BOOK XXII

The Slaughter of the Suitors

Then wise Odysseus threw off his rags and sprang to the broad threshold, bow in hand and quiver full of arrows. Out he poured the swift shafts at his feet, and thus addressed the suitors:

“So the dread ordeal ends! Now to another mark I turn, to hit what no man ever hit before, will but Apollo grant my prayer.”

He spoke, and aimed a pointed arrow at Antinouäs. The man was in the act to raise his goodly goblet,—gold it was and double-eared, —and even now guided it in his hands to drink the wine. Death gave his heart no notice. For who could think that in this company of feasters one of the crowd, however strong, could bring upon him cruel death and dismal doom? But Odysseus aimed an arrow and hit him in the throat; right through his tender neck the sharp point passed. He sank down sideways; from his hand the goblet fell when he was hit, and at once from his nose ran a thick stream of human blood. Roughly he pushed his table back, kicking it with his foot, and scattered off the food upon the floor. The bread and roasted meat were thrown away. Into a tumult broke the suitors round about the hall when they saw the fallen man. They sprang from their seats and, hurrying through the hall, peered at the massive walls on every side. But nowhere was there shield or heavy spear to seize. Then they assailed Odysseus with indignant words:

“Stranger, to your sorrow you turn your bow on men! You never shall take part in games again. Swift death awaits you; for you have killed the leader of the noble youths of Ithaca. To pay for this, vultures shall eat you here!”

So each one spoke; they thought he had not meant to kill the man. They foolishly did not see that for them one and all destruction’s cords were knotted. But looking sternly on them wise Odysseus said:

“Dogs! You have been saying all the time I never should return out of the land of Troy; and therefore you destroyed my home, outraged my slave-maids, and,—I alive,—covertly wooed my wife, fearing no gods that hold the open sky, nor that the indignation of mankind would fall on you hereafter. Now for you one and all destruction’s cords are knotted!”

As he spoke thus, pale fear took hold on all. Each peered about to flee from instant death. Only Eurymachus made answer, saying:

“If you indeed be Ithacan Odysseus, now returned, justly have you described what the Achaeans have been doing,—full many crimes here at the hall and many in the field. But there at last lies he who was the cause of all, Antinouäs; for it was he who set us on these deeds, not so much needing and desiring marriage, but with this other purpose,—which the son of Kronos never granted,—that in the settled land of Ithaca he might himself be king, when he should treacherously have slain your son. Now he is justly slain. But spare your people, and we hereafter, making you public recompense for all we drank and ate here at the hall, will pay a fine of twenty oxen each and give you bronze and gold enough to warm your heart. Till this is done, we cannot blame your wrath.”

But looking sternly on him, wise Odysseus said: “Eurymachus, if you would give me all your father’s goods, and all your own, and all that you might gather elsewhere, I would not stay my hands from slaying until the suitors paid the price of all their lawless deeds. It lies before you then to fight or flee, if any man will save himself from death and doom. But some here will not flee, I think, from instant death.”

As he spoke thus, their knees grew feeble and their very souls; but Eurymachus called out a second time: “Come, friends, the man will not hold back his ruthless hands; but having got possession of a polished bow and quiver, he will shoot from the smooth threshold until he kills us all. Let us then turn to fighting. Draw swords, and hold the tables up against his deadly arrows! Have at him all together! Perhaps we may dislodge him from the threshold and the door, then reach the town and quickly raise the alarm. So would the fellow soon have shot his last.”

So saying, he drew his sharp two-edged bronze sword and sprang upon Odysseus with a fearful cry. But on the instant royal Odysseus shot an arrow and hit him in the breast beside the nipple, fixing the swift bolt in his liver. Out of his hand his sword dropped to the ground, and he himself, sprawling across the table, bent and fell, spilling the food and double cup upon the floor. With his brow he beat the pavement in his agony of heart, and with his kicking shook the chair. Upon his eyes gathered the mists of death.

Then Amphinomus assaulted glorious Odysseus, and dashing headlong forward drew his sharp sword, hoping to make Odysseus yield the door. But Telemachus was quick and struck him with his bronze spear upon the back, between the shoulders, and drove the spear-point through his chest. He fell with a thud and struck the ground flat with his forehead. Telemachus sprang back and left the long spear sticking in Amphinomus; for he feared if he should draw the long spear out, an Achaean might attack him, rushing on him with his sword, and as he stooped might stab him. So off he ran and hastily went back to his dear father; and standing close beside him, he said in winged words:

“Now, father, I will fetch a shield and pair of spears, and a bronze helmet also, fitted to your brow. And I will go and arm myself, and give some armor to the swineherd and to the cowherd too; for to be armed is better.”

Then wise Odysseus answered him and said: “Run! Bring the arms while I have arrows to defend me, or they will drive me from the door when I am left alone.”

He spoke, and Telemachus heeded his dear father, and hastened to the chamber where the glittering armor lay. Out of the store he chose four shields, eight spears, and four bronze helmets having horse hair plumes. These he bore off and hastily went back to his dear father. Telemachus first girt his body with the bronze, then the two herdsmen likewise girt themselves in worthy armor, and so all took their stand by Odysseus, keen and crafty.

He, just as long as he had arrows to defend him, shot down a suitor in the hall with every aim, and side by side they fell. Then when his arrows failed the princely bowman, he leaned the bow against the door-post of the stately room, letting it stand beside the bright face-wall, and he too slung a fourfold shield^bb about his shoulders, put on his sturdy head a shapely helmet, horsehair-plumed,—grimly the crest above it nodded,—and took in hand two ponderous spears pointed with bronze.

Now in the solid wall there was a postern-door; and level with the upper threshold of the stately hall, an opening to a passage, closed with jointed boards. Odysseus ordered the noble swineherd to guard this postern-door and in its neighborhood to take his stand, since this was the only exit. But to the suitors said Agelauäs, speaking his words to all:

“Friends, could not one of you climb by the postern-door and tell our people, and quickly raise the alarm? So would the fellow soon have shot his last.”

Then said to him Melanthius the goatherd: “No, heaven-descended Agelauäs, that may in no way be; for the good court-yard door is terribly near at hand, and the mouth of the passage-way is narrow. One person there, if resolute, could bar the way for all. Yet I will fetch you from the chamber arms to wear; for there, I think, and nowhere else, Odysseus stored the armor,—he and his gallant son.”

So having said, Melanthius, the goatherd, climbed to the chambers of Odysseus through the vent-holes of the hall. Out of the store he chose twelve shields, as many spears, and just as many bronze helmets having horsehair plumes; then turning back, he brought them very quickly and gave them to the suitors. And now did Odys seus’ knees grow feeble and his very soul, when he saw them donning arms and waving in their hands long spears. Large seemed his task; and straightway to Telemachus he spoke these winged words:

“Surely, Telemachus, a woman of the house aids the hard fight against us; or else it is Melanthius.”

Then answered him discreet Telemachus: “Father, the fault is mine; no other is to blame; for I it was who opened the chamber’s tight-shut door and left it open. Their watchman was too good. But, noble Eumaeus, go and close the chamber-door, and see if any woman has a hand in this, or if,—as I suspect,—it is the son of Dolius, Melanthius.”

So they conversed together. And now Melanthius, the goatherd, went to the room again to fetch more goodly armor. The noble swineherd spied him, and quickly to Odysseus, standing near, he said:

“High-born son of Laeärtes, ready Odysseus, there is the knave whom we suspected, just going to the chamber. Speak plainly; shall I kill him if I prove the better man, or shall I bring him here to pay for all the crimes he plotted in your house?”

Then wise Odysseus answered him and said: “Here in the hall Telemachus and I will hold the lordly suitors, rage they as they may. You two tie the man’s feet and hands and drag him within the chamber; there fasten boards upon his back, and lashing a twisted rope around him hoist him aloft, up the tall pillar, and bring him to the beams, that he may keep alive there long and suffer grievous torment.”

So he spoke, and willingly they heeded and obeyed. They hastened to the chamber, unseen of him within. He was engaged in searching after armor in a corner of the room, while the pair stood beside the door-posts, one on either hand, and waited. Soon as Melanthius the goatherd crossed the threshold, in one hand bearing a goodly helmet and in the other a broad old shield coated in mold,—the shield of lord Laeärtes, which he carried in his youth, now laid away, its strap-seams parted,—then on him sprang the two and dragged him by the hair within the door, threw him all horror-stricken to the ground, bound hands and feet together with a galling cord, which tight and fast they tied, as they were ordered by Laeärtes’ son, long-tried royal Odysseus; then they lashed a twisted rope around and hoisted him aloft, up the tall pillar, and brought him to the beams; and mocking him said you, swineherd Eumaeus:

“Now then, Melanthius, you shall watch the whole night long, stretched out on such a comfortable bed as suits you well. The early dawn out of the Ocean-stream shall not in golden splendor slip unheeded by, when you should drive goats for the suitors at the hall to make their meal.”

Thus was he left there, fast in deadly bonds. The pair put on their armor, closed the shining door and went to join Odysseus, keen and crafty. Here they stood, breathing fury, four of them on the threshold, although within the hall were many men of might. But near them came Athene, the daughter of Zeus, likened to Mentor in her form and voice. To see her made Odysseus glad, and thus he spoke:

“Mentor, save us from ruin! Remember the good comrade who often aided you. You are of my own years.”

He said this, though he understood it was Athene, the summoner of hosts. But the suitors shouted from the other side, down in the hall; and foremost in abuse was Agelauäs, son of Damastor:

“Mentor, do not let Odysseus lure you by his words to fight the suitors and to lend him aid; for I am sure even then we still shall work our will. And after we have slain these men, father and son, you too shall die beside them for deeds you thought to do within the hall. Here with your head you shall make due amends. And when with the sword we have cut short your power, whatever goods you have, within doors and without, we will combine with the possessions of Odysseus. We will not let your sons and daughters live at home, nor let your true wife linger in the town of Ithaca.”

As he spoke thus, Athene grew more enraged in spirit and mocked Odysseus with these angry words: “Odysseus, you have no longer such firm power and spirit as when for the sake of white-armed high-born Helen you fought the Trojans nine years long unflinchingly, and vanquished many men in mortal combat, and by your wisdom Priam’s wide-wayed city fell. Why, now returned to home and wealth and here confronted with the suitors, do you shrink from being brave? No, no, good friend, stand by my side, watch what I do, and see how, in the presence of the foe, Mentor, the son of Alcimus, repays a kindness.”

She spoke, but gave him not quite yet the victory in full. Still she made trial of the strength and spirit both of Odysseus and his valiant son. Up to the roof-beam of the smoky hall she darted like a swallow, resting there.

Now the suitors were led by Agelauäs, son of Damastor, by Eurynomus, Amphimedon, and Demoptolemus; by Peisander, son of Polyctor, and wise Polybus; for these in manly excellence were quite the best of all who still were living, fighting for their lives. The rest the bow and storm of arrows had laid low. So to these men said Agelauäs, speaking his words to all:

“Now, friends, at last the man shall hold his ruthless hands; for Mentor has departed after uttering idle boasts, and the men at the front door are left alone. So hurl your long spears, but not all together! Now then, six let fly first; and see if Zeus allows Odysseus to be hit and us to win an honor. No trouble about the rest when he is down!”

He said, and all to whom he spoke let fly their spears with power. Athene made all vain. One struck the door-post of the stately hall; one the tight-fitting door; another’s ashen shaft, heavy with bronze, crashed on the wall. And when the men were safe from the suitors’ spears, then thus began long-tried royal Odysseus:

“Friends, let me give the word at last to our side too. Let fly your spears into the crowd of suitors, men who seek to slay and strip us, adding this to former wrongs!”

He spoke, and all with careful aim let fly their pointed spears. Odysseus struck down Demoptolemus; Telemachus, Euryades; the swineherd, Elatus; and the herdsman of the cattle, Peisander. All these together bit the dust of the broad floor, the other suitors falling back from hall to deep recess. Odysseus’ men sprang forward and from the bodies of the dead pulled out the spears.

And now the suitors again let fly their pointed spears with power. Athene made them for the most part vain. One struck the door-post of the stately hall; one the tight-fitting door; another’s ashen shaft, heavy with bronze, crashed on the wall. But Amphimedon wounded Telemachus on the wrist of the right hand, though slightly; the metal tore the outer skin. And Ctesippus with his long spear grazed Eumaeus on the shoulder which showed above his shield; the spear flew past and fell upon the ground.

Once more the men beside Odysseus, keen and crafty, let fly their sharp spears on the crowd of suitors. And now by Odysseus, the spoiler of cities, Eurydamas was hit; by Telamachus, Amphimedon; by the swineherd, Polybus; and afterwards the herdsman of the cattle hit Ctesippus in the breast and cried in triumph:

“Ha, son of Polytherses, ready mocker, never again give way to folly and big words! Leave boasting to the gods; they are stronger far than you. This gift off-sets the hoof you gave to great Odysseus a little while ago, when in his house he played the beggar man.”

So spoke the herdsman of the crook-horned cattle. Then Odysseus wounded Damastor’s son with his long spear, when fighting hand to hand. Telemachus wounded Evenor’s son, Leiocritus, with a spear-thrust in the middle of the waist, and drove the point clean through. He fell on his face and struck the ground flat with his forehead. And now Athene from the roof above stretched forth her murderous aegis. Their souls were panic-stricken. They scurried through the hall like herded cows, on whom the glancing gadfly falls and maddens them, in springtime when the days are long. And as the crook-clawed hook-beaked vultures, descending from the hills, dart at the birds which fly the clouds and skim the plain, while the vultures pounce and kill them; defense they have not and have no escape, and men are merry at their capture; so the four chased the suitors down the hall and smote them right and left. There went up moans, a dismal sound, as skulls were crushed and all the pavement ran with blood.

But Leiodes, rushing forward, clasped Odysseus by the knees, and spoke imploringly these winged words: “I clasp your knees, Odysseus! Oh, respect and spare me! For I protest I never harmed a woman of the house by wicked word or act. No! and I used to try to stop the rest,—the suitors,—when one of them would do such deeds. But they were never ready to hold their hands from wrong. So through their own perversity they met a dismal doom; and I, their soothsayer, although I did no ill, must also fall. There is no gratitude for good deeds done!”

Then looking sternly on him wise Odysseus said: “If you avow yourself their soothsayer, many a time you must have prayed within the hall that the issue of a glad return might be delayed for me, while my dear wife should follow you and bear you children. Therefore you shall not now avoid a shameful death.”

So saying, he seized in his sturdy hand a sword that lay near by, a sword which Agelauäs had dropped upon the ground when he was slain, and drove it through the middle of Leiodes’ neck. While he yet spoke, his head rolled in the dust.

But the bard, the son of Terpes, still had escaped dark doom,—Phemius, who sang against his will among the suitors. He stood, holding the tuneful lyre in his hands, close to the postern-door; and in his heart he doubted whether to hasten from the hall to the massive altar of great Zeus, guardian of courts, and take his seat where oftentimes Laeärtes and Odysseus had burned the thighs of beeves; or whether he should run and clasp Odysseus by the knees. Reflecting thus, it seemed the better way to touch the knees of Laeärtes’ son, Odysseus. He laid his hollow lyre upon the ground, midway between the mixer and the silver-studded chair, ran forward to Odysseus, clasped his knees, and spoke imploringly these winged words:

“I clasp your knees, Odysseus! Oh, respect and spare me! To you yourself hereafter grief will come, if you destroy a bard who sings to gods and men. Self-taught am I; God planted in my heart all kinds of song; and I had thought to sing to you as to a god. Then do not seek to slay me. Telemachus, your own dear son, will say how not through will of mine, nor seeking gain, I lingered at your palace, singing to the suitors at their feasts; for being more and stronger men than I, they brought me here by force.”

What he had said revered Telemachus heard, and he quickly called to his father who was standing near: “Hold! For the man is guiltless. Do not stab him with the sword! And let us also spare Medon, the page, who here at home used to have charge of me while I was still a child,—unless indeed Philoetius or the swineherd slew him, or he encountered you as you stormed along the hall.”

What he was saying Medon, that man of understanding, heard; for he lay crouching underneath a chair, wrapped in a fresh-flayed ox’s hide, seeking to shun dark doom. Straightway he rose from underneath the chair, quickly cast off the hide, sprang forward to Telemachus, clasped his knees, and cried imploringly in winged words:

“Friend, stay your hand! It is I! And speak to your father, or exulting in his sharp sword he will destroy me out of indignation at the suitors, who wasted the possessions in his halls and in their folly paid no heed to you.”

But wise Odysseus, smiling, said: “Be of good cheer, for he has cleared and saved you; that in your heart you may perceive and may report to others how much more safe is doing good than ill. But both of you leave the hall and sit outside, out of this bloodshed, in the court,—you and the full-voiced bard,—till I have accomplished in the house all that I still must do.”

Even as he spoke, the pair went forth and left the hall, and both sat down by the altar of great Zeus, peering about on every side as still expecting death. Odysseus too peered round his hall to see if any living man were lurking there, seeking to shun dark doom. He found them all laid low in blood and dust, and in such numbers as the fish which fishermen draw to the bowed shore out of the foaming sea in the mesh of their nets; these all, sick for the salt sea wave, lie heaped upon the sands, while the resplendent sun takes life away; so lay the suitors, heaped on one another. And now to Telemachus said wise Odysseus:

“Telemachus, go call nurse Eurycleia, that I may speak to her the thing I have in mind.”

He spoke, and Telemachus heeded his dear father and, shaking the door, said to nurse Eurycleia: “Up! aged woman, who have charge of all the slave-maids in our hall! Come here! My father calls and now will speak with you.”

Such were his words; unwinged, they rested with her. Opening the doors of the stately hall, she entered. Telemachus led the way. And there among the bodies of the slain she found Odysseus, dabbled with blood and gore, like a lion come from feeding on some stall-fed ox; its whole breast and its cheeks on either side are bloody; terrible is the beast to see: so dabbled was Odysseus, feet and hands. And when she saw the bodies and the quantity of blood, she was ready to cry aloud at the sight of the mighty deed. But Odysseus held her back and stayed her madness, and speaking in winged words he said:

“Woman, be glad within; but hush, and make no cry. It is not right to glory in the slain. The gods’ doom and their reckless deeds destroyed them; for they respected nobody on earth, bad man or good, who came among them. So through their own perversity they met a dismal doom. But name me now the women of the hall, and tell me who dishonor me and who are guiltless.”

Then said to him his dear nurse Eurycleia: “Then I will tell you, child, the very truth. You have fifty slave-maids at the hall whom we have taught their tasks, to card the wool and bear the servant’s lot. Out of these women, twelve in all have gone the way of shame, paying no heed to me nor even to Penelope. It is but lately Telemachus has come to manhood, and his mother has never suffered him to rule the maids. But let me go above, to the bright upper chamber, and tell your wife, whom a god has laid asleep.”

Then wise Odysseus answered her and said: “Do not wake her yet; tell those women to come here who in the past behaved un-worthily.”

So he spoke, and through the hall forth the old woman went, to give the message to the maids and bid them come with speed. Meanwhile Odysseus, calling to his side Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd, spoke to them thus in winged words:

“Begin to carry off the dead, and bid the women aid you; then let them clean the goodly chairs and tables with water and porous sponges. And when you have set in order all the house, lead forth these slave-maids out of the stately hall to a spot between the round-house and the neat court-yard wall, and smite them with your long swords till you take life from all; that so they may forget the love they had among the suitors, when they would meet them unobserved.”

He spoke, and the women came, trooping along together, in bitter lamentation, letting the big tears fall. First they carried out the bodies of the dead and laid them by the portico of the fenced court, piling them there one on another. Odysseus gave the orders and hastened on the work, and only because compelled, the maids bore off the bodies. Then afterwards they cleaned the goodly chairs and tables with water and porous sponges. Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd with shovels scraped the pavement of the strong-built room, and the maids took up the scrapings and threw them out of doors. And when they had set in order all the hall, they led the serving-maids out of the stately hall to a spot between the round-house and the neat court-yard wall, and there they penned them in a narrow space whence there was no escape. Then thus began discreet Telemachus:

“By no honorable death would I take away the lives of those who poured reproaches on my head and on my mother and were the suitors’ comrades.”

He spoke, and tied the cable of a dark-bowed ship to a great pillar, then lashed it to the round-house, stretching it high across, too high for one to touch the feet upon the ground. And as the wide-winged thrushes or the doves strike on a net set in the bushes; and when they think to go to roost a cruel bed receives them; even so the women held their heads in line, and around every neck a noose was laid, that they might die most vilely. They twitched their feet a little, but not long.

Then forth they led Melanthius across the porch and yard. With rustless sword they lopped his nose and ears, pulled out his bowels to be eaten raw by dogs, and in their rage cut off his hands and feet.

Afterwards washing clean their own hands and their feet, they went to meet Odysseus in the house, and all the work was done. But to his dear nurse Eurycleia said Odysseus: “Woman, bring sulphur, a protection against harm, and bring me fire to fumigate the hall. And bid Penelope come down with her women, and order all the slave-maids throughout the house to come.”

Then said to him his dear nurse Eurycleia: “Truly, my child, in all this you speak rightly. Yet let me fetch you clothes, a coat and tunic. And do not, with this covering of rags on your broad shoulders, stand in the hall. That would be cause for blame.”

But wise Odysseus answered her and said: “First let a fire be lighted in the hall.”

At these his words, his dear nurse Eurycleia did not disobey, but brought the fire and sulphur. Odysseus fumigated all the hall, the buildings, and the court.

And now the old woman passed through the goodly palace of Odysseus to take his message to the maids and bid them come with speed. Out of their room they came, with torches in their hands. They gathered round Odysseus, hailing him with delight. Fondly they kissed his face and neck, and held him by the hand. Glad longing fell upon him to weep and cry aloud. All these he knew were true.