Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
They came to the hollow land of Lacedaemon, ringed by its hills, and drove on to the palace of glorious Menelaus. They found him there feasting with his many kinsmen, celebrating the marriage of his son and his flawless daughter, all within his own house. The daughter he was sending off to the son of Achilles, breaker of men — for at Troy he had first promised and pledged to give her, and now the gods were bringing that marriage to pass. So with horses and chariot he was sending her on her way to the famous city of the Myrmidons, over whom the bridegroom ruled. For his son he had brought home a bride from Sparta, the daughter of Alector — the strong Megapenthes, his son late-born and dear, born of a slave woman, since the gods no longer granted Helen any child after she bore her lovely daughter Hermione, who had the beauty of golden Aphrodite.
So they feasted there beneath the high-roofed hall, the neighbors and kinsmen of glorious Menelaus, and made merry; and among them a inspired singer sang to the lyre, and two acrobats whirled and tumbled through their midst as he led the song.
At that moment, at the gates of the house, Telemachus and Nestor's noble son reined in their chariot and horses. Old Eteoneus, the brisk attendant of glorious Menelaus, came forward and saw them, and hurried in through the hall to bring word to the shepherd of the people. He came close and spoke winged words:
"Here are two strangers, Menelaus, sprung from Zeus — two men who look the very image of the line of great Zeus. Tell me, shall we unyoke their swift horses, or send them on to find another host who will welcome them?"
Fair-haired Menelaus, greatly troubled, answered him:
"You were no fool before, Eteoneus, son of Boethous — but now you talk like a child. Think of it — the two of us ate the hospitality of many other men before we came home at last, if only Zeus will someday give us rest from hardship. Go, unyoke the strangers' horses, and bring the men themselves in to share our feast."
So he spoke, and Eteoneus hurried back through the hall, calling the other brisk attendants to follow him. They loosed the sweating horses from beneath the yoke and tied them at the mangers, throwing down spelt before them and mixing in white barley. They leaned the chariot against the gleaming inner wall, and led the two guests into the godlike house. Seeing it, they marveled, gazing about the palace of the Zeus-nourished king — for a radiance as of the sun or the moon played over the high-roofed hall of glorious Menelaus.
When they had filled their eyes with looking, they went and bathed in the polished tubs. Once the serving women had washed them and rubbed them with oil, and thrown fine cloaks and tunics about them, they took their seats on chairs beside Menelaus, son of Atreus. A maidservant came and poured water for their hands from a fine golden pitcher over a silver basin, and drew up a polished table beside them. A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, laying out many good things, generous with what she had. A carver lifted platters of every kind of meat and set them down, and placed golden cups beside the guests. And fair-haired Menelaus, gesturing toward the food, said to them:
"Help yourselves to the food, and welcome. When you have both eaten, we will ask who you are among men — for the blood of your fathers is not lost in you; you are clearly sprung from the race of scepter-bearing kings nourished by Zeus, for no common men could father sons like these."
So he spoke, and taking in his hands a rich cut of roasted ox-chine that had been set before him as his own honored portion, he placed it before them. They reached out their hands to the good food laid ready. When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, Telemachus leaned his head close to Nestor's son, so the others would not hear, and said:
"Look, son of Nestor, dear to my heart — see the gleam of bronze through these echoing halls, the gold, the amber, the silver, the ivory! Surely the court of Olympian Zeus must be like this within, such is the boundless wealth here — I am struck with awe to see it."
Fair-haired Menelaus overheard what he was saying, and spoke to them both, winged words:
"Dear children, no mortal could rival Zeus — his halls and his possessions are undying. But among men, some might rival me in wealth, or perhaps not. Truly I suffered much and wandered far before I brought it home in my ships, coming back in the eighth year — I roamed to Cyprus, Phoenicia, and Egypt, I reached the Ethiopians, the Sidonians, the Erembi, and Libya, where the lambs grow horns almost from birth, for the ewes there bear young three times within the year. There no lord and no shepherd ever lacks cheese or meat or sweet milk, for the flocks always yield milk enough. While I was gathering great wealth in my wanderings through those lands, another man murdered my brother — secretly, without warning, by the treachery of his accursed wife. So I take no joy as lord of these riches.
And you must have heard of these things from your own fathers, whoever they are, for I suffered greatly, and lost a house well-built and stocked with many fine things. I wish I dwelt in my halls now with only a third of that wealth, if only the men were safe who died then in the wide land of Troy, far from horse-pasturing Argos. Yet even so, though I mourn and grieve for all of them, sitting often in these halls of mine, sometimes I ease my heart with weeping and sometimes I stop again — for a man tires quickly of cold grief. Yet for all of them together I do not grieve as I do for one man alone, who makes sleep and food hateful to me when I remember him, since no other of the Achaeans labored and suffered as Odysseus labored and suffered. For him it seems only sorrow was destined, and for me an endless, unforgettable grief for him — how long he has been gone, and we do not even know whether he lives or has died. He must be mourned now by old Laertes, and by steady Penelope, and by Telemachus, whom he left a newborn child in his house."
So he spoke, and stirred in Telemachus a longing to weep for his father. Tears fell from his eyes to the ground as he heard his father's name, and he lifted his purple cloak with both hands before his eyes. Menelaus noticed him, and pondered in his heart and mind whether to let him remember his father on his own, or to question him first and test him point by point.
While he weighed this in his heart and mind, Helen came down from her fragrant high-roofed chamber, looking like Artemis of the golden distaff. Adraste set a well-made chair for her, Alcippe brought a rug of soft wool, and Phylo brought a silver basket that Alcandre had given her, the wife of Polybus, who lived in Egyptian Thebes, where the greatest wealth lies stored in houses. Polybus had given Menelaus two silver bathtubs, two tripods, and ten talents of gold, and besides these his wife had given Helen beautiful gifts of her own: a golden distaff, and a basket running on wheels, made of silver with a rim finished in gold.
This basket, filled with fine-spun yarn, her maid Phylo now brought and set beside her; and across it lay the distaff, holding dark violet wool. Helen sat down in her chair, with a footstool beneath her feet, and at once began questioning her husband about everything:
"Do we know, Menelaus, nourished by Zeus, who these men claim to be who have come to our house? Shall I speak falsely, or shall I speak the truth? My heart bids me speak. For I say I have never seen anyone so alike — neither man nor woman — I am struck with wonder looking at him — as this man resembles the son of great-hearted Odysseus, Telemachus, whom that man left a newborn child in his house when the Achaeans went up under Troy for the sake of me, shameless woman that I was, waging bold war."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered her:
"That is just what I too now see, wife, as you point it out. Such were his feet, such his hands, the glance of his eyes, his head, and the hair above it. And just now, as I was speaking of Odysseus, remembering all he suffered and toiled through for my sake, this young man let a bitter tear fall beneath his brows, holding up his purple cloak before his eyes."
Then Peisistratus, Nestor's son, answered him:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nourished by Zeus, leader of men — this is indeed that man's true son, as you say. But he is modest, and it shames his heart to come here for the first time and pour out bold words before you, whose voice we both delight in as if it were a god's. Gerenian Nestor, the horseman, sent me along as his companion, since Telemachus longed to see you, hoping you might counsel him with some word or deed. For a son whose father is gone endures many griefs in his halls when he has no other helpers — just as now, with Telemachus: his father is gone, and there is no one else among his people to ward off ruin."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered him:
"Well, well — so the son of my dear friend has come to my house, a man who endured so many hardships for my sake! I always said that if he came back, I would welcome him above all other Argives, if only Olympian Zeus, whose voice carries far, had granted us both a safe voyage home across the sea in our swift ships. I would have settled him in Argos and built him a house, bringing him from Ithaca with his possessions, his son, and all his people, emptying out one of the cities near me under my own rule, so they could live close by. Then we would have met often here, and nothing would have parted us in our love and delight in each other, until the black cloud of death came down and covered us. But this, I suppose, some god himself must have grudged us, since he alone of all men denied that poor man his homecoming."
So he spoke, and stirred in them all a longing to weep. Helen of Argos wept, Zeus's daughter; Telemachus wept, and Menelaus, son of Atreus; nor could Nestor's son keep his eyes dry, remembering in his heart the noble Antilochus, whom the shining son of Dawn had killed. Remembering him, he spoke winged words:
"Son of Atreus, old Nestor always used to say you were the wisest of men, whenever we spoke of you in his halls and questioned one another. So now, if it is right, listen to me — for I take no pleasure in weeping after supper, and besides, dawn will soon be here again. Not that I count it any shame to weep for a mortal man who has died and met his fate — indeed, this is the only honor left to wretched mortals, to cut off our hair and let tears fall from our cheeks. For I too have lost a brother, by no means the weakest of the Argives — you must have known him yourself, though I never met him or saw him. They say Antilochus surpassed all others — swift of foot and a fierce fighter."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered him:
"Friend, you have spoken exactly as a wise man would speak and act, even one older than you — and no wonder, coming from such a father, for you speak with his same good sense. Easy it is to know the offspring of a man for whom the son of Cronus spins good fortune, both at his marriage and at his birth — just as now he has granted Nestor, all his days, to grow old in comfort in his own halls, with sons who are wise and the best of spearmen. So let us set aside this weeping that has come over us, and turn our thoughts again to supper — let water be poured over our hands. There will be time enough at dawn for Telemachus and me to tell our stories to each other."
So he spoke, and Asphalion, the brisk attendant of glorious Menelaus, poured water over their hands, and they reached out to the good food laid ready before them.
Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, thought of something else. Into the wine they were drinking she cast a drug that dissolved grief and anger and brought forgetfulness of every sorrow. Whoever drank it mixed in the wine would not let a tear fall down his cheeks for that whole day, not even if his mother and father both lay dead, not even if before his very eyes men cut down his brother or his own dear son with bronze. Such were the cunning drugs the daughter of Zeus possessed, potent ones, given to her by Polydamna, wife of Thon in Egypt, where the fertile soil bears the greatest store of drugs — many good when mixed, and many baneful — and every man there is a healer, skilled beyond all others, for they are of the race of Paeon.
When she had put the drug in the wine and told them to pour it out, she spoke to them again, taking up the thread:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nourished by Zeus, and you two, sons of noble fathers here — Zeus gives good and evil in turn to one man and another, for he has power over all things. So now, sit and feast in these halls, and take pleasure in our talk, for I will tell a fitting tale. I could not recount every one of the labors of steadfast Odysseus, but I will tell you this one thing that the mighty man dared and did in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered your hardships.
He had beaten his own body with cruel blows and thrown wretched rags over his shoulders, disguised as a slave, and went down into the wide-streeted city of the enemy. He hid himself in another guise, made himself look like a beggar, quite unlike what he was among the Achaean ships — and in this disguise he slipped into the city of the Trojans, and all of them were taken in. I alone recognized him for who he truly was, and questioned him, but he cleverly evaded me. Only when I had bathed him and anointed him with oil, and dressed him in fresh clothing, and sworn a mighty oath not to reveal Odysseus among the Trojans before he returned to the swift ships and the huts — only then did he tell me all the plan of the Achaeans.
He killed many Trojans with his long bronze blade before he made his way back to the Argives, bringing much intelligence with him. The other Trojan women wailed aloud, but my heart rejoiced, for already it had turned toward going home again, and I grieved now for the madness Aphrodite had given me, when she led me there, away from my own dear country, forsaking my child, my bridal chamber, and my husband — a man lacking nothing, either in mind or in looks."
Fair-haired Menelaus answered her:
"Yes, wife, all that you have said is fitting and true. I have come to know the plans and minds of many heroes, and traveled over much of the earth, but never have I seen with my own eyes a heart like that of steadfast Odysseus. Consider what that mighty man dared and did inside the wooden horse, where all we best of the Argives sat, bringing death and doom to the Trojans. You came there then, Helen — surely some god who wished to give glory to the Trojans must have urged you on — and godlike Deiphobus came with you.
Three times you walked around our hollow ambush, feeling it over, and called out by name the best of the Danaans, mimicking the voices of each man's wife. I and the son of Tydeus and noble Odysseus sat there in the middle and heard you calling. The two of us longed to leap up and rush out, or to answer at once from within, but Odysseus held us back and restrained us, eager as we were. Then all the rest of the sons of the Achaeans kept silent, but Anticlus alone wanted to answer you with words. Odysseus clamped his hands hard and relentlessly over his mouth, and so saved all the Achaeans, and held on until Pallas Athena led you away."
Then wise Telemachus answered him:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nourished by Zeus, leader of men — all the worse, for none of that warded off his grim destruction, not even if his heart within him had been made of iron. But come, send us to bed now, so that we too may lie down and take our fill of sweet sleep."
So he spoke, and Helen of Argos told her maids to set out bedding beneath the portico, to spread fine purple blankets over it, cover them with rugs, and lay thick cloaks on top for covering. The women went out from the hall carrying torches in their hands.
They spread the bedding, and the herald led the guests inside. There in the forecourt of the house Telemachus lay down to sleep, the hero, and Nestor's shining son beside him, while Menelaus slept in the inner chamber of the high house, and Helen in her long robe lay down beside him, that woman among women.
When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, Menelaus, loud in the war cry, rose from his bed. He dressed himself, slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, bound fine sandals beneath his gleaming feet, and strode from the chamber looking like a god. He sat down beside Telemachus and spoke to him, calling him by name.
"What need brought you here, Telemachus, to shining Sparta, across the broad back of the sea? Some matter of the people, or your own? Tell me the truth of it."
Wise Telemachus answered him: "Menelaus, son of Atreus, favored of Zeus, leader of men, I came hoping you might have some word of my father. My house is being eaten away, my rich lands ruined, my home filled with hostile men who slaughter my sheep in flocks and my shambling horned cattle without end — the suitors of my mother, swollen with an arrogance beyond bearing. This is why I have come now to your knees, in hope you might be willing to tell me of his grim death, whether you saw it yourself with your own eyes, or heard the story from another wanderer — for my mother bore him to a sorrow beyond all men. Do not soften your words out of pity or kindness toward me — tell me plainly all that you witnessed with your own eyes. I beg you: if ever my father, noble Odysseus, promised you anything by word or deed and carried it through, in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered hardship, remember it now, and tell me the truth."
Deeply troubled, fair-haired Menelaus answered him: "For shame — that such men, cowards themselves, wished to lie in the bed of a man so lion-hearted! Just as when a doe has laid her newborn, still-suckling fawns to sleep in a lion's thicket, and goes off grazing the mountain slopes and grassy hollows, and then the lion comes back to his own lair and deals both fawns a hideous death — so hideous a death will Odysseus deal these men. Ah, Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only he would come upon the suitors as he was that day in well-built Lesbos, when he rose in a wrestling match against Philomeleides and threw him down hard, to the delight of all the Achaeans — if Odysseus, being such a man, came among the suitors now, all of them would find a quick death and a bitter wedding. But as for what you ask and beg of me, I will not turn aside from the truth or mislead you — of all that the unerring old man of the sea told me, I will hide nothing from you, keep nothing back.
"The gods held me back in Egypt, though I longed to sail home, because I had not offered them the sacrifices that make a rite complete. The gods are ever mindful that their due be paid. Now there is an island in the surging sea, off the coast of Egypt — they call it Pharos — as far out as a hollow ship can cover in a full day's sailing when a shrill wind blows behind her from astern. It has a harbor with good anchorage, where men draw their trim ships down into the water after filling their casks with dark water. There the gods kept me twenty days, and never once did a favoring wind appear to fill the sails — those winds that drive ships on across the sea's broad back. And now all our stores would have been used up, and the men's strength with them, had not one of the gods taken pity on me and saved me — Eidothea, daughter of mighty Proteus, the old man of the sea. I had stirred her heart more than any other.
"She met me as I wandered alone, apart from my companions, for they were forever roaming the island fishing with bent hooks, their bellies pinched with hunger. She came close and stood by me, and spoke these words:
"'Are you truly so foolish, stranger, so weak of will? Or do you let yourself go slack on purpose, taking some pleasure in suffering? So long now you are held fast on this island, and you can find no way out of it, while the spirit of your companions dwindles away.'
"So she spoke, and I answered her: 'I will tell you plainly, whichever goddess you are — it is not by my own will that I am held here. It must be that I have wronged the deathless gods who hold the wide heaven. But tell me — for the gods know all things — which of the immortals binds me here and blocks my way, and how I might cross the teeming sea to reach my home.'
"So I spoke, and the shining goddess answered at once: 'Then I will tell you truly, stranger. There is an old man of the sea who comes here often, the unerring, deathless Proteus of Egypt, who knows the depths of the whole sea and serves Poseidon. They say he is my father, who begot me. If you could somehow lie in wait and seize him, he would tell you your course, the distances of your journey, and how you might cross the teeming sea to reach your home. And if you wish, favored one, he would also tell you what evil and what good has happened in your halls while you have been gone on this long and painful road.'
"So she spoke, and I answered her: 'Show me yourself how I might lie in ambush for this godlike old man, lest he sees me coming beforehand, or learns of it, and slips away — a god is hard for a mortal man to master.'
"So I spoke, and the shining goddess answered at once: 'Then I will tell you truly, stranger. When the sun stands astride the middle of the sky, the unerring old man of the sea comes up out of the water, under the breath of the West Wind, hidden in a dark ripple, and once ashore he lies down to sleep in the hollow caves. Around him the seals, children of the lovely daughter of the sea, sleep in a huddled crowd, risen from the gray water, breathing the sharp, bitter smell of the deep salt sea. There I will lead you at the break of dawn and lay you down in a row among them. Choose well three companions, the best you have among your well-benched ships. I will tell you all the old man's tricks. First he will count the seals and go among them; and when he has numbered them all off by fives, in a herd, he will lie down among them like a shepherd among his flocks of sheep. As soon as you see him settled to sleep, that is the moment — summon all your strength and force, and hold him there, however hard he strains and struggles to escape. He will try every shape, becoming all the creatures that move upon the earth, and water, and blazing fire; but you must hold him fast without flinching, and grip him all the harder. But when he himself speaks to you in words, then — being once more the very shape you saw him take when he lay down to sleep — then let him go, and loosen your grip on the old man, hero, and ask him which of the gods torments you, and how you might cross the teeming sea to reach your home.'
"So saying, she sank beneath the surging sea. And I went back to the ships, where they stood drawn up in the sand, my heart churning with dark thoughts as I walked. When I had come down to my ship and to the sea, we made ready our meal, and the immortal night came on, and then we lay down to sleep along the breaking surf.
"When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, I went along the shore of the wide-pathed sea, praying hard to the gods, and I brought with me the three companions I trusted most for any task. Meanwhile Eidothea had slipped beneath the broad bosom of the sea and brought back four sealskins from the deep, all freshly flayed — for she was plotting a trick against her father. She had scooped out beds in the sand by the shore and sat waiting; we came up very close to her, and she laid us down in a row and threw a skin over each of us.
"That ambush would have been most dreadful, for the deadly stench of those sea-bred seals wore on us terribly — who would want to lie down beside a beast that lives in the sea? But she herself saved us and thought of a great relief: she brought ambrosia and set it under each man's nose, sweet-smelling, and it killed the seal's stink. All morning long we waited there with steady hearts, and the seals came up from the sea in a crowd and lay down in rows along the breaking surf.
"At midday the old man came up out of the sea and found his well-fed seals; he went along all of them and counted their number, and among the creatures he counted us first, and his heart did not suspect any trick — then he too lay down. We sprang up with a shout and threw our arms around him, but the old man did not forget his cunning arts. First he turned into a bearded lion, then a serpent, a leopard, a great boar; he became flowing water, and a tall leafy tree — but we held on without flinching, our hearts steady.
"But when at last the old man, master of his sly tricks, grew weary of it, he spoke to me and asked: 'Son of Atreus, which of the gods plotted with you to trap me here in ambush against my will? What do you want of me?'
"So he spoke, and I answered him: 'You know well, old man — why do you try to turn me aside with these questions? You know how long I have been held on this island, unable to find any way out, and my heart within me wastes away. But tell me — for the gods know all things — which of the immortals binds me here and blocks my way, and how I might cross the teeming sea to reach my home.'
"So I spoke, and he answered me at once: 'You should have offered fine sacrifices to Zeus and the other gods before setting out, so that you might reach your own country swiftly, sailing over the wine-dark sea. For it is not fated that you see your loved ones or reach your well-built home and your own native land, until you go back once more to the waters of the Nile, the river fed by heaven, and offer sacred hecatombs to the deathless gods who hold the wide heaven. Then the gods will grant you the passage that you long for.'
"So he spoke, and my heart was broken within me, because he was ordering me back again across the misty sea to Egypt, a long and painful road. But even so I answered him: 'I will do just as you command, old man. But come, tell me this, and tell it truly — did all the Achaeans return safely with their ships, all those Nestor and I left behind when we set out from Troy? Or did any die a bitter death aboard his own ship, or in the arms of his friends, once he had wound up the thread of war?'
"So I spoke, and he answered me at once: 'Son of Atreus, why do you ask me this? You have no need to know it, nor to learn my mind — and I tell you, you will not long be free of tears once you have heard the whole of it. Many of those men were killed, and many were left alive; only two leaders of the bronze-armored Achaeans died on the voyage home — as for the fighting, you were there yourself — and one more is still alive somewhere, held back on the wide sea.
"'Ajax was lost among his long-oared ships. Poseidon first drove him onto the great rocks of Gyrae, yet saved him from the sea; and he would have escaped death, hated by Athena as he was, had he not let a wild boast fly from his lips, in his utter blindness — he claimed he had escaped the sea's great gulf against the will of the gods. Poseidon heard him say this arrogant thing, and at once seized his trident in his powerful hands and struck the rock of Gyrae, splitting it in two; one part stayed where it was, but the other piece broke off and fell into the sea — the very piece Ajax had first sat on when he uttered his mad boast — and it carried him down into the boundless heaving sea. So he died there, once he had swallowed the salt water.
"'Your brother, though, escaped the deadly fates and got away in his hollow ships — queenly Hera saved him. But when he was just about to reach the steep headland of Malea, a storm swept him up and carried him, groaning heavily, out over the teeming sea, to the edge of the farmland where Thyestes used to live, and where now his son Aegisthus dwelt. But when from there too a safe voyage home appeared, and the gods turned the wind fair again, and they reached home at last, then indeed Agamemnon set foot on his native soil with joy, and kissed it, holding it fast, and many hot tears fell from him as he saw his own land again, so glad was he.
"'But a watchman saw him from his lookout post — a man Aegisthus, full of cunning schemes, had set there and promised as payment two talents of gold. He had kept watch a full year, so that Agamemnon might not slip past him unnoticed and remember his furious courage. He went to bring word to the shepherd of the people in his halls, and at once Aegisthus devised a treacherous plan: choosing twenty of the best men in the land, he set them in ambush, while on the other side of the hall he ordered a feast made ready. Then he himself went, with chariot and horses, to invite Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, his mind full of shameful designs. He led him up, unsuspecting of his own death, and killed him at the feast, as a man cuts down an ox at its manger. Not one of the men of Atreus's household who had followed him was left alive, nor one of Aegisthus's men — all were cut down in the halls.'
"So he spoke, and my heart broke within me. I sat down on the sand and wept, and my spirit no longer wished to go on living and see the light of the sun. But when I had had my fill of weeping and rolling in my grief, then the unerring old man of the sea spoke to me:
"'Son of Atreus, weep no longer so relentlessly and so long — we will accomplish nothing by it. Instead, try as quickly as you can to reach your own native land. Either you will find Aegisthus still alive, or Orestes will have gotten there before you and killed him, and you may yet arrive in time for the funeral feast.'
"So he spoke, and my heart and proud spirit warmed again within my chest, grieved though I was, and I spoke to him and asked, my words taking wing:
"'These two I know of now. But name me the third man — whoever is still held alive somewhere on the wide sea, or else is dead. I want to hear it, grieved though I am.'
"So I spoke, and he answered me at once: 'It is the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca. I saw him on an island, shedding heavy tears, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who holds him there against his will, and he cannot reach his own native land, for he has no ships fitted with oars, nor companions to send him across the sea's broad back. But as for you, Menelaus, favored of Zeus, it is not fated that you die and meet your doom in horse-pasturing Argos. Instead the immortals will send you to the Elysian plain, at the world's edge, where fair-haired Rhadamanthys dwells, where life is easiest for men. No snow falls there, no long winter storm, no rain ever, but always the Ocean sends up the breath of the shrill-blowing West Wind to refresh mankind — because you have Helen for your wife, and are son-in-law of Zeus.'
"So saying, he sank beneath the surging sea. And I went back to the ships with my godlike companions, my heart churning with dark thoughts as I walked. When we had come down to the ship and to the sea, we made ready our meal, and the immortal night came on, and then we lay down to sleep along the breaking surf.
"When Dawn appeared, young and rose-fingered, first of all we hauled our ships down into the bright sea, and set the masts and sails in our trim vessels, and the men themselves went aboard and took their seats at the oarlocks; then, sitting in rows, they struck the gray sea with their oars. Once more I brought the ships to anchor at the waters of the Nile, the river fed by heaven, and offered sacred hecatombs there. And when I had appeased the anger of the everlasting gods, I heaped up a grave mound for Agamemnon, so that his fame might never die. When I had finished all this I set sail for home, and the immortals gave me a fair wind and sped me swiftly to my own dear country.
"But come now, stay here in my halls until the eleventh or twelfth day has come. Then I will send you off in style, and give you splendid gifts — three horses and a finely made chariot — and beyond that I will give you a beautiful cup, so that you may pour libations to the immortal gods and remember me all your days."
Wise Telemachus answered him: "Son of Atreus, do not keep me here long. I would gladly sit at your side for a full year, and no longing for home or parents would touch me — I take such wondrous pleasure in listening to your words and your stories. But already my companions are growing restless in sacred Pylos, and you would keep me here still longer. As for any gift you might give me, let it be something I can treasure.
"I will not take horses to Ithaca — I will leave them here as a treasure for you, since you rule a broad plain rich in clover and galingale, in wheat and spelt and wide-eared white barley. In Ithaca there are no wide courses for chariots and no meadowland at all; it is a goat's pasture, and dearer to me for that than a land of horses. None of the islands lying out on the sea has room for driving horses or good grass, and Ithaca least of all."
So he spoke, and Menelaus, loud in the war cry, smiled, stroked him with his hand, and spoke to him, calling him by name:
"You have good blood in you, dear child, to speak as you do. So I will change the gift, since I am able. Of all the treasures stored in my house I will give you the finest and most precious there is — a mixing bowl, beautifully worked, all of silver with a rim finished in gold, the work of Hephaestus himself. The hero Phaedimus, king of the Sidonians, gave it to me when his house sheltered me on my way home. This I wish to give to you."
So these two spoke to one another of such things, while the guests came in to the halls of the godlike king. Men drove in sheep and carried in strong wine, and their wives with lovely headbands sent in bread, and so they busied themselves with the feast in the hall.
Meanwhile, in front of Odysseus's hall, the suitors were amusing themselves throwing discus and javelins on the leveled ground where they always did, keeping up their arrogance. Antinous sat there, and godlike Eurymachus, leaders of the suitors, far the best of them in standing. Noëmon, son of Phronius, came up close and spoke to Antinous, asking him:
"Antinous, do we know at all in our minds, or not, when Telemachus will come back from sandy Pylos? He went off with a ship of mine, and I have need of it now, to cross to spacious Elis, where I keep twelve broodmares with sturdy mule foals at their sides, still unbroken. I mean to drive one off and break it in."
So he spoke, and their hearts were amazed, for they had not imagined he had gone to Pylos, son of Neleus, but thought him still somewhere about, among the flocks or with the swineherd.
Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: "Tell me the plain truth — when did he go, and what young men went with him? Chosen men of Ithaca, or his own hired hands and slaves? He could manage that too. And tell me this honestly, so I may know for certain — did he take your black ship from you by force, against your will, or did you give it to him willingly, because he asked you for it?"
Then Noëmon, son of Phronius, answered him: "I gave it to him myself, willingly. What else could anyone do, when a man like that, carrying such cares in his heart, asks a favor? It would be a hard thing to refuse. As for the young men who went with him, they are the best in our district, after us. And I noticed their leader as he boarded — Mentor, or a god who looked exactly like him in every way. But this is what puzzles me: I saw godlike Mentor here just yesterday morning, and yet then he was boarding a ship for Pylos."
With this he turned and went off toward his father's house, and the proud hearts of both men were left astonished. They made the suitors sit down together and stopped their games. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke among them, raging — his dark heart within him swelling with fury, and his eyes like blazing fire:
"Damn it, this is a great thing Telemachus has carried off with such nerve — this journey! We said it would never happen. In spite of all of us, the boy just goes, drags a ship down to the sea, picks the best men in the district. He will go on to be trouble for us in time to come — but may Zeus destroy his strength before he ever reaches manhood! Come, give me a swift ship and twenty companions, so I may lie in wait and watch for him as he comes back, in the strait between Ithaca and rugged Samos, so that this sailing after his father costs him bitterly."
So he spoke, and they all agreed and urged him on. Then at once they rose and went into the house of Odysseus.
Now Penelope was not long left ignorant of the plans the suitors were brewing darkly in their hearts, for the herald Medon told her, who had overheard their scheming while standing outside the courtyard — for they were weaving their plot within. He went through the halls to bring the news to Penelope, and as he came to the threshold Penelope spoke to him:
"Herald, why have the proud suitors sent you? Is it to tell the servants of godlike Odysseus to stop their work, so they can prepare a feast for the suitors themselves? I wish they would woo no more, gather here no more, and that this might be the last, the very last meal they eat in this house — you who keep crowding in here, devouring so much of the estate, the property of wise Telemachus. Did you never hear, when you were children, from your fathers what kind of man Odysseus was among your parents — how he never wronged anyone by deed or word in the district, though that is the way of god-favored kings, that they may hate one man and love another? But he never once did a reckless thing to anyone. No — it is your own hearts and your shameful deeds that show themselves plainly now, and there is no gratitude afterward for good done."
Then Medon, who understood such things, answered her: "If only, my queen, that were the worst of it. But the suitors are planning something far greater and far more terrible — may the son of Cronus never let it come to pass! They mean to kill Telemachus with the sharp bronze on his way home. He has gone to seek news of his father, to sacred Pylos and to noble Sparta."
So he spoke, and her knees gave way beneath her, and her heart within her, and for a long while speechlessness held her; her eyes filled with tears, and her rich voice was choked. At last she found words to answer him:
"Herald, why has my son gone at all? He had no need to set foot on the swift-faring ships that serve men as horses of the sea and cross the great waters. Did he go so that not even his name would be left among men?"
Then Medon, who understood such things, answered her: "I do not know whether some god roused him, or whether his own heart drove him to go to Pylos, to learn either of his father's return or of what fate he has met."
With this he turned and went back through the house of Odysseus, and grief that eats the heart poured over her. She could no longer bear to sit on a chair, though there were many in the house, but sank down on the threshold of her well-built chamber, weeping pitifully, and around her all her maids moaned in sorrow, young and old alike, all who were in the house.
Weeping heavily among them, Penelope cried out: "Listen, dear friends — the Olympian has given me more grief than any woman who grew up and lived beside me. First I lost my noble husband, lion-hearted, adorned with every kind of excellence among the Greeks, a great man, whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos. Now again the storm winds have snatched away my beloved son, without a trace, from this house, and I never even heard that he had set out. Cruel creatures, not one of you thought, though you all knew it well in your hearts, to wake me from my bed when he went aboard the hollow black ship. If I had learned he was planning this journey, then either he would have stayed here, however eager he was to go, or he would have left me dead in these halls. But now, let someone quickly call old Dolius, my servant, whom my father gave me when I first came here, and who tends my orchard thick with trees — so he may go at once and sit beside Laertes and tell him all this, in case Laertes can weave some plan in his own mind and go out to the people and lament to them, to those who are bent on destroying his line and that of godlike Odysseus."
Then her beloved nurse Eurycleia answered her: "Dear child, kill me now with the pitiless bronze, or leave me in the hall — I will not hide the truth from you. I knew all of this, and I gave him everything he asked for, bread and sweet wine, but he took a great oath from me that I would not tell you before the twelfth day came, unless you yourself missed him and heard that he was gone — this so that you would not mar your fair skin with weeping. Come now, bathe, put on clean clothes, and go up with your maids to the upper chamber, and pray to Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis — for she can save him even from death. And do not trouble the old man, who is already troubled enough; for I do not think the blessed gods hate the line of Arcesius so completely — surely someone will remain to hold this high-roofed house and the rich fields far off."
So she spoke, and lulled her grief, and stopped the tears in her eyes. Penelope bathed, put on clean clothes, and went up to the upper chamber with her maids, and set barley grains in a basket, and prayed to Athena:
"Hear me, child of Zeus who bears the aegis, tireless one — if ever resourceful Odysseus burned for you in these halls the fat thighs of an ox or a sheep, remember that now, and save my beloved son, and ward off the suitors in their wicked arrogance."
So she spoke, and cried out the ritual cry, and the goddess heard her prayer. But the suitors broke into an uproar through the shadowy hall, and one of the young, overbearing men would say:
"So — the much-wooed queen is arranging her wedding at last, and has no idea that death has been prepared for her son."
So one of them would say, but they did not know how things really stood. Then Antinous spoke among them and said:
"Fools — avoid all such reckless talk, all of you, in case someone carries word inside. Come, let us rise and carry out in silence the plan that has already pleased all our hearts."
So he spoke, and picked out twenty of the best men, and they went down to the swift ship at the shore of the sea. First of all they hauled the ship down into deep water, set the mast and sails in the black ship, fitted the oars into their leather loops, all in due order, and spread the white sails. Proud attendants brought them their weapons. They moored the ship out in the roadstead, went ashore, took their meal there, and waited for evening to come.
But up in the chamber, wise Penelope lay without food or drink, tormented, wondering whether her blameless son would escape death or be brought down at the hands of the arrogant suitors — as many fears as a lion turns over in his mind, caught in a ring of hunters closing on him with cunning, so many fears passed through her as sweet sleep came upon her. She fell asleep leaning back, and all her limbs relaxed.
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena thought of something else. She made a phantom, shaped like a woman — like Iphthime, daughter of great-hearted Icarius, whom Eumelus had married and who lived in his house in Pherae — and sent it to the house of godlike Odysseus, to make Penelope, weeping and grieving, cease from her tears and lamentation.
The phantom entered the bedchamber by the strap of the door-bolt, stood over her head, and spoke to her:
"Are you asleep, Penelope, your dear heart worn with grief? The gods who live at ease will not let you weep and suffer, for your son is still to come home; he has done nothing to offend the gods."
Then wise Penelope answered her, slumbering sweetly at the gates of dream: "Why have you come here, sister? Before now you never came, for you live very far away. And now you tell me to stop this grief and these many pains that trouble my mind and heart — I who first lost my noble husband, lion-hearted, adorned with every kind of excellence among the Greeks, a great man whose fame spreads wide through Hellas and the heart of Argos, and now again my beloved son has gone off in a hollow ship, a mere boy, with no skill yet in hardship or in speech before men. It is for him I grieve even more than for my husband. I tremble for him, and fear that something may happen to him, either among the people where he has gone, or on the sea — for many enemies are scheming against him, eager to kill him before he ever reaches his own land again."
The shadowy phantom answered her: "Take courage, and do not be so afraid in your heart. Such a guide goes with him as other men would pray to have stand beside them, for she has the power — Pallas Athena. She pities you in your grief, and it is she who has sent me now to tell you this."
Then wise Penelope said to her: "If indeed you are a god, and have heard the voice of a god, then come, tell me also of that other unhappy man — is he still alive, and does he see the light of the sun, or is he already dead, in the house of Hades?"
The shadowy phantom answered her: "I will not tell you the whole truth about him, whether he lives or is dead — it is a bad thing to speak empty words."
With this it slipped away by the door-bolt, into the breath of the winds. And Icarius's daughter started up out of sleep, and her heart was warmed, so vivid was the dream that had come to her in the depth of night.
Meanwhile the suitors had gone aboard and were sailing over the watery paths, turning over in their minds sheer death for Telemachus. There is a rocky island in the middle of the sea, midway between Ithaca and rugged Samos, called Asteris — not large, but it has harbors on both sides where ships can lie. There the Achaeans waited in ambush for him.