The Odyssey

Then let us now speed Hermes the Guide, the Slayer of Argos,

Toward Ogygía island so that he can speedily

Announce your steadfast decision to the nymph of the beautiful braids:

That Odysseus, whose mind stands fast, shall make his journey home.

For my part, I will embark for Ithaka, there to breathe purpose

Into his son, that I might instill a man’s courage within his heart,

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And tell all the Suitors to go—those men who never leave off

Slaughtering throngs of his sheep and his lumbering, twisty-horned cattle.

To Sparta I shall send him and to sandy Pylos, too,

To learn whatever he can of his dear father’s journey

Home, and to help him as well to earn a noble renown among men.”

Her words. And then to her feet she strapped the beautiful sandals,

Immortal, made of gold, which bore her across the wet seas

And the land’s endless expanses, swift as the breath of the wind.

She took up her mighty spear. Tipped with a sharp point of bronze,

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Of heroes with whom she is wroth—a mighty father’s true daughter.

Down along the crags of Olympos she flashed, coming at last

To the country of Ithaka’s people. She stood in Odysseus’s forecourt

There at his Great Hall’s threshold, grasping the lance of bronze,

Resembling a friend of the house: Mentes, the Taphian chieftain.

Inside, she found the brash Suitors. Some were amusing themselves

Playing at their board-games, sprawled out in front of the doorway,

Sitting on hides of oxen that they themselves had slaughtered.

Meanwhile there were heralds about, and bustling stewards, too.

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While others wiped down the tables with lacy sponges, then set them

Out once again, and still others were carving and serving the meats.

Long before anyone else did, godlike Telémakhos saw her,

For he’d been sitting among the Suitors with anguish in his heart

As he pictured this scene to himself: his noble father finally home,

Scattering the Suitors and sweeping them out of the house,

Restoring his own honor and lord of his palace once more.

Thinking these thoughts in the midst of the Suitors, he caught sight of Athena.

Swiftly he went to the doorway, his heart stung with indignation

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He clasped her right hand in his own and took the bronze spear from her.

Then he addressed her with words that flew toward her like arrows:

“Greetings, stranger and guest. Be welcome among us. Once

You have taken your fill of refreshment you’ll tell us what need has brought you.”

So saying, he led the way, Pallas Athena behind him.

Then, when the two had come inside the lofty palace,

He stood her lance inside the beautifully fitted arms-rack,

There between the high columns, where all of the lances

Belonging to steadfast Odysseus stood serried, row after row.

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And smoothed the cushion down, then drew up a stool for her feet.

He placed his inlaid chair next to hers—far from those others,

The Suitors, for he feared that his guest, put off by the terrible ruckus,

Would never enjoy his dinner with such overbearing companions;

And he wanted to ask him questions about his long-absent father.

A maidservant brought in water, pouring it out from a ewer—

Exquisite, wrought in gold—into a basin of silver,

For the guest to wash his hands. Then she placed a table nearby.

The housekeeper, worthy woman, brought the meal and served it,

Hoisting his trenchers aloft, the steward set out meats

Of every kind, and among them he set down the goblets of gold.

Meanwhile the herald bustled about and kept pouring them wine.

All of the Suitors came in, crowding together. And then

They took their seats on the couches and in the high-backed chairs

As heralds went round pouring water for the Suitors to wash their hands

And female slaves swarmed around, offering bread from their baskets

While youths went round with cups they had filled from the mixing-bowls.

Then the men stretched their hands toward the food that was spread before them.

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The thoughts of the Suitors soon turned to other matters,

To song and dance. For those, too, should accompany a feast.

The herald placed a lyre, beautifully wrought, in the hands

Of Phêmios, who would sing for the Suitors—but only under duress.

After tuning the instrument’s strings he struck up his beautiful song.

Then Telémakhos spoke to Athena, she of the bright owl-eyes,

Keeping his head close to hers lest the others overhear them.

“Stranger and guest, will you be vexed by what I am going to say?

Those men over there, they care about singing and dancing—

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A man whose whitened bones are rotting in the rain by now,

Either lying there beached on the shore or tossed by the waves in the deep.

But if they were ever to see that man returned at last to Ithaka

They’d be praying, the lot of them, to have far swifter feet

Rather than to grow even richer in gold and gorgeous garments!

But it’s clear that he was undone by a horrible fate, and for us

There’s no comfort—even if someone, just any man on this earth,

Were to say that he’s coming. No: no homecoming day for him.

But come now, tell me something and be completely straight with me:

What kind of ship did you come on and how was it that the sailors

Brought you to Ithaka—who did they say they were?

For I somehow don’t imagine that you managed to get here on foot!

Please do tell me the truth so I may know for sure:

Are you new here, or are you a guest—perhaps an old friend of my father’s?

For many were the men who would come to my family’s home

Back in the days when that man still had dealings with people.”

To him the goddess Athena replied, she of the bright owl-eyes:

“Well then, indeed, hm, yes! I’ll tell it to you straight.

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As a cleaver. I’m lord of the Taphians, now—a people in love with their oars!

I’ve come down here with my ship and my mates, sailing the sea

Whose face is the color of wine, toward lands where they speak strange tongues—

Temésê, where we swap our bronze for cargoes of glittering iron.

I beached my ship on a field a little way off from your city

By Rheíthron harbor, hard by the woods over on Neion.

Your father and us, we’re old friends—oh yes, we go all the way back.

Just get a hold of old man Laërtes and ask him yourself,

That noble man . . . Though I hear that he’s finished with the city.

But a crone to serve him his vittles and give him something to slake

His thirst when the aches come on, griping his arms and his legs

When he’s spent all day on his knees, creeping about in the vineyard.

Now here I am. For they say that he’s practically home by now—

Your father, I mean—but the gods have got in the way of his journey!

For he isn’t lying dead somewhere, not glorious Odysseus.

No, he’s out there somewhere, alive, trapped on the vast ocean,

On an island surrounded by waves where savages hold him captive,

Brutes who are keeping him prisoner, holding him against his will.

Slip some prophecy into your heart so you know how things will turn out—

Although I’m no prophet, God knows, can’t fathom a thing about bird-signs!

Know this: he won’t be long away from the land of his fathers,

The land that he loves. Bonds of iron couldn’t keep him from coming home!

He’ll think of a way to get back, he’s got so many tricks up his sleeve.

But come now, tell me something and be completely straight with me:

Can you really be Odysseus’s boy—so big, so grown up?

It’s amazing how much you’re like that man—your head and your eyes

Are his. I would know! We once spent a good deal of time with each other

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The best of the Argives, were sailing away in their sleek-bellied ships.

Since then I’ve not seen a hair of his head, nor he one of mine.”

Then Telémakhos, sensible lad, spoke to her in turn:

“Well then, stranger and friend, I’ll tell you as straight as I can.

My mother says I am his. I myself, however,

Don’t know. For, as they say, ‘No one knows his own begetting.’

How I wish that I could be the son of some fortunate man—

Some man whom a gentle old age had surprised, surrounded by all

That was his. But no. The unluckiest mortal ever to live

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The goddess Athena replied then, she of the bright owl-eyes:

“It’s clear that the gods don’t intend for your bloodline to remain

Nameless—just look at you, you’re clearly Penelope’s boy!

But come now, tell me something and be completely straight with me:

What on earth is this feast? This crowd? Who are they to you?

Some kind of banquet—a wedding? It’s clearly no neighborly feast!

They seem outrageous, offensive to me, feasting all over

The house. Any man of good sense who stumbled onto this scene

Would be livid with rage, seeing so much shameless behavior.”

“Stranger and friend—since you’re asking so many questions about this—

Once this house was rich, its reputation blameless,

Back when that man was still here, still among his own people.

Now, though, the gods have willed otherwise, plotting all kinds of mischief

And contriving to keep that man unseen by all other people.

Nor am I able to mourn him as if he were truly dead,

Beaten in battle among his companions in the town of the Trojans

Or in the arms of his friends, after they’d wound up the war.

Then the Host of All the Achaeans would have built him a burial mound

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Now, though, the storm-winds have snatched all his renown away.

He’s gone—out of sight, unheard of—and bequeathed to me only pain

And wailing. I can’t even grieve and groan for that man, nor lament

That man, since the gods have inflicted even more troubles on me.

For as many great lords as there are who wield their rule over the islands,

Doulíkhion and Sámê, and Zákynthos clad in its forests,

And as many, too, as there are who rule in craggy Ithaka,

That’s how many are courting my mother, wasting our house away.

She won’t say ‘no’ to a marriage that’s hateful to her—but she can’t

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This house—my house. Soon enough they’ll completely destroy me, too.”

And then, indignance itself, Pallas Athena replied:

“Alas! How greatly you must be missing our vanished Odysseus,

Since he’d be one to lay violent hands on those shameless Suitors.

If only he were back home now, standing before the outer

Gates of the house with his helmet and shield and his two spears,

Just as he was the first time I ever laid eyes on him

When he was a guest in our home, drinking and enjoying himself—

Up from Ephýrê, where he’d stayed with Ilos, Mérmeros’s boy.

Hard on the trail of some poison, the man-killing kind, which he wanted

To smear on his bronze-tipped arrows. But Ilos didn’t give it to him

Since he feared the wrathful vengeance of the gods who exist forever.

But my father gave it to him—yes, for he loved him fiercely.

That’s the Odysseus I wish would come and confront these Suitors!

All of them, trust me, would find bitter deaths, bitter weddings . . .

Ah well. All these affairs lie in the lap of the gods.

Either he’ll come back home and take his revenge in his palace

Or he won’t. So here’s my advice: you must give some thought to the matter

Come now, mark my words and take what I say to heart.

Tomorrow, summon the noble Achaeans to an Assembly

And issue a solemn decree, calling the gods to witness.

Order the Suitors back home, drive them back to their houses!

And if your mother has her heart set on marrying, then let her

Go back to the halls of her father, that great and powerful man.

They will arrange her marriage, they will provide all the bride-gifts

In great number—all that is fitting for a daughter who is beloved.

As for you, I’ll make a suggestion—a shrewd one, if only you’d listen.

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Then go out in search of news of your father’s disappearance—

Some mortal might have something to tell you, or you may hear a rumor

Sent by Zeus, who is by far the best bringer of tidings to humans.

First you should go to Pylos and question godlike Nestor,

And from there you should go to Sparta to stay with Menelaos the Fair-Haired,

Since he was the last of the bronze-mailed Achaeans to return.

If you hear that your father lives and is making the journey back home

Then you should wait for him one more year, as trying as that will be.

But if you should hear that he has died and is no longer among the living

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And raise up a tomb for him. Lavish the grave with grave-gifts

In great number—all that is fitting; and give your mother a husband.

As soon as you have finished and seen to all of this

You must put your brain and your heart into the question of how

You might plan to deal with the Suitors who are gathered inside your house.

How will you kill them—by stealth, or out in the open? It’s time

You let go of these childish ways since you are no longer a child.

Or have you never heard how great was the fame that Orestes

Won in the eyes of all mankind for killing his father’s killer—

My friend, I can see you’re a fine specimen, tall and good-looking:

Be brave as well, so that people in times yet to come will praise you.

But now it’s long since time I got down to my swift-running ship

And my mates, for I have no doubt at all that waiting annoys them.

These matters concern you—or should. So think through all that I’ve said.”

Then Telémakhos, sensible lad, replied to her in turn:

“Stranger and friend, it’s clear that you speak as you do from affection,

As a father would speak to his son—words I shall never forget.

But now, although I know that you’re keen to push off, won’t you stay?

When you board, clasping a gift that makes your heart rejoice,

Something precious and fine that will one day be a keepsake

Of me, such as loving guest-friends give to one another.”

The goddess Athena replied then, she of the bright owl-eyes:

“Don’t keep me any longer, when you know that I’m eager to go.

As for the gift, give whatever it pleases your heart to give me.

Give it to me when I return here. I will take it back home

And you’ll have a fine one from me, something worthy of yours.”

So saying, Athena went off, she of the bright owl-eyes,

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She put fierceness and strength, and made sure he remembered his father

Even more than before. When he realized what had happened

He was dumbstruck in his heart, for he sensed that she was a god.

Then he went off to join the Suitors, a mortal like to a god.

The bard, so far renowned, was singing to them. In silence

They sat listening while he sang “The Homecoming of the Achaeans”—

The dread journey that Pallas Athena decreed as they set out from Troy.

Upstairs, the sound of the song of the god-inspired bard

Was heard by Ikários’s daughter, that clear-thinking woman, Penelope.

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Nor was she alone: two attendants followed her closely.

Once she had reached the Suitors, this woman who glowed like a goddess,

She stood beside the pillar that held up the strong-built roof,

Holding her shimmering veil just in front of her cheeks

As each of her trusty attendants stood there at her side.

Weeping, she then addressed the god-inspired bard:

“Phêmios, you know many other songs to charm mortal hearts—

The deeds of men and gods, on which bards bestow renown,

Sit now and sing one of those to these men, while in silence

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Song, for it always wears down the heart within my breast

And an unrelenting grief completely overwhelms me.

For that is the person I yearn for, always remembering him,

One man whose fame fans out through Greece and deep into Argos.”

Then Telémakhos, sensible lad, spoke to her in turn:

“Mother, why do you begrudge our trusted bard to sing

Whatever stirs his mind to pleasure? You know it’s not the bards

Who are at fault. Most likely it’s Zeus, since he does just as he pleases

Whenever he metes out fates to men, who toil for bread.

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You know quite well that the song that people applaud most of all

Is always the very latest to drift through the air to their ears.

But now you must be brave in your heart and your soul, and listen.

Odysseus was hardly alone in losing the day of his homecoming

Back in Troy. There were many other mortals who perished there.

So now go back to your rooms and see to the work you’ve got there—

The loom, tall like a mast, and the spindle—and order your maids

To weave their work back and forth. For talk is the business of men—

All of us, but especially me. For it’s I who rules over this house.”

For she stored her child’s sensible words deep in her heart.

She went to the upper floor, trailed on each side by her women,

And wept for her dear husband, Odysseus, until sweet sleep

Flowed onto her eyelids, poured by Athena of the bright owl-eyes.

The Suitors were raising a din in the palace’s shadowed halls,

Since all of them longed to lie beside her, there in her bed.

Telémakhos, that sensible lad, began to address them then:

“You men who are courting my mother, so outrageously brazen and brash!

For now, while we are feasting, let’s enjoy our entertainment,

To a bard such as this one here, whose voice sounds just like a god’s.

But at dawn let us go down to the assembly-place, all of us,

And take our seats, since I intend—no beating around the bush—

To order you out of the palace. Go enjoy some other man’s banquets,

Devouring one another’s wealth as you go from house to house.

But if you really think that it’s better—think that it’s for the best—

To lay waste another man’s goods without ever paying him back,

Then fine, eat away! But I will call on the gods ever-living,

In the hope that Zeus one day will pay people back for their deeds.

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His words. And all of the others were furiously biting their lips,

Amazed by Telémakhos, because he had spoken so boldly.

Then Antínoös, son of Eupeíthes, spoke to him in turn:

“Telémakhos, it seems that the gods were the ones who instructed you

In how to speechify, how to pipe up so boldly in public.

I certainly hope that Kroníôn never makes you lord here in sea-girt

Ithaka—which, it is true, is your ancestral right.”

Then Telémakhos, sensible lad, replied to him in turn:

“Antínoös, though you may wonder at what I’m about to say,

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Or are you saying that this is the worst that can happen to someone?

For it’s hardly a terrible thing to be lord. Suddenly

Your house grows wealthy and you yourself win ever more honor.

Still, there are many other Achaean lords right here

In sea-girt Ithaka, some of them young, others aged,

Of whom any one might take it all, now that Odysseus is dead.

But as for myself, I mean to be lord of my own house

And of the slaves that noble Odysseus left to me as plunder.”

Then Eurýmakhos, Pólybos’s son, spoke to him in reply:

Who will be lord of the Achaeans here in sea-girt Ithaka.

But you may keep your property, you may rule as lord in your house!

May it never come to pass that someone comes here and takes

Your property by force—not while men still live in Ithaka!

Now I’d very much like to inquire, dear boy, about that stranger—

Where is this fellow from, what country does he claim

As his own? Who are his people, what are his ancestral lands?

Could it be that he brings some news that your father is on his way back?

Or did he come here to deal with some pressing concern of his own?

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To make his acquaintance. Clearly he wasn’t a low-born person.”

Then Telémakhos, sensible lad, spoke to him in turn:

“Eurýmakhos, you know well there’s no homecoming for my father.

Nor will I trust some message, should any come this way,

Nor do I put much faith in prophecy—the kind my mother

Might try to make sense of by having some seer visit the house.

That stranger’s a long-standing friend of the house who comes from Táphos.

He says that he is Mentes, son of Ankhíalos, whose wits were as sharp

As a sword. He’s lord of the Taphians, a people in love with their oars.”

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And then it was to the dance and the heady pleasure of song

That they turned, taking their leisure as they waited for evening to fall.

In the midst of their entertainments the dark evening finally fell;

All were now ready for bed and each headed home to his house.

Telémakhos went up to his room. They’d built him a high-ceilinged chamber,

With views from every side, within the beautiful courtyard.

Up he went to his bed as his mind pondered many a matter.

Lighting his way went a woman who knew how to make herself useful:

Eurykleía, daughter of Ops, who himself was son to Peisênor.

Of youth—he gave twenty oxen’s worth in payment for her.

Inside his own halls she was valued just as his wedded wife was

Though he never touched her in bed, since he shrank from the rage of his wife.

She carried the flaming torches before Telémakhos. She was the one

He loved best of the serving-women, and she had nursed him from the cradle.

He opened the doors of the chamber which was built so solidly

And then sat down on his bed and took off his fine-spun tunic

And handed it to the old woman, she whose mind was so shrewd.

Taking the greatest of care, she smoothed the folds of the tunic

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Then she went out of the room, drawing the door shut by its silver

Handle, pulling the leather thong to send the bolt home.

But he lay awake through the night, wrapped in his downy blanket,

His mind already at work on the journey ordained by Athena.

Book 2

When morning-born Dawn touched the sky with her fingertips of rose,

The beloved son of Odysseus rose up from his bed

And put on his clothes, then slung the keen-edged sword round his shoulders.

Onto his shining feet he bound his beautiful sandals,

Then strode forth from the room: a youth you’d compare to a god.

Straight off he gave the command to the heralds with their clarion voices

To order the long-haired Achaeans to gather in the place of assembly.

They gave the command and the others quickly gathered together.

Now once they had assembled and all were gathered as one

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Not alone: two quicksilver hounds followed on his heels.

Upon him Athena poured down a grace bestowed by the gods.

As he made his way in, all the crowds stood there gazing at him.

He took his seat on the throne of his father, and the elders made way.

And then the old fighter Aigýptios began to hold forth to them,

A man who was bent with age: countless the things that he knew.

For it was he whose beloved son had gone off with godlike Odysseus