Wily Odysseus, king of Ithaca, was the most resourceful of the warriors who assaulted the walls of Troy. His was the clever trick that opened the wide gates of the city in the tenth year of the conflict. The story of his return voyage is one of woe and disaster at every turn, with Death his constant companion. But for the protection of the gray-eyed goddess Athena, Odysseus would have fed the fishes many times over.
In assembly with the other immortals who dwell on high Olympus, Athena made her case before almighty Zeus for the son of Laertes. She argued that now, after twenty years away from home, he should be allowed to return to the arms of his devoted wife Penelope. In the absence of Poseidon, who nursed a grievance against Odysseus, the assembled gods decided in favor of Athena’s suit. Swift Hermes was dispatched to Ogygia, isle of golden-haired Calypso, divine daughter of Atlas. On behalf of the cloud-gatherer, Hermes commanded her to release Odysseus from the island where she had held him for seven long years. In fear of the almighty father of gods and men, the nymph Calypso reluctantly obeyed. “You Olympians!” she complained. “You can’t stand it when any other immortal takes a mortal lover.”
Divine Calypso thought she gave Odysseus all he could want; yet still he pined for home.[78]
Odysseus was sitting slumped on the shore, looking out over the restless sea with tears streaming down his cheeks as he prayed unceasingly to be allowed to return home. His wife Penelope was nothing compared to Calypso—a mere mortal beside a nymph endowed with eternal youth and beauty—and yet he was compelled by his love and his duty to return to her. Calypso approached and sat down beside him in the sand, the long plaits of her golden hair brushing her shoulders. Speaking gently, she told him to lay aside his cares, for she would help him leave at last. “Come,” she said, “build a raft, and I will see that it is well stocked with provisions.”
At first Odysseus suspected another trick, but she reassured him. The raft he built was frail enough, but he trusted in his skill and in the favor of the gods to see him safely home to distant Ithaca. After one last night of divine passion, he set sail. For seventeen days he traveled over friendly seas, and his spirits rose. But then the lone sailor caught the attention of Poseidon, who had been away receiving the worship of the Ethiopians. The earth-shaker was annoyed by the sight of this hated mortal boldly pitting himself against his watery realm. With a growl he lowered his trident and stirred up the seas around Odysseus, tossing him to and fro on rising waves until the raft was in danger of breaking up.
But the nymph Leucothea, who had once been Ino, the daughter of Cadmus, saw Odysseus’ distress and came to him, alighting on his storm-tossed wreck. She warned him to strip his clothes off and abandon the raft. It was better, said the White Goddess, to strike out for the shore of Scheria, island of the seafaring Phaeacians. She loaned him a magic scarf, which she said would protect him from injury or death. Odysseus hung on to the failing raft as long as he could, but finally wound the scarf about his waist and dived into the raging sea, trusting in Leucothea’s words. Poseidon laughed, sure that he had seen the last of the puny man.
After two days and nights, clinging to a timber from the raft, Odysseus reached the safety of dry land by a river delta. Naked, exhausted, and uncertain where he was, he found a copse of trees near the water’s edge. He made a bed of leaves beneath the trees and covered himself with more leaves for warmth in his nakedness. At once he fell into a deep sleep.
Meanwhile, back on Ithaca, trouble was brewing in the house of noble Odysseus. For some time the palace had been occupied by a gang of local noblemen who daily saw fit to demand that they be fed the good things provided by Odysseus’ royal estates. Droves of livestock were slaughtered and sweet wine drunk by the cask, all at the expense of the absent king, whom they believed dead. The aim of each young man was to take for his bride Penelope, Odysseus’ queen. To keep the suitors at bay, the lady made excuses and tried to trick the men so that she could delay making a choice.
For three years she had kept them waiting with a single ploy. She claimed it was necessary before she left the home of her first husband to weave for her aged father-in-law Laertes an elaborate shroud, so when he should pass none could say he had not been given the honor due to a well-loved patriarch. Daily she and her women sat at the loom, weaving the marvelous cloth, and every night in the upper chamber they unraveled by lamp-light all the fine work of the day. But a disloyal maid revealed the trick to the suitors, and once again Penelope was pressured to make a choice.
Witness to all of this was Telemachus, the noble son of Odysseus. Penelope had only just been delivered of the boy when his father was pressed into joining the expedition to sack Troy. Nearly two decades had passed and Telemachus was mature enough to resent this violation of his inheritance, but he lacked as yet the wisdom and strength to redress it. But Athena, the aegis-bearing daughter of Zeus, was looking after Odysseus’ son, as well as Odysseus himself.
Athena appeared before Telemachus in the guise of a family friend, a trader from abroad, who advised the young prince to call an assembly of the men of Ithaca, to solicit their support for his efforts to oust the suitors from his home. He also urged the prince to journey to the Peloponnese, to seek out wise Nestor of Pylos, and Menelaus, king of Sparta. They might provide news of his long-lost father.
Telemachus agreed, and called the men of the region together to discuss the violation of his father’s house. For the first time in his life, the young man took the speaker’s staff in his hand and addressed the assembly of Ithaca. He explained the grievance he held against the suitors, but Antinous, a leader among those suing for the hand of Penelope, responded with spiteful words. He called on Telemachus to expel his scheming mother and send her back to her father’s house, where she could be properly courted and dowered. “It’s time for her to choose,” Antinous insisted. “No more deception: she has kept us at bay for three years by pretending that she would soon finish her embroidery. Now she must admit that Odysseus is dead: she is husbandless, and must choose one of us!”
In anger Telemachus replied that he would not for a moment consider throwing his mother out of the house, to earn her curses and the displeasure of the immortal gods. And he promised to destroy the suitors if they persisted, calling on Zeus, father of gods and men, to witness his oath. As the words passed his lips, Zeus sent two eagles from the distant mountain. They hovered over the assembly and then attacked each other, clawing with their razor-like talons, before swooping off to the east.
A senior member of the assembly read the omen: Odysseus would soon return and there would be a reckoning against the wastrels who spent their days stuffing themselves on the fruits of their absent king’s estates, and courting his lady. Antinous and the other suitors laughed in scorn.
Still in her disguise, Athena followed Telemachus down to the port. She encouraged the young man, spurring him to action so that the crew could get under way swiftly, without attracting unwanted attention. And so, without telling his long-suffering mother Penelope, Telemachus headed out to sea, to find what word he could about the fate of his long-lost father. And the gray-eyed goddess accompanied the son of her favorite, to protect and support him on his journey.
Telemachus’ first stop was Pylos, the kingdom ruled by Nestor, who had arrived home from Troy safe and sound. The wise old king maintained his regal bearing, despite the burden of his years and the many losses he had endured in his long lifetime. He was tall, with flowing white hair and silken beard, and his dark eyes flashed with sagacious mirth. He welcomed Telemachus, who accompanied Nestor to his palace and listened with rapt attention as the old man told him of his return from Troy.
“There’s little I can say about Odysseus” voyage, since he and I parted company almost immediately after leaving the shores of Troy. After many days of sailing we reached the rolling Argive lands, where Diomedes steered his vessels to shore, and made his way safely home. However, I have heard that his days of sorrow did not end there. Discovering his wife’s infidelity, forced upon her by Aphrodite in retaliation for the wound he gave her at Troy, he left Argos and wandered far from his homeland. In foreign lands, he aided a king against his enemies, but was repaid with treachery and death. It is said that in their great mourning his men caught the attention of the gods on Olympus, who transformed them into herons, and still they keep watch over his tomb.
“I sailed on for Pylos. And although I made it back in one piece, it was a bitter-sweet return for me. My own dear son, brave Antilochus, had fallen before windy Troy, as had so many others. We lost Ajax of Salamis, the most able of the Greeks after Achilles, who fell on his own sword out of shame and never saw home again. Patroclus lost his life to mighty Hector before the walls of Troy as he led the Myrmidons in defense of the Greek ships. And Achilles’ life-thread was cut there too, as he knew it was destined to be. Many of the Greek host met death in those long years of war. But their fame lives on, for in the wide halls bards sing of their deeds, and that is the only immortality attainable by man.”
After finishing his tale, Nestor offered Telemachus the use of a fine chariot and team to carry him swiftly overland to Sparta, where Menelaus ruled with Helen at his side. To accompany Telemachus on his journey Nestor chose his own son Peisistratus, and together the two young men set off with the rising sun in their eyes.
Telemachus left Nestor’s palace and journeyed on to Menelaus at Sparta.[79]
The companions stopped for nothing. Even the rugged and gorge-riven Taygetus mountains didn’t slow their pace, and two days later they reached the rich lands of Sparta in the Eurotas valley. The palace of the red-haired king was filled with the sights and sounds of revelry, for it was a time for weddings. Hermione, the lovely daughter of Menelaus and white-armed Helen, was being prepared for her journey to far Phthia. She was betrothed to the godlike son of Achilles, Neoptolemus, king of the Myrmidons. The gallant Megapenthes, Menelaus’ son by one of his concubines, was also to be married in the palace; and so the halls echoed with the sounds of music and good cheer.
The noble travelers were made welcome. Peisistratus introduced Telemachus to Menelaus, and the Spartan king was overjoyed to see him, for he glimpsed a young Odysseus in his guest’s face. Just then Helen descended from her upper chamber to join them at the banquet, and her beauty dazzled all present into momentary silence. The evening passed, and the young guests were regaled with tales of the exploits of the Greeks at Troy, and especially of wily Odysseus, until dawn approached and the eastern sky was tinged with a fresh rosy glow. For earlier Helen had slipped a drug into the wine that had the property of banishing care and grief, for a while.
Later in the day, after all had taken their rest, Telemachus rejoined Menelaus in the great hall and, giving him a full account of his troubles at home, pleaded for news of his father. In reply Menelaus recounted for Telemachus the tale of his own return. “My brother Agamemnon and I,” he said, “parted ways on the sandy shore of Troy. I sailed my ships down the rich Phoenician coast, where we stayed long in the luxurious courts of those merchant kings. For seven years we tarried, Helen and I, but at last I felt compelled to see once more the peaks and plains of home.
“High winds swept our ships over the seas, until we made land in far-off Egypt. But when we sought to depart from there, the gods forbade us a swift voyage home. I had offended them by failing to honor them first, as is their due. Inviting the wrath of the gods will surely bring a man nothing but a grievous end. Take, for example, Locrian Ajax, that intrepid warrior, who, I’m told, met his fate in the surging sea. Athena punished him for his violation of ill-fated Cassandra in her own holy sanctuary. Zeus loaned the dread goddess his thunderbolt to hurl at the fleet, and her aim was unerring. Ajax fell overboard, but he clung to some rocks, all the while jeering at the gods: ‘You can’t kill me!’ Poseidon had wished to spare him, in spite of Athena’s ire. But even he became annoyed by the reckless hero’s raving. With a single stroke of his trident, he split the rock, and the brave son of Oileus was dragged down to the depths, his lungs filling with brine. Only fools mock the gods.
“But I was not stranded long in Egypt, thanks to Proteus, the Old Man of the Sea, and his wise daughter Eidothea. On Pharos Island I learned from them of my transgression and the duty required of me before I could return home. In reparation, we made rich sacrifices to all the gods and prayed for aid along the way, so that Helen and I might return with all the fabulous wealth gained from our travels in foreign lands. And at last we made a happy homecoming, unlike my royal brother, proud Agamemnon, who was destined to return only to schemes and murder.
“Now to answer your question,” continued the Spartan king. “Proteus also shared with me some news of your father, long-suffering Odysseus. He said he had glimpsed him pining on the shores of Ogygia, Calypso’s isle. She held him there as her captive, a slave to her own purposes. Without ship or crew he had no chance of sailing for home.”
The news at once depressed and cheered Telemachus. His father was probably still alive, but there was no telling when or if he would get home. It was therefore up to him, Telemachus, to take care of the troubles at home. He refused Menelaus’ invitation to stay longer. Until his home and hearth were free of the wasteful and arrogant suitors it was best he should not tarry. Menelaus felt proud for Odysseus, that he should be the father of such a son, and prayed that soon he might be restored to his family.
Menelaus introduces Telemachus to Helen, and she guesses he is the son of Odysseus.[80]
Presently Helen joined them, and lavished upon Telemachus rich guest-gifts to enhance his reputation and household. The shining chariot and team were prepared, and the princes sprang aboard. With a flick of the whip they set off back to sandy Pylos. Telemachus told his hosts there that he would sail immediately for Ithaca. They bade one another fond farewells, and the pilot set a course for home.
While Odysseus slept on the island of Scheria under the trees near the river’s mouth, his divine ally, Athena, went into the palace of Alcinous, good king of the sea-faring Phaeacians. Disguised as a childhood companion, she appeared before Nausicaa, the royal princess. Nausicaa was as sensible as she was beautiful, and each of the young noblemen of the island dreamt of having her for his wife. Athena put the idea into her mind to go to the river’s edge with her maids and do the laundry. She asked her father to call for a wagon and mules, and when all was prepared the young ladies trundled off to the washing pools.
Odysseus was roused by the sounds of splashing and gay laughter issuing from upriver not far from where he had his mulchy bed. He rose and crept forward, keeping to the trees for cover, and spied the band of girls on the bank of the river. The maids and their mistress, lovely Nausicaa, had finished the washing and laid out the garments and fine linens to dry on warm rocks lining the river bank. While some bathed themselves in the stream, others played a ball game with the sparkling-eyed princess, and still others laid out on a cloth on the ground delicacies and sweet wine mixed with clear water.
Pricked by his great need, Odysseus crept forward, all naked as he was, and knelt at the feet of the princess. Never one to panic, the young woman responded graciously to his pleas for help, although her girls had taken fright at the sudden appearance of the filthy stranger in their midst. She had her women take him off to bathe in the river, and then they dried him and rubbed him down with olive oil, while she chose a soft tunic and fine cloak from the freshly washed clothes. Once he was dressed, Athena made him seem taller and more handsome than ever, and the women were amazed.
“Odysseus crept forward, all naked as he was, and knelt at the feet of the princess.”[81]
Nausicaa realized she had given aid to no common man. Then the modest princess advised her noble suppliant to follow her as she made her way back to town in the wagon. She warned him, for modesty’s sake, to separate from the company of ladies when they approached the gates. He was to enter alone and ask for directions to the palace of Alcinous, her father.
Shrouded in mist by Athena, Odysseus found his way to the palace. Once inside, he strode briskly to the seat of Queen Arete, royal wife of Alcinous. As he knelt down and clasped her knees in supplication the mist dissipated. The queen was amazed at the stranger suddenly in their midst. Looking him over, she couldn’t help noticing that he wore clothing she herself had spun, and she guessed he had received aid from Nausicaa. She smiled at her husband, who was sitting by her side, and welcomed Odysseus with kind and honest words.
Without offering his name, nimble-witted Odysseus related the tale of the shipwreck that left him at the mercy of Calypso, until after seven long years she released him. He told how he left the island on his raft, only to be shipwrecked again on the shores of Scheria, where Nausicaa had found him. He shared his fervent desire to return once again to his homeland, to sit once more before his own hearth, with his loyal wife at his side. Alcinous and Arete were moved by his heartfelt words, and agreed without hesitation to aid him in his quest. They were not so impolite as to ask him for his name, for he was clearly a man of standing and deserved their discretion and their hospitality.
The following day King Alcinous called a meeting of his counselors. He ordered a fast ship to be manned and equipped to carry their long-suffering guest back to his homeland. The assembly agreed with one voice to the plan, and the work was immediately set in motion. When all was ready, the good king next called the ship’s crew together with the noblemen of the realm to join him in the palace where a sacrifice was prepared to honor the gods, as is proper for those who seek safe passage across the vast expanse of the hostile and restless sea. After the ritual and the appropriate prayers to Zeus and all the immortals, a feast was prepared, and the bard, Demodocus, was summoned to sing of heroic deeds of times gone by.
When Demodocus had finished his lay, the good king called the men to demonstrate their prowess in games of strength and skill for their noble guest. Odysseus was invited to join in, but the travel-weary warrior politely refused. Yet he was goaded on by another young nobleman, Euryalus, who rashly incited the hero’s anger with his insults and sarcasm. “Yes,” he said, “I never took you for a noble, worthy to join our games. You look more like a sailor, thinking only of risk and profit.”
Quick-tongued Odysseus eloquently stunned the offender into silence and, following words with deeds, grasped an enormous discus and hurled it aloft. It sang in the air as it hurtled beyond the marks of the others lately thrown by the competitors. Athena, disguised as a spectator, marked where the stone landed and declared Odysseus the clear winner.
After the games, Alcinous commanded that the ship be loaded with gifts appropriate for a royal guest, and called for a celebration in his wide hall as a proper send-off for crew and passenger. Euryalus approached Odysseus with a fine sword of bronze as atonement, which was graciously accepted. In good humor, the banqueters sat down to the delicious feast laid before them. The bard was again summoned to ply his trade, as only those gifted by the Muses can.
The tale the inspired Demodocus told was that of the final ploy of the Greeks to enter the bronze gates of Troy. The stratagem was conceived by crafty Odysseus himself. Within a hollow wooden horse of monumental size crouched the concealed Greeks, ready for ambush. The bard’s song brought tears of remembrance to the eyes of the stranger in their midst, and Alcinous called for silence. He spoke gently to his guest, questioning him at last about his identity, his parents, and his homeland. And Odysseus launched into his tale of woe.
“I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, commander of men. Home for me is sea-girt Ithaca, though I have not set eyes upon her welcome shores for many years. Nor do I know what fate has befallen my wife and son, who was a mere babe when I reluctantly set out for Troy. Not even the womanly wiles of golden-haired Calypso or the sorceress Circe could persuade me to forget home and hearth, where all good men yearn to be if, by the will of the gods, they are kept apart from their loved ones.
“Home was uppermost in my mind when with twelve ships I at last set sail from the shores of Troy. With an eye to further enrichment we sailed first to the land of the Cicones in Thrace, where our raids netted us many oxen and sheep, and captive women to warm our beds. For showing him mercy, a priest of Apollo there, Maron, gave me some of his very finest wine. This vintage would serve me well in later days. But some of the men lingered over their feasting and drinking. Soon local reinforcements swarmed down from the hills in retaliation against us. Before we could take to the fast ships dozens of men were struck down, and we lost most of our plunder. It was with considerably lowered spirits that we continued on our way, mourning our lost comrades.
“The helmsman’s skill and fair weather brought us near to home, but at Cape Maleas the north wind blew up strong and sent us far off course, out into open seas. After ten days my crew and I arrived at the strange land of the Lotus-Eaters. The magical fruit they eat makes men forget everything, and fills them with the desire only to eat lotus and more lotus. On first sampling the fruit, our landing party nearly succumbed to this evil. It took a great deal of effort to hustle them aboard, and even then they had to be restrained from jumping ship and swimming ashore.
“Next we reached the land of the Cyclopes, those lawless, one-eyed giants, who disdain the gods. Each acts as a law unto himself and recognizes no authority but his own. We beached our ships on an offshore island rich in produce and grazing lands for sheep and goats. With renewed optimism we slung our weapons over our shoulders and set out to hunt. In no time a large herd of goats appeared and we picked off dozens of them. With hindsight I see that we should have sailed on straight away, without investigating further, but curiosity got the better of me.
“After a night of feasting and healing sleep, we woke just as dawn began to glow in the east. Little knowing what we were about to encounter, I told the men that I would take my ship and crew across to the mainland to seek out any inhabitants. As we glided across toward the mainland, we spied a flock of sheep and goats near a large cave. Outside the cave we could make out the silhouette of an enormous being. Still I was not to be put off—I wanted to know what sort of people these were. With twelve men and a large goatskin of the rich wine given me by Maron, I set out to see for myself.
“No one was home when we reached the cave. All around us were young sheep in their pens, separated by age, bleating for their mothers to come from the pastures. Soon they arrived, udders swinging from side to side with the weight of the good milk inside. Their master followed, whistling and clicking his tongue at them in the language they understood, and we caught our first sight of the hideous features of the Cyclops, with one huge eye filling the space above his nose. Once the entire flock was inside the cave, he rolled a massive boulder across the entrance to the cave. We were trapped! Then he took each ewe aside and milked her, before letting the lambs suck.
“When he caught sight of us inside his cave the creature roared with displeasure. The men were panicking, but I strode forward and confronted the Cyclops. I said that we were survivors from a shipwreck, throwing ourselves on his mercy in the name of Zeus, patron of suppliants. He replied that he cared nothing for men’s rules of hospitality or even for the gods themselves. He proceeded then to scoop up two of my men and eat them, washing his gory meal down with buckets of fresh ewe’s milk. We cowered in horror at the ghastly sight, and were sickened by the sound of our friends being crunched in his mouth. If we didn’t escape soon, none of us was going to make it back to the ship.
“Just before dawn, the Cyclops rolled the gigantic stone away from the entrance to the cave. He scooped up two more of my men for breakfast, and washed the vile meal down with milk, before going about his chores. He released the sheep from their folds and herded them outside, but blocked the mouth of the cave with the stone as he departed. We were trapped for the day.
“In the Cyclops’ absence, we searched for some means with which to defend ourselves. Lying in the sheep pen was a long beam as broad as a tree trunk. We cut a section of this and sharpened one end to a fine point. We thrust that end into the fire, turning and hardening it in the blazing coals. Soon we had a weapon and a picked team to hoist the stake and help me thrust it home, into that single great eye in the forehead of the Cyclops. But we still needed to get past the massive stone in the entrance.
“In the evening, when the sun began its slow descent, the Cyclops returned. He rolled away the stone and herded the ewes back inside, milking them and placing them with their young, as on the night before. He scooped up two more men for his gruesome supper. I stepped forward quickly with the great flask of wine before he could gulp the milk. I offered him a bowl filled to the brim with the sparkling liquid, and he drank deeply. He held out his bowl for more and asked me my name. ‘I’m Nobody,’ I told him as I refilled his bowl. He gulped it eagerly and took more again, bowl after bowl until he passed out on his side by the fire.
“We sprang as one to the stake we had prepared and raised it up. We lunged forward as if we stood before the gates of a great city with a battering ram, determined to break open the bronze doors. The point sank through the giant’s closed eyelid and deep into the orb, sizzling like roasting fat when it runs off the skin of a spitted piglet onto the glowing coals below. The monster shrieked in anguish, so loudly that his neighbors, some distance away, called out in concern. ‘What’s the matter?’ they cried, and Polyphemus shouted back that ‘Nobody’ had attacked him, and so they left him alone to his fate.
Odysseus and his men thrust the stake into Polyphemus’ giant eye.[82]
“Our escape was not yet assured, and despite the searing pain of his blinded eye the monster squatted down at the mouth of the cave, hoping to catch us one at a time by feel as we tried to sneak past. But I conceived a plan to save us all. I ordered the men to grab some sheep from the surrounding pens. I lashed three sheep together for each man, burying the rope deep in their shaggy hair. The men clung on to the woolly undersides of the middle sheep, and were protected from the Cyclops” groping hands by the other two. I myself gripped for all I was worth to the underside of a huge ram. It worked! The suffering Cyclops suspected nothing as the beasts ambled from the cave, and continued his torrent of threats against us as if we were still inside.
Odysseus clung to the underside of a great ram to escape Polyphemus’ wrath.[83]
“Once we had cleared the cave, I untied the men from the sheep and we drove the herd down to the ship. As we headed back to the islet where we had left our companions, I hurled insults back at the Cyclops, igniting his rage. He tossed a boulder which landed near the bow, and its wave nearly washed us back to the point from which we’d set off. But the oarsmen cut the water with a will and we were soon out of range. I hollered back my true name as we sped away, and Polyphemus bellowed after us, calling down upon me the wrath of his father Poseidon. And Poseidon heard his son’s curses, and has tormented me ever since.
“We rejoined our comrades. After dividing the herd fairly among the men, we made a sacrifice of the great ram which had carried me safely from Polyphemus’ cave, thanking Father Zeus for our lives and imploring all the gods for safe passage across the moaning sea. A great feast was prepared there on the shore near the ships, and we partook of the fine meats and fragrant wine until fatigue overcame us and we lay down to sleep. As rosy-fingered dawn began to glow gently in the east we set sail, hoping for the best.”
“Over and over again, in our joy at escaping from Polyphemus’ cave, we regaled one another with tales of the exploit. Next we made land on the floating island ruled by Aeolus, steward of the winds, whose six sons are married to his six daughters. On Aeolia there is unceasing feasting and celebration, day and night, and we were lavishly entertained in the palace for a month. When we left, Aeolus generously bestowed upon me a leather bag containing the swirling powers of the storm winds, so that only fair breezes might speed our voyage. Refreshed and hoping for the best, we set sail with gentle Zephyrus blowing astern.
“But my men snooped in the cargo hold, eager to see for themselves if I might be concealing some fabulous gift given me by Aeolus. The fools discovered the great leather bag. They unwound the silver thong that sealed the sack, releasing with a great rush all the winds trapped inside. The storm that arose buffeted the ships back the way we had come. We found ourselves once more on the shores of Aeolia, but our welcome this time was not so warm. Aeolus blasted us with cold words, refusing further assistance to men who were so clearly out of favor with the immortal gods. So once more we set off, this time with heavy hearts.
“For a week we sailed steadily on these strange seas, until we came to the land of the Laestrygonians, where the coastline forms a secure and well-sheltered haven for ships. The other vessels in our company sailed straight in, but I moored my ship outside the harbor mouth, and sent three men on ahead to discover what kind of people dwelled there.
“It soon became clear that this was not a hospitable place. As soon as my men encountered the chieftain of the Laestrygonians, the mountainous man made his hostile intentions plain by snatching up one of them to be put aside for dinner. For the Laestrygonians were vile and gigantic cannibals. In shock and horror the remaining two men sped away from the place and sprang back aboard my ship. But the other ships were trapped in the harbor, and the Laestrygonians pelted them with boulders that they tossed as easily as a child skips a stone across the still surface of a lake. In the blink of an eye my crew was rowing with a will away from that cursed place. But we were the only survivors; all the other ships were lost. We sailed on, mourning our lost comrades, terrified lest fresh disaster strike.
“Next we came to Aeaea, Circe’s isle. After beaching the ship on the shore, we ate and rested, and then I detailed my best men to investigate the area. The rest remained with me, to guard the ship and be ready to take to the sea in case of danger. We didn’t have to wait long before Eurylochus, the leader of the reconnaissance party, burst from the trees and ran down to the beach.
“Pale and quaking with fear, he answered our anxious questions. The scouts had come upon a villa in a clearing of the wood. Strangely, there were wild beasts rendered tame, lions and wolves, wandering about the grounds. They wagged their tails and approached the men like dogs who greet their master after a long absence. From within the house they heard a sweet voice singing. They called out to the occupant and a beautiful woman emerged. It was the witch Circe, daughter of Helios and sister of Aeëtes, ruler of Colchis. The sorceress welcomed the new arrivals and offered them hospitality. All but Eurylochus heeded her friendly summons and entered. But none came out.
“At this fresh disaster I grabbed my sword and made for the clearing Eurylochus had described. Near the villa a stranger crossed my path. It must have been a god, perhaps Hermes, for he offered good advice. He told me to beware of the food and drink that Circe would offer me as her guest. They were tainted by a potion that was designed to transform men into beasts. He gave me a dose of moly, a special antidote to the witch’s evil brew. Then clever Hermes, if that’s who it was, told me how to get the sorceress to release my men from her magic spell. I took his advice to heart and made my way through the trees to Circe’s villa. What I saw there shocked me to the point of despair.
“My good comrades were all together. They were penned into a sty, and all had been transformed into pigs. They rooted and snuffled the ground, or rolled in the soft mud, grunting and squealing. But clearly they still retained their wits, because when they caught sight of me they raised a terrific din in their attempts to warn me off, or to plead for their release. With anger in my heart I strode forward and called out to the occupant of the house.
“The radiant Circe emerged and bid me welcome. She led me to a chair, and offered me a golden cup. It contained her potion, of course, but I had taken the antidote, so with an internal smile I drank it down. She was astonished that it had no effect upon me. Following Hermes’ advice, I drew my sword and made as if to strike her, and she cowered in fear and confusion. Seeming humble and submissive, she invited me to her bed—another trick, for she bound men with her sexual charms, but Hermes had told me what to do. After making her swear that she would play no more tricks, I happily accepted her invitation, for it was only if she was sexually satisfied that she would release my men.
Hermes supplied Odysseus with an antidote to Circe’s magic potion.[84]
“After we had enjoyed the sweet delights of love, she reversed the spell cast upon my men, and they were restored to themselves. As soon as the men back at the ships learned the good news, they joined us. We remained for a year on Circe’s isle as her welcome guests. And the lovely nymph and I found comfort together, but never did her charms erase from my heart the memory of my own dear wife Penelope, or my longing to be reunited with her.
“The men too began to yearn once more for their homes, and I appealed to Circe for aid in our time of need. The sorceress revealed to me what she knew of the trials that lay ahead for us. I and my men were to journey to the underworld, the dark realm where the shades of the dead pass eternity. Once there I was to question Theban Teiresias, who alone of all who dwell in Hades’ halls retains his wisdom unimpaired. As I lay beside her in the soft bed, the beautiful witch told me how I was to summon the dead so that the seer would approach and tell me all I needed to know.
“When shining-haired Dawn arose in the east I called my men together in the hall of Circe’s villa and announced our departure. There were shouts and laughter as the men made ready, gathering their gear and preparing to return to the ship beached on the shore. One of my men was on the roof, sleeping off the several flagons of wine he had consumed the night before, and he woke unsteadily to the noise below. Bleary-eyed and off balance, unlucky Elpenor fell from the roof and broke his neck. My comrades and I knew nothing of it, so we left him behind when we departed. His body lay there, unburied and unmourned, with his shade lingering uneasily at the edge of the underworld.”
“Divine Circe called forth a following wind as her parting gift, and we cut a wake through the foam-topped swell. I gathered the men on deck and announced our destination. They responded with exclamations of disbelief and fear, their hopes of heading straight for home dashed in a moment. Were we really sailing for the ends of the world and the home of the dead? But we remained true to the course I set and at last arrived on the far western shore of the great Ocean which encircles the world. The men and livestock disembarked, and I chose a ram and a black ewe that Circe had added to our stores, elements of the ritual necessary for calling up the shades of the dead.
“When we reached the place the witch had described, I knelt down and with my trusty sword carved a shallow trench. Into it I poured the proper libations of honey, milk, wine, and water. I sprinkled white barley over all, and made prayers and invocations. I slit the throats of the victims, and the blood flowed into the narrow trench and sank down into the thirsty earth. Instantly the place was swarming with the insubstantial spirits of the dead, agitated by the presence of the blood and greedy to partake of it. But I held them back with my brandished sword. In the meantime my men went about the business of preparing the sheep and ram for sacrifice as burned offerings to fearsome Hades and august Persephone, dread rulers of the underworld.
Hades and Persephone rule the dead, yet they also govern the cyclic renewal of life.[85]
“The first of the dead to approach me was unlucky Elpenor, my own comrade who had lately fallen from the roof of Circe’s house. I exclaimed in surprise at the sight of him, and after he had told me his sad tale I promised to return to Circe’s isle and see to his burial.
“Just then the Theban prophet Teiresias approached. He recognized me, and when he had drunk the blood he revealed for me a homeward voyage filled with yet more dangers. Poseidon would dog my trail, intent on revenge for the blinding of his son, the Cyclops Polyphemus. In forbidding tones he warned me to control my men, especially when we came to Thrinacia, where the cattle of the all-seeing sun graze the wide green pastures of that island.
“As if all this weren’t bad enough, the seer went on to tell me that my arrival home, after so many years of suffering and homesickness, would also be fraught with trouble. My home had been invaded by a band of insolent young nobles, eager to consume my wealth and woo my queen. He predicted that I would set things right in the end and there would be a reckoning for the suitors, but warned that my wanderings would not be over even then.
“In order finally to appease the wrath of Poseidon, he told me, I was to travel far, carrying with me an oar, seeking a people who knew not the sea. I would come to a place where the oar was identified as a winnowing shovel by some unknowing soul, and there I was charged to erect a shrine to the earth-shaker.
“Only then could I make my way safely home. The one piece of good news he shared with me was that I would meet my life’s end in great old age, at my own hearth, surrounded by my loved ones. Then he departed, making his way back through the crowds of mirthless dead.
Teiresias drank the sacrificial blood while Odysseus fended off the ghosts.[86]
“I saw the shade of my beloved mother Anticlea, and she spoke briefly with me. I had not known she was dead. Though I wanted desperately to hold her in my arms, just once more, my hands grasped nothing but the insubstantial air, and her ghost moved away finally to join the other wandering shades. Other great women and men approached, and after I let them taste of the blood, they spoke to me.
“Of those who addressed me it was Agamemnon, son of Atreus, who came forward first. He shared with me the tragic story of his homecoming, how his scheming wife Clytemestra and her lover Aegisthus murdered him in his own bath, before the oars of his black ships had even begun to dry. And he told me how they took the life of ill-starred Cassandra, his war-prize, and killed all his loyal companions too. The once-great king held my eyes and warned me to approach my home shores secretly, even in disguise, and not reveal myself until I knew what I was facing. I took his advice to heart. For some time we stood together, though separated by the shallow trench of dark blood, and we reminisced over lost comrades-in-arms, many of whose shades milled about before me, anxious to drink and exchange words with a living man.
“There was Ajax of Salamis, who still begrudged me the arms of Achilles, and refused to speak to me. The Greek heroes Antilochus and Patroclus drew near, and then Achilles strode forward and took a sip. Recognizing me, he demanded to know what tricks I was up to now, making my way to the underworld while still a living man. Was this not the crowning exploit for any hero? ‘Not so,’ I replied. ‘For no one is recognized as a greater hero than you. You were admired as the greatest of the Greeks in your lifetime, and now you have high honor among the dead.’
“But Achilles replied in sorrow that he would prefer to be a peasant laborer in the world above than king of the listless dead. Nevertheless, I was able to console him somewhat with news of his son, Neoptolemus. With words that cheered the mournful shade I described to Achilles the bravery of his son at Troy. At the end of the war, with his plundered wealth loaded into his ships he set sail from the wind-swept shores of Troy, and made for the Thessalian coast. There, on the advice of Thetis, he burned his ships and continued over land for home. As far as I know, I told him, he rules now in Phthia, home of the valiant Myrmidons. Achilles’ shade thanked me for my words and strode proudly off, a new spring in his step.
“I saw too the ghosts of others, famous or infamous. There was Tityus, who paid a dear price for lusting after Leto. His vast bulk is lashed to the ground, and there, with arms outstretched he exposes his belly to the vultures that daily peck away at his liver. Tantalus too I spied, tempted as he is unceasingly by food and drink that remain forever out of reach. Cunning Sisyphus of Corinth was there, laboring at his endless task, a punishment for his transgression against the immortal gods. For it is a fool who takes the gods in heaven lightly.
“I saw the wise king Minos there, dispensing justice among the dead along with his brother Rhadamanthys, as they were the first to dispense laws to god-fearing men. Last of all I spied the wraith of long-laboring Heracles, whose mortal self was burned away on the pyre at Trachis. His immortal self dwells now on Olympus, and he has Hebe, daughter of Hera, for wife. He recognized me, and shook his shaggy head in commiseration at my unease here in the presence of the dead. He recalled his own encounter in the underworld while still a living man, when Eurystheus commanded him to go down to Hades’ halls and retrieve Cerberus.
“I might have waited longer for other heroes of the past to approach, but suddenly the press of disembodied souls, eager to taste of the bright blood, disconcerted me and filled me with fear. I turned and made my way quickly back to the ship and the familiar company of living men.”
Peerless Alcinous and his noble queen were transfixed by Odysseus’ tale, as were all the banqueters in the spacious hall, hung with fine tapestries. The weary wanderer pleaded fatigue and declared his intention to go and sleep on his ship until its departure, but they begged him to refresh himself from the board, take a draft of sparkling wine, and continue his story. In the meantime, Alcinous commanded that more gifts be added to those already bestowed upon far-traveled Odysseus, and all the nobles of Scheria sent porters down to the black ship waiting in the harbor and added their own presents to those of the king and his lady. After taking some refreshment the unhappy hero again took up the thread of his tale:
“We set sail in haste, the better to get away from that dreadful place, and a following wind sent us swiftly back the way we came. We arrived in good time at Circe’s isle, and after we had rested on the sandy shore, we set about retrieving the body of poor Elpenor, our lost companion. We buried him properly and heaped a mound over his remains, with his oar on top to serve as a grave marker. Circe joined us for the meal that followed the mourning.
“The nymph and I sat apart from the others, and she offered me further advice. She warned that our route would take us by the lair of the Sirens, terrible creatures, half bird and half woman, whose captivating song lures men to certain death. Circe told me that, when we drew near, I should take some beeswax and soften it between my fingers. I should use it, she said, to plug the ears of my men, so that they might row past the Sirens without hearing a note of their tempting song. The only way I could hear their melodies for myself, if I were foolish enough, was to have the men lash me tightly to the tall mast of the ship. No matter how much I cried out to be released, the men would not heed my demands—they could not, with their ears plugged. I took shining Circe’s words to heart, and listened closely as she continued.
“Once we had passed the lair of the Sirens, we would have to brave the passage where the fearsome monsters Scylla and Charybdis made their home. It was impossible, Circe warned, for us to get by these dread creatures unscathed. And yet, if we made it through the passage at all, there remained another challenge for us to face. The island of Thrinacia lies beyond the strait where Scylla and Charybdis await their victims. This magical isle is the pastureland for the cattle of all-seeing Helios, which are tended by his daughters. It would be best, the witch sternly warned, if I and the men sailed past this isle. If even one of his fine, fat cows were hurt, the wrath of the sun-god would fall on my ship and crew.
“At dawn my comrades and I put to sea once again. What should I say to prepare the men for the evils we were to face? I needed their cooperation to get past the Sirens, so I warned them about this danger, but I held my silence about the strait beyond, lest they panic. When I judged that we were close to the island of the dread Sirens, I had every crewman place softened wax in his ears, so that he would remain as immune to the lethal song as he would to my pleas. Me the men lashed firmly to the stepped mast of the ship.
Lashed to the ship’s mast, Odysseus endured the lethal beauty of the Sirens’ song.[87]
“As soon as the coastline appeared I began to hear a melody wafting from the shore. The creatures called to me by name, enticing me to stop for a while and listen as they sang me tales of the heroic deeds of great men living and dead. Their voices were … indescribable. Every thought and emotion fled from my heart and was replaced with the pressing need to join the company of these sweet singers. They seemed to promise eternal bliss. In my enchantment, I strained mightily against my bonds, and I demanded to be set free, gesturing urgently to my deaf crewmen with my brows. But the men only tied me tighter, as I had ordered. I am the only man who has heard the deadly chorus and lived to tell the tale. We sailed past, my men freed me, and I steeled myself for the next encounter, which lay just ahead of us.
“The waters before us churned and there was a terrific roar from the echoes of waves crashing against the high cliffs that framed the strait. On one side Charybdis sucked down the waters in a vortex so powerful that at its bottom the sea-bed was visible. Then with a mighty upward thrust all that had been sucked down was spewed forth again in an awesome jet. The gaping men ceased rowing in their terror, but I ordered them to take up their oars and cut the water with a fury, so we might get through in one piece. Seeing that Charybdis was impassable, we hugged the opposite side closely, while I kept a careful watch for Scylla, who has the bark of a puppy but the bite of a six-headed beast. She shot out of her cave in a flash, taking us all by surprise. Half a dozen snaky necks writhed above the ship, and in the blink of an eye the creature had six of my men. Their pitiful screams will haunt me to the grave.”
“We passed through the straits, rowing with all our might to distance ourselves from the evil, and our hearts were heavy with grief for the loss of our comrades. Before long we approached the isle where the daughters of Helios tend his lowing cattle, and although I too felt in need of rest and recuperation, I urged the men to row on and seek another place for shelter. I shared at last the stern warnings of Circe and Teiresias, that to destroy even one of the cattle of Helios would mean disaster for us all. But I was gainsaid by one of my outspoken comrades, who argued for taking shelter on the island, since the men had had enough. I extracted a promise from my men to avoid the sacred cattle. We beached our good ship and set about preparing a meal from the stores we had on board.
“But a god sought to test my men. A contrary wind rose, and we were trapped on the island for many weeks. Our supplies ran out. The men took to hunting and fishing, but their mood became desperate. I went apart to a sacred clearing to make offerings and supplications to the immortal ones for a change of weather. Some god must have put me into a deep sleep, because I heard nothing—none of the noise and commotion as my men weakened and killed some of the cattle. I woke to the aroma of spitted roast, and my heart sank. I hurried to the shore, shouting at them to desist from their folly, but of course the damage was done.
Contrary to their oath, Odysseus’ men butchered and roasted the forbidden cattle of the Sun.[88]
“Before our terrified eyes, the flayed hides of the slaughtered beasts began to crawl about the campsite, and the spitted meat over the coals bellowed its pain. These portents made us desperate to leave the island, but for days we remained stranded there by the unceasing gale, and my comrades continued to gorge on the forbidden meat. Dejected, I sat away from camp, sure in the knowledge that they were doomed. When Zeus finally had the winds change, I ordered the men aboard. We shoved off with a dark cloud hovering over our vessel and my heart.
“Before long ferocious winds began to blow with astonishing force from the west. In a moment the mast and stays were split like tinder and the beam crashed down, striking the helmsman a deadly blow. Zeus hurled a thunderbolt, and it struck us amidships, shattering the hull. The men and their dying screams were swallowed up by the raging sea. I alone survived, clinging to the upturned keel and the remainder of the mast.
“All night I floated, back through the straits to confront yet again those twin terrors Scylla and Charybdis. My only hope of safety lay in perfect timing. When the swirling vortex began sucking at my makeshift raft, I lunged for the cliff-face, and clung for all I was worth to a fig tree jutting precariously out over the churning water. An eternity passed before the monster belched the mast and keel back out. I leapt into the swirling current and gripped them tightly again, keeping my head low as I drifted beneath dread Scylla’s lair. I lay exposed on the unforgiving sea for nine days until at last I came ashore at Ogygia, immortal Calypso’s island home. My sad tale concludes here. You know all the rest.”
All the banqueters went their separate ways to sleep, and the next day King Alcinous was pleased to escort his guest to the harbor, where he oversaw the stowing of Odysseus’ many guest-gifts. The traveler thanked his hosts with typical eloquence, and offered a blessing to all the people for their kindness and generosity. They cast off with the chariot of the sun descending in the west.
Lying on the deck Odysseus fell into a deep sleep, a magical sleep, while the Phaeacian ship sailed on beneath the sparkling stars. While it was still dark, they reached Ithaca and beached in a remote cove. Quickly and quietly, the crew gently brought the exhausted warrior from the ship and set him down on the sand near a sacred cave. Next they unloaded all the gifts he had received from the noble folk of Scheria, and set them nearby. All the while Odysseus slept as one who was dead.
Meanwhile, Poseidon learned of Odysseus’ safe arrival home. The earth-shaker was annoyed to learn that the Phaeacians had assisted the king’s return. He complained to Zeus, threatening to raise an impassable mountain chain around their island kingdom. But the cloud-gatherer persuaded his furious brother to make an example only of the ship that had carried Odysseus home, rather than take more drastic measures. When the ship hove into view, the Phaeacians onshore rejoiced to see their countrymen returning. But just at that moment Poseidon struck the ship with the flat of his mighty hand, and instantly it turned to stone. There it sits today, a reminder of the consequences of crossing the gods, who are quick to anger.
Odysseus slept on, unaware that he was home at last on Ithaca. Athena came upon her favorite as he slept and hid him in a fine mist. He woke at last, looking about but seeing nothing that recalled home. The long-absent king groaned in dismay and set about checking his treasure, suddenly suspicious that his Phaeacian hosts had tricked him by abandoning him on a strange shore and taking back their fine gifts. He had suffered so much already that nothing would surprise him.
There he stood, muttering to himself, surrounded by golden goblets and three-legged bronze cauldrons. But gray-eyed Athena stepped forward in disguise as a young shepherd, and told him where he was. Valiant Odysseus rejoiced to hear he was finally on home soil, though he carefully refrained from revealing himself to the shepherd. He said instead that he was a Cretan noble, in exile for killing the son of Idomeneus. Athena indulged him as he spun his tale, taking pleasure in her incorrigible favorite. She touched his cheek, and as she did so her shepherd’s guise fell away, and she stood before him in her divine loveliness.
After reassuring the long-suffering Odysseus that he was indeed home, the wise goddess prepared him for his next ordeals. She warned of the danger within the palace, and advised him to make his way to his swineherd, Eumaeus, who had remained loyal, and shelter there among the fatted pigs until he came up with a plan for revenge. Together they concealed the fine gifts in the sacred cave. Then the goddess disguised Odysseus as a wrinkled old beggar, and dressed him appropriately in filthy rags.
Athena sent him on his way to the farmstead beyond the town, while she swiftly made to intercept Telemachus, who was at that moment close to home on his way back from the sandy shores of Pylos. Athena warned him that a band of the wicked suitors was lying in ambush for him at the main port, so he asked to be let off elsewhere, explaining that he wished to inspect his estates and make his way back to town on foot. The ship sailed on without him around to the port of Ithaca. Alone, he began walking toward the humble hut of Eumaeus the swineherd.
Much-traveled Odysseus made his way to the farmstead, where he was welcomed and fed by his old servant. Over their humble meal, Eumaeus related to the stranger the story of how he came to be in the service of the royal house of Ithaca. His family was noble, from a far-away place called Syria. One day, when Eumaeus was a mere boy, a disloyal maidservant made off with him on a pirate ship. The men aboard sold him to Laertes, who raised him with a gentle hand, almost as a member of his own family. He was taught to care for the pigs and given his own small place.
Eumaeus smiled at the memory, but then his face darkened. His present master, the great Odysseus, had gone off twenty years before to fight at windy Troy, and had never returned. How the estates had suffered as a result! The presumptuous suitors, who returned daily to feast, were consuming all the best things for themselves. “I can hardly bring myself to go into town these days,” he said. “I can’t bear to see the destruction of my master’s wealth by those arrogant bastards.”
In his beggar’s disguise, Odysseus spun a false tale to Eumaeus of his own background. He claimed again to be a noble Cretan, but this time one who had served in the company of Idomeneus when he was called by the Greeks to fight at Troy. Years of adventure on the seas had finally seen him shipwrecked near the shores of Thesprotia. He was saved by the son of the king, who offered him hospitality. It was in the grand halls of the king’s palace in Thesprotia, he said, that he learned of valiant Odysseus’ fate. Ithaca’s king had gone to the sacred grove at Dodona to learn the will of Zeus, and would soon be safely back in his own country.
But, the beggar went on, he himself had suffered more misery when the crew of the Thesprotian ship he joined robbed him and tied him up for the slave market. Nevertheless, when the ship reached Ithaca, he had made his escape, and now he sat before Eumaeus, his generous host.
The good swineherd cocked his eye at the beggar’s story, discarding with a shake of his head the bit about the king’s imminent return. If he had a bushel of grain for every time he’d heard such a rumor, he’d be a wealthy man. He rose and prepared a simple meal, and after they had eaten and drunk they lay down for the night in the shelter of the hut.
Early the next day, Odysseus, still in his beggar’s disguise, heard the sounds of the dogs fawning over someone, thumping their tails on the ground and whimpering in recognition. In a moment, the handsome face of Telemachus appeared in the doorway. With a cry of delight the loyal swineherd dropped everything and folded the young man in his embrace, tears stinging his eyes, and ushered him into the humble dwelling.
After the men had eaten and drunk their fill the young prince questioned Eumaeus about the stranger in their midst. The kindly swineherd reported what the old beggar had told him the night before. Odysseus, who had stepped outside, overheard this exchange, and saw an opportunity to get things moving in the direction he wanted. He went back inside and declared his indignation that the suitors should get away with their scandalous behavior.
“You’re right, of course, stranger,” said Telemachus. “But what can I do? I am one man, with no available allies, and they are many. Once they’ve consumed all my father’s wealth, they’ll turn on me. I have no hopes for a long life.” He turned to Eumaeus and told him to go down to the town and announce his return to patient Penelope, but to no one else. The swineherd nodded and set off briskly on his errand.
Wise Athena appeared just then in the open doorway of the hut and cocked her brow at Odysseus, who followed her outside. It was time, she said, for him to reveal himself to his son. As she did so the beggar’s rags were miraculously replaced with splendid clothes and the king stood before her looking more regal than ever. Odysseus stepped back into the hut and stood before his son.
Telemachus cried out in amazement, for he had not seen the goddess work her magic on the beggar. He piously shielded his eyes, believing himself in the presence of a god. With gentle words Odysseus assuaged his son’s fear. “Have no fear,” he said. “I am no god. I am, in fact, your father.”
At first, Telemachus refused to believe it, thinking the gods were tricking him, but Odysseus explained how Athena had effected his transformation. They locked into a strong embrace, each shedding tears of joy and pain on the shoulders of the other.
When father and son could speak again, their talk turned to revenge. Odysseus swore Telemachus to secrecy, and together they hatched a plan to take the transgressors unawares. Telemachus would allow a “wretched beggar” some small corner within the palace halls, as is proper for those who honor the laws of hospitality. Just as the Trojans were taken unawares when the Greeks burst forth from the Wooden Horse, so the suitors would be ambushed by the wiles of Laertes’ son.
Meanwhile, the suitors had received word that their attempt to kill Telemachus had failed. Somehow the young man had slipped through their fingers. Seething with frustration, the impious band gathered to discuss a new plot. But they were overheard, and news reached the queen in the women’s quarters of the palace just as the loyal swineherd Eumaeus arrived to announce Telemachus’ safe arrival.
Queen Penelope decided to take action. She summoned her maids. Together they descended to the hall where the suitors lazed about. Penelope confronted them with stinging words, especially the ringleaders, and accused them of plotting to murder her son. They chided her for her baseless accusations, and argued that whatever men plan, for good or ill, the gods will have their own way. If they had only known how truly they spoke! The indignant queen withdrew in disgust, back to her chambers, where she gave way to bitter tears.
Eumaeus arrived back at the hut before the sun sank in the west. The king was disguised again, back in his beggar’s rags, so that the swineherd still had no idea who he was. The three shared a meal together and lay down for sleep. Prince Telemachus was up with the first glow of dawn and ready to make his way to the palace. He told Eumaeus to escort the stranger to the town later in the day, where he could beg from people as he saw fit.
The prince arrived at the palace to a heartfelt welcome from the household. His dear mother flew to his side, tears of joy streaking her cheeks. She gently upbraided him for leaving her in the dark about his journey, but rejoiced at his safe return. She ordered delicacies and sweet wine be served. Telemachus took a polished chair and sat down beside Penelope while she questioned him about his journey.
Later in the morning, the swineherd Eumaeus and Odysseus set out for town. The king, still in his pathetic rags, carried a worn staff loaned to him by his faithful servant, who still had no idea who this beggar really was. They came to the public fountain just outside the city, where another of Odysseus’ herdsmen, Melanthius, passed them on his way to the palace with fatted livestock for the suitors’ midday feast. He heaped abuse upon their heads, and even landed a kick on the beggar’s backside. Proud Odysseus remained passive, but took note of his servant’s disloyalty.
The companions walked on toward town. As they passed the dung heaps piled on either side of the road near the gates, Odysseus heard a whimper. In the ordure lay an old hunting dog, covered in flies. The decrepit hound raised his head in recognition of their voices, and Odysseus saw that the dog was his favorite, Argus, who had shown such promise twenty long years before. At the sight and scent of his master, valiant Argus struggled to lift himself out of the filth in which he lay. But the effort overwhelmed him and he fell back, breathing his last. The hound’s loyalty touched the king deeply, and he weighed it in his heart against Melanthius’ treachery, and the insolence of his enemies.
Within the palace, preparations for the banquet had begun. The smell of roasting meat hung in the air. A lyre twanged as it was tuned. Eumaeus arrived at the door of the palace with his charge, and went inside to find Telemachus. Meanwhile the king-as-vagrant seated himself on the threshold of his own palace, where he was given a morsel of meat and a heel of bread. Later he went around the long table in the wide hall and begged from each of the suitors, sizing them up as he passed.
Disloyal Melanthius sat among the suitors and continued his verbal abuse. The mood in the hall became tense. Antinous, one of the ringleaders, went so far as to lob a footstool at the beggar, which struck him in the shoulder. But patient Odysseus did nothing and kept his humble place near the threshold. He knew his enemies’ fate was sealed, and that he himself was the agent of its fulfillment.
The feast was nearly over when the bard took up his lyre and the banqueters turned to drinking and dancing. Another vagrant arrived at the door of the palace. It was despicable Arnaeus. He made a career of begging, and resented any weary travelers taking his place in the town. He accosted Odysseus, in his disguise near the threshold. Odysseus’ long-held anger needed venting, and it was the misfortune of Arnaeus that he arrived on the scene when he did.
The two beggars bandied insults, circling like wrestlers in a bout. The suitors were amused to see the tramps going at it. They even offered a prize to the victor of the comical contest. Cowardly Arnaeus tried to escape, but the suitors tossed him back into the ring. The fool soon exposed himself. Odysseus punched him hard under the ear and sent him sprawling. Justice was at hand in the palace of Odysseus.
Arnaeus’s ill-treatment of the disguised Odysseus earned him nothing but blood and pain.[89]
The news of the fracas spread through the palace and at last reached the good queen. Penelope called Eumaeus to her chamber to question him about the new beggar in their midst. She asked to see the stranger later in the evening, when they could converse in peace. Then Penelope went down to the hall, and the gray-eyed goddess enhanced her already prodigious beauty. With her maids she descended to the hall. The queen covered her face with a sheer veil as she entered the room, but her loveliness was as impossible to ignore as the sunrise.
First she gently chided her beloved Telemachus for allowing such rough behavior within the palace halls. But the ringleaders, Eurymachus and Antinous, spoke boldly to the queen, extolling her beauty. She responded curtly that her beauty had long since dimmed from years of longing for her beloved husband. But now, she declared, the time of waiting was finished. Every man who sought her hand was to cease wasting the wealth of Odysseus and bring her from his own house proper bride-gifts. Eagerly the suitors sent squires for the best their estates could offer, but they made it clear that, until she had made her choice, they would remain feasting in the palace, eating and drinking all they wanted. Penelope retired in dismay to her chamber.
Braziers were lit in the palace, for day was quickly fading. Odysseus remained in the hall to suffer the abuses heaped upon him by the disreputable suitors. Thus his ire was stoked even as he tended the fires of his own palace hall. Finally, when they had had enough of debauchery, each of the suitors left for his own home to sleep it off.
Telemachus and his father were alone at last, and finalized their plans for vengeance. Odysseus told his son to collect all the weapons and armor and lock them safely away from the suitors. Meanwhile, still disguised, Odysseus returned to the hall to face his interview with the queen, his own beloved Penelope.
The long-suffering queen entered the hall preceded by her maids, and a chair was brought up for the vagrant to sit by her side. They talked long into the night. Though he was reluctant to tell more lies to his wife, she pressed him to explain himself, and in response he began to spin yet another yarn. He said that he was a son of the royal Cretan house. When Idomeneus departed for Troy, he had stayed behind as regent, and in that time he had met Odysseus, who with his ships and men had been blown off course by a gale and made land at Crete. He claimed to have entertained her husband for many days before and Odysseus sailed on to Troy.
Lonely Penelope guilelessly opened her heart to the strange beggar with the noble demeanor. In her grief and longing she begged him to describe for her what Odysseus’ bearing was like, what clothes he wore, all those years ago when he had been driven onto Cretan shores. Proud Odysseus thought to brighten her memory of him by painting himself in the most flattering light. She gasped at his description of a beautiful purple cloak attached at the shoulder by a large brooch wrought of gold. In tears, she recounted how she had herself packed these things among Odysseus’ belongings before he left so many years ago.
The stranger then made a prediction for the weeping queen: that her resourceful husband was, at that very moment, on his way back to home and family, with great wealth gained abroad. At the stranger’s earnest words, grieving Penelope smiled through her shining tears, and prayed that his words might come to pass. Then she called Eurycleia to come and wash the feet of their humble guest, as he would allow none of the younger women to touch him and prepare him for bed.
The old nursemaid Eurycleia knelt at the beggar’s feet and began bathing them in the copper basin of warm water. She was already surprised by how much the stranger reminded her of her long-lost master—and then on his left knee she spied a scar that the young Odysseus had earned hunting boar on Mount Parnassus years earlier. She glanced up at the old beggar, pain and joy passing through her heart and over her features. “But … you … you are Odysseus!,” she murmured, and tears started in her kind old eyes. But Odysseus urged her to silence until he gave the signal, and she agreed to keep the secret.
Athena had distracted Penelope from hearing their exchange, but in a moment the queen returned to her humble guest. She related to him a dream about an eagle destroying a flock of gaggling geese. He interpreted the dream for her. It was obvious, he said. The gods had revealed to her that Odysseus’ return was imminent, as was the destruction of the suitors by his hand.
She prayed again that the beggar’s words might come true. But in the morning, she told him, she would summon the suitors for a test founded upon the prodigious skills of Odysseus himself. Twelve ax-heads were to be lined up in a row on a table, and the archer who shot an arrow through all twelve—through the holes where the handles would go—would win her hand in marriage. Only Odysseus had been able to perform the feat in the past. What’s more, they were to use the king’s bow, left behind when he sailed from Ithaca’s shores.
When bright Dawn appeared on her golden throne, quick-witted Odysseus was up and preparing for the fateful day that lay ahead. It was a festival day sacred to Apollo the far-shooter, and the palace bustled with activity. Servants scrubbed and polished floors and tables, or ground grain for bread. The herdsmen came driving beasts before them—Eumaeus with choice pigs, Melanthius with fine goats, and finally Philoetius, the master cowherd, with the pick of the royal cattle. This good man took notice of the beggar in his rags standing by the gate. He strode over with his hand outstretched in greeting, despite the vitriolic words that Melanthius spat in their direction. Wily Odysseus took note that the cowherd could be valuable in a fight.
Noble Telemachus returned from the assembly and sacrifices in honor of Apollo. All the suitors had arrived earlier, seeing no reason to stay for the full rite as pious men do. They hurried back to Odysseus’ palace to renew their debauchery. Just as the prince passed the threshold a cow’s hoof, hurled by one of the despicable suitors, whizzed past him. It struck the wall near the poor beggar, who merely turned his head slightly to avoid the missile. A look full of the promise of doom for the suitors passed between father and son.
The goddess with the flashing eyes, Athena, inspired courage in clever Penelope, who called her maids to attend her. Together they went to the storeroom where her husband’s most precious belongings were stowed under lock and key. She drew forth his awesome bow in its case and the quiver of swift arrows. The maids picked up the bronze ax-heads, and followed their mistress back through the dark corridor to the light-filled hall.
The lady Penelope veiled her lovely cheeks and confronted the men. They told her that they had brought their bride-gifts, and reminded her, insolently, that today she was to choose one of them to be her lord. In return, she challenged them to emulate the feat of mighty Odysseus—to string the great bow and shoot an arrow through the twelve gleaming ax-heads. The winner would gain her as his wife.
At the sight of the king’s wonderful bow and the gleaming axes the herdsmen Eumaeus and Philoetius grieved for their long-lost king. But Telemachus gestured at the suitors to step forward, and he himself was the first to attempt to string the bow. Three times he tried and failed. On the last attempt the bow was nearly strung, but Odysseus, still in his place by the entrance, caught his son’s eye and signaled him to desist. With a dramatic groan the prince gave up and set down the bow. One by one the men took their turn, and each suffered sarcastic abuse from the others as he failed. Disgusted by the sight of such unsuitable men handling their king’s favorite bow, Eumaeus and Philoetius left the hall. Quick-witted Odysseus dashed after them and, to their joy and amazement, revealed himself to them. Like Eurycleia, they recognized him by the scar on his knee. He quickly enlisted them in his plan for revenge.
Finally the bow came around to Eurymachus, one of the ringleaders of the gang. Try as he might, he could not string it. Pouting, he thrust the bow aside with a scowl. The revelers rationalized that on the festival day of Apollo, it was improper to string a bow anyway. Tomorrow would be better, they decided, after they had sacrificed a goat and burned the fat and thigh bones as an offering to the archer god. With that the suitors returned to their cups.
Then the beggar offered to entertain them by trying himself to string the magnificent bow. The rude suitors mocked, threatened, and heaped insults upon him. But queenly Penelope stepped forward and overrode the men, offering the vagrant new clothes and passage abroad if he should manage the feat. Telemachus concurred, and then suggested to his dear mother that she go about her household duties in the women’s quarters. He knew that things would soon get ugly. Meanwhile Eumaeus went to warn Eurycleia to lock the maidservants’ rooms, which she did at once.
Odysseus took up his bow and examined it, looking for signs of woodworm or aging over the past twenty years. The suitors cried out in mockery: “Ha! So now this beggar is an expert bowman, is he?” But to their amazement and shame, the beggar bent the bow and strung it, with no sign of effort. He plucked the taut string, and it responded with a twang. His lip curled with satisfaction at the balance of the weapon in his hand. The suitors sat stupefied. The beggar picked up the arrow at his feet, leveled the shaft, and notched it. He pulled back, took aim, and let fly. The arrow passed cleanly through all twelve of the ax-heads. A thunderclap burst overhead, and the king knew he had the blessing of Father Zeus.
The beggar picked up the arrow at his feet, leveled the shaft, and notched it.[90]
With a shout brave Odysseus revealed himself to the suitors. Telemachus sprang to his side. Odysseus took swift, sure aim and an arrow pierced the throat of foolhardy Antinous. The rest scattered about the hall, seeking cover. No weapon or piece of armor was to be found anywhere, and they had to defend themselves with stools and tables. Haughty Eurymachus offered restitution, believing he could escape death with honeyed words. His speech fell on deaf ears, and in the end he drew his sword and leapt toward Odysseus. Another arrow flew from Odysseus’ bow, and Eurymachus fell dead in a pool of blood.
The avengers too were short on weapons and armor, so Telemachus ran to fetch them, while Odysseus continued to pick off the suitors one by one with his swift arrows. Just as the quiver’s load was spent, Telemachus returned with spears, swords, and shields. They quickly armed themselves, and stood back to back, father and son, ready for the foe.
But Melanthius suspected where the arms were concealed. He ran to the storeroom and brought out various pieces of equipment for the remaining suitors. Odysseus called on Eumaeus and Philoetius to capture the traitor and bind him strongly. The two faithful servants complied, and then took their places at the side of Odysseus and his noble son. Athena joined them, disguised as an old friend. Missiles rained down on the heroes, but the goddess made sure that none of the suitors hit their mark, while every shot or thrust by the avengers was successful. For the cowherd there was a satisfying moment when his spear pierced the breast of the lout who had earlier lobbed a hoof at the king. He stepped forward and braced himself on the dead man’s body, jerking his weapon free. Before long, bodies were heaped one upon another and the hall ran with their blood.
Justice had been dealt to the impious suitors. Odysseus ordered Eurycleia to fetch those of the household maids who had betrayed their master with the unscrupulous suitors, and they and the herdsmen were given the job of clearing the hall of bodies and washing away the gore.
Then the disloyal maids were herded to the back of the palace, where Telemachus strung them up by their necks with a rope. Their dangling feet jerked briefly, and then they breathed their last. Finally Melanthius paid for his treachery. His nose and ears were cut off, and after that his genitals. Then he was dragged beyond the palace walls and his hands and feet were hacked off as well. It took him some time to die.
Stalwart Odysseus called his old nurse to attend him. Sulfur and fire were needed for a purification of the hall. When this was done, the king sent for his faithful queen, who had slept a god-induced sleep throughout. Now all the household servants came forward to the king, many weeping with joy at the sight of their long-lost lord. It was almost too much for the weary wanderer to bear. He had steeled his emotions for so long. He wanted to weep with them, and rejoice. But there was still the most important task to complete.
Penelope woke to the old nurse Eurycleia hovering over her, shaking her gently and calling her name.
“What’s the matter, Eurycleia, my dear? Why the fuss?” long-suffering Penelope groaned as she woke. “Oh, what a dream I had! I saw Odysseus, and he was on his way home to us, as I’ve dreamt so many times before. It all seemed so real! He and his men were shipwrecked, and my suffering husband floated on, alone and half drowned. He came to the island of Calypso, who held him captive for years. Then he endured the sea alone on a sturdy raft, but mighty Poseidon was angry with him and caused him trouble. I dreamt that he was rescued by the sea-going Phaeacians, who bore him back to Ithaca’s shores and left him near a sacred cave with a hoard of fine gifts. How a lonely woman’s mind turns to fancy! I swear that I could almost hear him planning with Telemachus the revenge he sought against the unwelcome suitors! Oh, pity me! I think my mind is turning! The long years of waiting and hoping have taken their toll.”
The old woman was falling over herself in her haste find her mistress a suitable gown and veil from the strong cypress chest in which she stored her best clothes. “It’s no dream, my dearest lady! No dream this time!” exclaimed Eurycleia, her face beaming, the wrinkles around her eyes creased by her grin. “It’s all come to pass! The king—he’s here, in the palace at last! And he’s calling for you now! You must make haste, my lady!”
“Penelope woke to the old nurse Eurycleia hovering over her, shaking her gently and calling her name.”[91]
“But this cannot be,” replied the cautious queen. “Where is the herald to announce his return? We’ve had no news here in the palace. The only visitor—apart from those presumptuous suitors, curse them!—was the unfortunate beggar to whom my son gave hospitality.”
Eurycleia smiled and said, “No, he’s here, all right. And what’s more, he’s rid us of those cursed suitors, one and all! And the disloyal servants—all delivered to the fate allotted them by the gods. But now, please, my lady, please! I promised to bring you down to him straight away.”
“I’m still dreaming, that’s it,” mused Penelope. “All right, nurse dear; I’ll come along as you insist. I am anxious to converse with my long-lost husband, even in a dream.”
She had her maids dress her and arrange her hair. Athena ensured that she would appear lovelier than ever, to dazzle Odysseus with her grace and beauty. She descended the long staircase with her attendants and took a seat in the hall near her son and the poor beggar with whom she had spoken before.
The queen sat staring at the stranger, silent, waiting. In his frustration Telemachus rose and stood between them, and there were harsh words on his tongue for his mother: “Well, mother, here he is at last! Have you no word of welcome for your husband and king? Come now, any man has earned a joyful reception from his loved ones after a long journey! How much more does my father deserve, after twenty years of suffering and loneliness?”
Penelope spoke nothing but gentle words in response to her son’s admonitions: “Dearest Telemachus, it’s not that I’m not glad. The shock has left me speechless. If this were only a dream or a trick of the gods at my expense I wouldn’t be surprised. I nearly lost all hope of seeing my beloved husband again, your dear father, after so many years apart.”
Odysseus patiently allowed her to finish speaking and then said to Telemachus: “Leave us alone, my son. There are things that a couple share only between themselves, and it is through these things that we shall know each other at last. Go on, there’s nothing to worry about.” He smiled encouragingly at the young man, who took the hint and left. Then Odysseus turned back to his circumspect wife, who eyed him warily from her polished chair.
“Perhaps, dear lady,” he said, “I should bathe and dress appropriately before we speak again. In the meantime, preparations for a feast should be made ready, and all the sights and sounds of a celebration should emanate from the palace, the better to distract the community from discovering the carnage of the day before we’ve come up with a plan.”
When he returned from his bath it was as though he had been transformed. It was not just that he had shed his beggar’s rags. Before Penelope stood a man glowing with strength and virility. He seemed somehow younger and more handsome than ever, and her heart lurched in her breast as he seated himself once more across from her.
The smells and sounds of celebration filled the air around them. Yet the queen eyed him with suspicion, still believing that she dreamt or had simply gone mad. When she still had nothing to say, the godlike Odysseus shook his head and sighed wearily: “Well, then, if you have nothing to say, I’ll have a maid make a bed for me in the hall.”
“Please, you must understand that this is all very hard to believe!” cried Penelope in distress. “So many years of waiting, longing, hoping for your return! I had almost given up, and was steeling myself for the unpleasant task of choosing a new husband. And now here you are—or so you claim. Come, I’ll have the women move your old bed out here, so you can sleep at last in some comfort, and I will retire to my chamber, to ponder all these amazing events.”
“You dare to say such a thing to me?” cried lion-hearted Odysseus. “With my own two hands I crafted that great four-pillared bed. One of the posts was the trunk of a living olive tree, around which I built the entire room. If you can move our marriage bed then you have struck me a stinging blow by cutting that tree.”
Wrapped in the warmth of their loving reunion, Penelope and Odysseus each told their tale.[92]
In a moment Penelope had flown to her husband. She threw her arms around his neck, showering kisses on his neck and shoulders as the tears of joy streamed from her eyes.
“I’m not dreaming … not dreaming,” she sobbed. With shining eyes she met his gaze, softening now because he understood that he’d been tested. And he was filled with admiration for this woman who had waited so long, so patiently, out of duty, respect, and love. His heart melted and he held her in his arms, and finally he wept, joy and relief filling his soul. They held on tightly to each other even as they ascended the stairs to their bedchamber.
Eurycleia the wise old nurse had summoned the housekeepers and together they had strewn the floor of the chamber with sweetsmelling herbs, and laid the bed with fresh linen as if it were once more the royal couple’s wedding day. Odysseus and his queen entered the room, and the servants withdrew.
The lovers held each other close through the night, and the wise goddess Athena instructed golden Dawn to stay her approach, in order to give them more time to renew their love in each other’s arms.
