BOOK XX

Before the Slaughter

Royal Odysseus made his bed within the porch. Upon the floor he spread an untanned hide, and on it many fleeces of the sheep which the Achaeans had been slaying; and when he had laid him down, Eurynome threw over him a cloak. So, meditating in his heart how he might harm the suitors, here lay Odysseus sleepless. Forth from the hall came women who had long been mistresses of the suitors, now making jests and merriment among themselves. The heart of Odysseus stirred within, and in his mind and heart he doubted much whether to hasten after and deal out death to each, or to allow to the audacious suitors one last and latest night. Within him growled his spirit. Even as a dog walks round her tender young, growling at any man she does not know and resolute to fight him; so within growled his spirit, incensed at these evil deeds. But he smote upon his breast and thus reproved his heart:

“Bear up, my heart! A thing more hideous than this you once endured with patience, that day the Cyclops, unrestrained in fury, devoured your sturdy comrades. Then you bore up till crafty planning brought from the cave you who had thought to die.”

So he spoke, chiding the very spirit in his breast; and therefore in obedience his heart held firm and steadfast, yet he himself kept tossing to and fro. As when a man near a great glowing fire turns to and fro a sausage, full of fat and blood, anxious to have it quickly roast; so to and fro Odysseus tossed, and pondered how to lay hands upon the shameless suitors,—he being alone, and they so many. Near him Athene drew, descending out of heaven. In a woman’s form she stood beside his head, and thus addressed him:

“Why wakeful still, unhappiest of men? This is your home, and in this home your wife and child, even such a son as others pray for.”

But wise Odysseus answered her and said: “In all this, goddess, you speak rightly; and yet my heart within is pondering how to lay hands upon the shameless suitors,—I being alone, while they are always here together. A graver fear besides I ponder in my mind; suppose I slay them, by the aid of Zeus and you, where shall I flee then? Tell me this, I pray.”

Then said to him the goddess, clear-eyed Athene: “O doubter! Men trust weaker friends, friends who are mortal and not wise as I. I am a god and will protect you to the end, through all your toils. And let me tell you plainly: should fifty troops of mortal men stand round about us, eager in the fight to slay, you still might drive away from them their oxen and sturdy sheep. No! No! Let slumber come! Evil it is to watch and wake all the night long. You shall come forth from peril yet.”

So spoke she, and poured sleep upon his eyelids; and then the heavenly goddess departed to Olympus. But as the slumber seized him, freeing his heart from care, easing his limbs, his faithful wife awoke, and sitting up in her soft bed began to weep. When she had satisfied her heart with weeping, the royal lady prayed, and first to Artemis:

“O honored goddess Artemis, daughter of Zeus, strike now I pray an arrow in my breast and take away my life this very instant; or let a sweeping storm bear me its windy way and cast me in the streams of restless Ocean! As when storms seized Pandareos’ daughters, whose parents gods had slain and they were left at home as orphans, then goddess Aphrodite brought them cheese, sweet honey and pleasant wine; Here endowed them, beyond all other women, with beauty and understanding; chaste Artemis gave stature; Athene taught them skill in honorable work. But while heavenly Aphrodite went to high Olympus, to win the maids the final boon of happy marriage,—a gift from Zeus, the Thunderer, who understands all well, all fortunes good or ill of mortal men,—the Harpies swept away the maids and gave them over to be servants to the dread Furies. Even so may those who have their dwellings on Olympus blot out me, or else may I receive a shaft from fair-haired Artemis, that I may go to my dread grave seeing Odysseus still, and never gladden heart of meaner husband! Yet ills like these are bearable if, with a burdened heart, one weeps by day and then by night has sleep. For such a one forgets all good and ill when once the eyelids close. But as for me, Heaven sends me cruel dreams. Again tonight there lay beside me one like him, such as he was when he departed with the army. My heart was glad. I said it was no dream, but truth at last.”

While she was speaking, gold-throned morning came. And as she wept, royal Odysseus heard her voice and mused awhile. In his heart she seemed to know him and to stand beside his head. Gathering up the cloak and fleece in which he slept, he laid them in the hall upon a chair, carried the ox-hide out of doors and spread it down, and with uplifted hands prayed thus to Zeus:

“O father Zeus, if of good will the gods have led me over field and flood to my own land,—though ill ye brought me also,—let some one now awake speak a good word indoors, and another sign from Zeus be given outside the house!”

So spoke he in his prayer, and wise Zeus heard him and straightway thundered out of bright Olympus, out of the clouds above. Royal Odysseus was made glad. Moreover a woman grinding corn sent forth an ominous cry out of the house nearby, where stood the mills of the shepherd of the people. Twelve women in all worked here, preparing barley-meal and corn, men’s marrow. The rest were sleeping, having ground their wheat; one only had not ended, for she was very weak. She, stopping at last her mill, uttered these words, an omen for her master:

“O father Zeus, who rulest over gods and men, loud hast thou thundered from the starry sky, and no cloud anywhere. Surely in this thou givest man a sign. Then bring to pass for miserable me the words I speak. May the suitors today for the last and latest time hold their glad feast within Odysseus’ hall! They who with galling labor made my knees grow weak, while I prepared them meal, may they now feast their last!”

She spoke, and royal Odysseus was gladdened by her cry and by the thunder of Zeus. He said that woe was come upon the guilty.

And now the other handmaids of the goodly palace of Odysseus came together and kindled on the hearth a steady fire. Telemachus also, a mortal like a god, rose from his bed, put on his clothes, slung his sharp sword about his shoulder, under his shining feet bound his fair sandals, then took his ponderous spear, tipped with sharp bronze, and went and stood upon the threshold, saying to Eurycleia:

“Good nurse, have you provided for the stranger in the house comfort in bed and food? Or does he lie neglected? That is my mother’s way, wise though she is. Blindly she honors one of the meaner sort, and sends the better man away unhonored.”

Then heedful Eurycleia answered: “Now do not blame a blameless person, child! He sat and drank his wine as long as he inclined, and he said he wanted no more bread; she asked him that. And as soon as he began to think of rest and sleep, she bade her slave-maids spread his bed. Then he, like a man quite mean and miserable, refused to sleep upon a bed and under blankets, but on an undressed hide and fleecy sheepskins lay down within the porch. We put a cloak upon him.”

So she spoke; and through the hall forth went Telemachus, his spear in hand, two swift dogs following after. He hastened to the assembly to join the armed Achaeans. But noble Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, Peisenor’s son, called to the women:

“Come, stir about and sweep the house and sprinkle it, and beat the purple coverings on the shapely chairs. And others, take your sponges and wipe off all the tables, and clean the mixing-bowls and well-wrought double cups. And others still, go to the well for water, and fetch it quickly here. It is not long the suitors will be absent from the hall. They will be here very early. Today is for them all a holiday.”

She spoke, and very willingly they heeded and obeyed. Twenty went to the dark well; the others plied their tasks with skill about the house. Soon came the Achaeans’ laboring men, who neatly and skillfully split logs of wood; there came the women also, returning from the well. After them came the swineherd, driving three fat hogs, the best of all his herd. He let them feed about the pleasant yard, and said to Odysseus kindly:

“Stranger, do the Achaeans look after you any better, or do they still insult you in the hall, as at the first?”

Then wise Odysseus answered him and said: “Eumaeus, may the gods requite the wrongs which these in their abominable pride work in a house not theirs! They have no touch of shame.”

So they conversed together. Melanthius now drew near, the goatherd, driving the goats that were the best of all his flock, to make the suitors’ dinner. Two shepherds followed after. He tied his goats under the echoing portico and said to Odysseus rudely:

“Stranger, will you still be a nuisance in the house and beg of people? Will you not quit our doors? We never shall quite settle things, I think, until you taste my fists. Beyond all decency you keep on begging. Surely there are Achaean feasts elsewhere.”

He spoke, but not a word did wise Odysseus answer. Silent he shook his head, brooding on evil.

A third now joined them, Philoetius, ever foremost, and brought the suitors a barren cow and fatted goats. The ferrymen brought them over, they who bring people too, whenever anybody comes their way. He tied the cattle carefully under the echoing portico and drawing near the swineherd asked:

“Who is the stranger, swineherd, lately come, and staying at the hall? Out of what tribe does he profess to be? Where are his kinsman and his native fields? Poor man! He seems in bearing like a lordly king. The gods may well send homeless people troubles when even for kings they weave a web of grief.”

He spoke, and turning to Odysseus gave his right hand in welcome, and speaking in winged words he said: “Hail, good old stranger! May happiness be yours in time to come! Now you are bound by many ills. O father Zeus, none of the gods is crueler than thou! Thou carest not that men, when thou hast given them birth, be plunged in misery and sharp distress. A sweat came over me in looking at the man; my eyes were filled with tears for memory of Odysseus; for he too, I suppose, in just such tatters, is a wanderer among men,—if he indeed yet lives and sees the sunshine. But if he is already dead and in the house of Hades, then woe is me for good Odysseus, who gave me charge of cattle when I was but a boy in the land of the Cephallenians. And now the herds have grown enormously. No breed of broad-browed cattle ever pastured better. But strangers bid me drive these now for them to eat. For the son of the house they do not care, nor do they tremble at the wrath of gods; but they are bent on parting out their long-gone master’s goods. And as for me, around one point my heart within keeps turning: it’s very bad while the son lives to go to the land of strangers, cattle and all, to foreigners; worse still to stay with strangers’ herds and sit about and suffer. Certainly long ago I would have fled and found some other mighty king,—life here cannot be borne,—but still I think of that unfortunate, how he may come from somewhere, and make a scattering of the suitors up and down the house.”

Then wise Odysseus answered him and said: “Herdsman, because you do not seem a common, senseless person, but I perceive wisdom is in your heart, I will speak out and swear a solemn oath on what I say: so first of all the gods be witness Zeus, and let this hospitable table and the hearth of good Odysseus whereto I come be witness; while you are here Odysseus shall return, and you with your own eyes shall see him, if you will, slaying the suitors who now lord it here.”

Then answered him the herdsman of the cattle: “Ah stranger, may the son of Kronos fulfill these words of yours! Then shall you know what might is mine and how my hands obey.”

So also did Eumaeus pray to all the gods that wise Odysseus might return to his own house. So they conversed together.

Now for Telemachus the suitors had been plotting death and doom. But toward them, on the left, a bird came flying, a soaring eagle, clutching a timid dove; whereat Amphinomus called to them thus and said:

“Ah, friends, this plan of ours will not run well, this murder of Telemachus. Let us rather turn to feasting.”

So said Amphinomus, and his saying pleased them. Entering the house of princely Odysseus, they threw their coats upon the couches and the chairs, and they began to kill great sheep and fatted goats, to kill sleek pigs and the heifer of the herd. They roasted the inward parts and passed them round, and mixed wine in the mixers. The swineherd passed the cups; Philoetius, ever foremost, handed them bread in goodly baskets; Melanthius poured the wine. So on the food spread out before them they laid hands.

And now Telemachus, with crafty purpose, seated Odysseus within the stately hall by the stone threshold, providing him a common bench and little table. He gave him portions of the inward parts and, pouring him wine into a golden cup, he thus addressed him:

“Sit here among the men and sip your wine, and I will keep you from the taunts and blows of all the suitors. This is no public house. It is Odysseus’ own, acquired for me. Therefore you suitors check your taste for insult and abuse, or else there may be strife and quarrel here.”

He spoke, and all with teeth set in their lips marveled because Telemachus had spoken boldly. Then said Antinouäs, Eupeithes’ son: “Harsh as it is, Achaeans, let us take the bidding of Telemachus. He speaks with lofty threatening. Zeus, son of Kronos, hindered, or long ago we in the hall had stopped him, shrill talker though he be.”

So said Antinouäs; Telemachus did not heed his words. For pages came, leading along the town a hecatomb of cattle sacred to the gods. Long-haired Achaeans, too, assembled in the shady grove of the archer-king Apollo.

But when the rest had roasted the outer flesh and drawn it off, dividing up the portions they held a famous feast. And those who served set for Odysseus a portion quite as large as that they took themselves; for this was the bidding of Telemachus, the son of princely Odysseus.

Yet Athene allowed the haughty suitors not altogether yet to cease from biting scorn. She wished more pain to pierce the heart of Laeärtes’ son, Odysseus. There was among the suitors a man of lawless life; Ctesippus was his name; he lived in Same. Proud of vast wealth, he courted the wife of Odysseus, long away. He it was now who thus addressed the audacious suitors:

“Listen, you haughty suitors, while I speak. This stranger here a while ago received a portion, and, as was proper, one as large as ours; for it is neither honorable nor fitting to worry strangers who may reach this palace of Telemachus. Come then and let me also give a hospitable gift, and he shall have wherewith to give a present to the bath-keeper or to some servant of the house of great Odysseus.”

So saying, he flung with his strong hand an ox-hoof which lay near, taking it from the basket. Odysseus with quick turning of the head avoided it, and in his heart smiled grimly. It struck the massive wall. But Telemachus rebuked Ctesippus thus:

“Surely, Ctesippus, that was lucky for your life. You missed our guest. He shunned your missile. Else I had run you through the middle with my pointed spear, and in the place of wedding-feast your father had been busied with a funeral here. Let no man in this house henceforth show rudeness; for I now mark and understand each deed, good deeds as well as bad. Before, I was a child. And even yet we bear what nevertheless we see,—sheep slain, wine drunk, bread wasted,—for hard it is for one to cope with many. Well, then, do me no more deliberate wrong. But if you seek to slay me with the sword, that I would choose; and better far were death than constantly to behold disgraceful deeds, strangers abused, and slave-maids dragged to shame through the fair palace.”

So he spoke and all were hushed to silence; but by and by said Agelauäs, son of Damastor: “Friends, in answering what is fairly said, none should be angry and retort with spiteful words. Let none abuse the stranger nor any of the servants in great Odysseus’ hall. But to Telemachus and his mother I would say one friendly word; perhaps it may find favor in the mind of each. So long as your hearts hoped wise Odysseus would return to his own home, it was no harm to wait and hold the suitors at the palace. That was the better way, if but Odysseus had returned and reached his home once more. Now it is plain that he will never come. Go then, sit down beside your mother and plainly tell her this, to marry the man who is the best and offers most. So shall you keep in peace all that your father left, to eat and drink your fill, and she shall guide the household of another.”

Then answered him discreet Telemachus: “Nay, Agelauäs, by Zeus I swear and by the sufferings of my father, who far away from Ithaca is dead or lost, it is not I delay my mother’s marriage; indeed I urge her to marry whom she will, I will give countless gifts. But I hesitate to drive her forth, against her will, by a compulsive word. The gods let that never be!”

So spoke Telemachus, but Pallas Athene woke uncontrollable laughter in the suitors. She turned their wits awry. Now they would laugh as if with others’ faces, and blood-bedabbled was the flesh they ate. Their eyes were filled with tears, their heart felt anguish; and godlike Theoclymenus addressed them thus:

“Ah, wretched men, what woe befalls you? Night shrouds your heads, your faces, and lower still, your knees. Wild cries are kindled; cheeks are wet with tears; walls and the fair mid-spaces drip with blood. The porch is full, the court is full, of shapes that haste to Erebus, down into darkness. The sun is blotted from the heavens; a foul fog covers all.”

He spoke, and all burst into merry laughter; and thus began Eurymachus, the son of Polybus: “A crazy stranger this, new come from foreign lands! Quick then, young men, and guide him out of doors, off to the market, since he finds it here like night!”

Then godlike Theoclymenus made answer: “Eurymachus, I do not ask a guide; I have my eyes and ears, and my two feet, and in my breast a steadfast mind of no mean sort. By their aid I go forth, for I perceive evil approaching you which none shall shun or flee,—no, not a man among these suitors who in the house of great Odysseus work wantonly abominations to mankind.”

So saying, forth he went out of the stately palace and found Peiraeus, who received him kindly. Then all the suitors, glancing at one another, began to tease Telemachus by laughing at his guests, and a rude youth would say:

“Telemachus, no man is more unfortunate in guests than you. For instance, what a filthy vagabond is this you keep, one always wanting bread and wine, incapable of work or deeds of strength, simply a clutterer of the ground! And now this other fellow stands up and plays the prophet. But if you would heed me, the better way were this; to toss your guests into a ship of many oars and pack them off to Sicily, where they would fetch their price.”

So said the suitors; Telemachus did not heed their words. Silent he watched his father, waiting ever till he should lay hands on the shameless suitors.

Now having set her goodly seat just opposite the door, the daughter of Icarius, heedful Penelope, attended to the talk of all within the hall. With laughter they prepared their dinner,—a pleasant meal, such as they liked,—and many a beast was slaughtered. But how could a feast be more unwelcome than the supper which a goddess and a valiant man were soon to serve them? For from the first they had wrought deeds of shame.