upon me.” With that I went up from the ship and the sea. But just as I was going up through the sacred glades and was about to reach the great house of Circe, the mistress of many drugs, Hermes of the golden wand met me on my way to the house, looking like a young man with his first beard, when youth is at its most graceful. He took my hand, and spoke to me, and called me by name:

“Where are you off to now, poor man, alone across the hilltops, not knowing the country? Your companions there in Circe’s house are penned like swine in close-packed sties. Have you come here to free them? I tell you, you won’t get back yourself; you’ll stay just where the others are. But come, I will free you from harm and save you. Here, take this good herb and go into Circe’s house; it will keep the evil day from your head. And I will tell you all of Circe’s deadly wiles. She will mix you a potion and put drugs into the food.

So speaking, Argeïphontes gave me the herb, pulling it out of the ground, and showed me its nature. At the root it was black, but its flower was like milk. The gods call it moly; it is hard for mortal men to dig up, but the gods can do all things. Then Hermes went off toward lofty Olympus across the wooded island, and I went on to Circe’s house, my heart churning hard as I went. I stood at the doors of the goddess of the lovely hair; standing there I shouted, and the goddess heard my voice. At once she came out, opened the shining doors and called me in; and I followed, grieving at heart.

“Who are you among men, and from where? Where are your city and your parents? I am amazed that you drank these drugs and were not bewitched at all. For no other man has ever withstood these drugs, once he has drunk them and they have passed the barrier of his teeth. You have a mind in your breast that no charm can touch. Surely you are Odysseus of many turns, whom Argeïphontes of the golden wand always told me would come, on his way home from Troy in his swift black ship. But come, put your sword in its sheath, and then let the two of us go up into my bed, so that, joined in bed and love, we may learn to trust each other.” So she spoke, and I answered her:

“Circe, how can you ask me to be gentle with you, when you have turned my companions into swine in your halls, and now you keep me here and with treachery in your heart bid me go into your chamber and up into your bed, so that once I am stripped you may make me weak and unmanned? No, I would not be willing to go up into your bed unless you would bring yourself, goddess, to swear me a great oath that you will plot no other evil harm against me.” So I spoke, and at once she swore as I asked. And when she had sworn and finished the oath, then I went up into the beautiful bed of Circe.

Meanwhile the handmaids were busy in the halls, four of them, who serve her in the house. They are born of springs and groves and of the sacred rivers that flow out into the sea. One of them threw lovely purple covers over the chairs and spread linen underneath; the second drew up silver tables in front of the chairs and set golden baskets on them; the third mixed honey-hearted wine, delicious, in a silver mixing bowl, and handed round golden cups; the fourth brought water and lit a big fire under a great tripod, and the water grew warm.

So she spoke, and I answered her: “Circe, what man with any sense of right could bring himself to taste food and drink before he had freed his companions and seen them with his own eyes? But if you truly, with a willing heart, bid me eat and drink, set them free, so that I may see my trusty companions with my own eyes.” So I spoke, and Circe went out through the hall with her wand in her hand, opened the doors of the sty and drove them out, looking like fatted nine-year-old hogs. They stood there facing her, and she went among them and smeared each one with another drug.

From their limbs the bristles fell away that the deadly drug had made grow, the one queenly Circe had given them, and they became men again, younger than they had been before, and far more handsome and taller to look at. They knew me, and each of them clung to my hands. A yearning lament came over them all, and the house rang dreadfully all around; even the goddess herself felt pity. Then she, bright among goddesses, stood close to me and said: “Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, Odysseus of many wiles, go now to your swift ship and the shore of the sea. First of all drag your ship up onto land, and stow your goods and all the tackle in caves; then come back yourself and bring your trusty companions.”

So she spoke, and my proud heart was persuaded, and I set off for the swift ship and the shore of the sea. There by the swift ship I found my trusty companions wailing piteously and shedding big tears. As when calves on a farm frisk around the herd cows as they come back to the dung-yard after taking their fill of grazing—they all leap together to meet them, the pens no longer hold them, and lowing without pause they run around their mothers: so those men, when they saw me with their own eyes, flocked round me in tears; and their hearts felt as if they had reached their native land and the very city of rugged Ithaca, where they were born and raised. And wailing they spoke winged words:

“Now that you’re back, you whom Zeus has fostered, we are as glad as if we had come to Ithaca, our native land. But come, tell us how the rest of our companions perished.” So they spoke, and I addressed them with gentle words: “First of all let’s drag the ship up onto land and stow our goods and all the tackle in caves; then bestir yourselves, all of you, and follow me, so that you may see our companions in Circe’s sacred house, eating and drinking; they have plenty of everything.” So I spoke, and they quickly obeyed my words. Only Eurylochus tried to hold back all my companions, and he raised his voice and spoke winged words to them:

“Poor fools, where are we going? Why do you long for this misery—to go down into Circe’s hall, when she will turn us all into swine or wolves or lions, to guard her great house for her whether we like it or not? It’s just what the Cyclops did, when our companions came into his yard and our bold Odysseus went along with them; it was through this man’s reckless folly that they too were lost.” So he spoke, and I pondered in my mind whether to draw the long-edged sword from beside my sturdy thigh and strike off his head and send it rolling to the ground, close kinsman by marriage though he was. But my companions held me back with soothing words, one from this side, one from that:note

“You who are sprung from Zeus, we will leave this man here, if you so command, to stay by the ship and guard the ship; but you lead us to Circe’s sacred house.” So saying they went up from the ship and the sea. Nor was Eurylochus left behind by the hollow ship; he followed, for he dreaded my fierce rebuke. Meanwhile Circe in her house had carefully bathed the rest of my companions and rubbed them richly with olive oil, and thrown thick woolen cloaks and tunics around them; we found them all feasting well in the halls. And when they saw each other and recognized one another face to face, they wept and wailed, and the house groaned all around. Then she, bright among goddesses, stood close to me and said:

“Stir up no more of this loud lamenting. I know myself all the pains you suffered on the fish-filled sea, and all the harm hostile men did you on land. But come, eat food and drink wine, until you get back the spirit in your breasts that you had when you first left your native land of rugged Ithaca. As it is, you are withered and spiritless, always brooding on your hard wandering, and your hearts are never cheerful, since you have suffered so very much.” So she spoke, and our proud hearts were persuaded. There, day after day for a full year, we sat feasting on endless meat and sweet wine. But when a year had gone by, and the seasons turned as the months waned, and the long days had come round to their end, then my trusty companions called me aside and said:

“What’s come over you? Think of your native land now at last, if it is fated for you to be saved and reach your high-roofed house and your native land.” So they spoke, and my proud heart was persuaded. So for that whole day, until the sun went down, we sat feasting on endless meat and sweet wine; and when the sun had set and darkness came on, they lay down to sleep throughout the shadowy halls. But I went up into Circe’s beautiful bed and begged her by her knees, and the goddess heard my voice; and I raised my voice and spoke winged words to her:

“Circe, keep the promise you made me, to send me home. My heart is eager now, and so are the hearts of my other companions, who wear my spirit away with their lamenting around me whenever you are out of the way.” So I spoke, and she, bright among goddesses, answered at once: “Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, Odysseus of many wiles, stay no longer in my house against your will. But first you must make another journey, and come to the house of Hades and dread Persephone, to consult the spirit of Theban Tiresias, the blind seer, whose mind is still unshaken; to him even in death Persephone has granted understanding, so that he alone has his wits, while the others flit about as shadows.”note

So she spoke, and my heart was broken. I sat on the bed and wept, and my heart no longer wanted to live and see the light of the sun. But when I had had my fill of weeping and writhing, then I answered her and said: “Circe, who will guide us on this journey? No one has ever yet reached Hades in a black ship.” So I spoke, and she, bright among goddesses, answered at once: “Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, Odysseus of many wiles, don’t let the want of a guide by your ship trouble you; set up the mast, spread the white sails and sit still, and the breath of the North Wind will carry her along for you.

But when you have crossed Ocean in your ship, where there is a low shore and the groves of Persephone, tall poplars and willows that drop their fruit, beach your ship there beside deep-eddying Ocean, and go on yourself into the dank house of Hades. There Pyriphlegethon and Cocytus, which is a branch of the water of the Styx, flow into Acheron, and there is a rock where the two thundering rivers meet. Go close to it then, hero, as I bid you, and dig a pit about a cubit each way, and around it pour a libation to all the dead: first with milk and honey, next with sweet wine, and third with water; and sprinkle white barley meal over it.note