Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Pallas Athena went off to spacious Sparta, to remind great-hearted Odysseus's shining son of his homecoming and to hurry him on his way. She found Telemachus and Nestor's noble son asleep in the porch of glorious Menelaus's house — Nestor's son lying deep in soft sleep, but sweet sleep did not hold Telemachus. Through the sacred night, worries for his father kept him awake. Standing close beside him, grey-eyed Athena spoke:
"Telemachus, it isn't right to keep wandering so far from home any longer, leaving your possessions behind and men in your own house so overbearing — watch that they don't carve up all you own and eat their way through it, and you come home from a journey that gained you nothing. Come, urge Menelaus, good at the war cry, to send you off at once, so you may still find your blameless mother at home. Already her father and her brothers are pressing her to marry Eurymachus, for he outdoes all the other suitors with gifts and keeps raising the bride-price. Take care that she doesn't carry something of value out of the house against your will. You know what a woman's heart is like: she wants to enrich the house of whatever man marries her, and gives no more thought to the children of her first husband, nor asks after him, once he's dead. So go home, and put everything into the hands of whichever of your maidservants seems best to you, until the gods show you a noble wife to marry.
"And I have one more thing to tell you — take it to heart. The suitors' finest men are lying in ambush for you, on purpose, in the strait between Ithaca and rugged Samos, meaning to kill you before you reach your own land. But I don't think they will succeed — sooner will the earth close over more than one of those suitors who are eating up your livelihood. Still, keep your good ship well clear of the islands, and sail on through the night as well. Whichever immortal watches over you and guards you will send you a following wind astern. And when you reach the first headland of Ithaca, send the ship and all your comrades on to the city, but go yourself, first of all, to the swineherd, who watches over your pigs and is loyal to you besides. Sleep there for the night, and send him into the city to bring word to wise Penelope that you are safe and have come back from Pylos."
With these words she went off to high Olympus. Then Telemachus roused Nestor's son from his sweet sleep, nudging him with his heel, and said to him: "Wake up, Peisistratus, son of Nestor. Yoke the sure-footed horses to the chariot, so we can get on with the road."
And Peisistratus, son of Nestor, answered him: "Telemachus, however eager we are for the road, we can't drive through the murky night. Dawn will come soon. Wait until the hero, son of Atreus, spear-famed Menelaus, brings gifts and lays them in the chariot, and sends us off with kind words. A guest remembers all his days the man who took him in and showed him friendship."
So he spoke, and soon golden-throned Dawn arrived. Menelaus, good at the war cry, came to them, having risen from his bed beside lovely-haired Helen. When Odysseus's dear son caught sight of him, he hurried into his shining tunic, threw a great cloak over his broad shoulders, and went out the door — the young hero — and stood beside Menelaus and spoke to him:
"Menelaus, son of Atreus, nurtured by Zeus, leader of men, send me home now to my own dear country. My heart is longing to reach home already."
And Menelaus, good at the war cry, answered him: "Telemachus, I certainly won't keep you here long against your wish to go home. I feel the same scorn for any host who is overly fond of a guest, or overly quick to send him off — moderation in everything is best. It's just as wrong to hurry along a guest who doesn't want to leave as to hold back one who is eager to go. One should be kind to a guest while he stays, and speed him on his way when he wishes to leave. Wait, though, until I bring gifts and set them in your chariot — fine ones — and you can see them with your own eyes, and I'll tell the women to prepare a meal in the hall from what we have in plenty. It brings honor and glory both, and it does a man good, to travel the wide earth on a full stomach. And if you'd like to turn aside through Hellas and the middle of Argos, so that I myself might go along with you, I'll yoke the horses and guide you through the cities of men. No one will send us off empty-handed — everyone will give us something to carry away, a fine bronze tripod, or a cauldron, or a pair of mules, or a golden cup."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Menelaus, son of Atreus, nurtured by Zeus, leader of men, I wish to go home now. I left no one behind to watch over what is mine, and I fear that in searching for my godlike father I may lose myself, or that some fine treasure may be lost from my house."
When Menelaus, good at the war cry, heard this, at once he told his wife and the serving women to prepare a meal in the hall from what they had in plenty. Boëthous's son Eteoneus came to him soon after, having risen from bed nearby, and Menelaus, good at the war cry, told him to light a fire and roast some meat, and he obeyed at once. Menelaus himself went down to his fragrant storeroom, not alone — Helen went with him, and Megapenthes too.
When they reached the place where the treasures were kept, the son of Atreus took up a two-handled cup, and told his son Megapenthes to bring a silver mixing-bowl. Helen went and stood by the chests where her richly embroidered robes lay, the ones she herself had made. She lifted one out and carried it — Helen, most radiant of women — the most beautiful in its patterns and the largest, shining like a star, and it lay at the very bottom of the pile. They walked on through the house until they reached Telemachus, and fair-haired Menelaus spoke to him:
"Telemachus, may Zeus, Hera's thundering husband, bring about the homecoming your heart desires. Of the gifts stored as treasure in my house, I will give you the finest and most valuable one there is. I will give you a well-wrought mixing-bowl — it is pure silver, its rim finished in gold, the work of Hephaestus himself. The hero Phaedimus gave it to me, king of the Sidonians, when his house sheltered me on my way home. This I wish to give to you."
So saying, the hero, son of Atreus, put the two-handled cup into his hand. Then strong Megapenthes brought the shining silver mixing-bowl and set it before him. And fair-cheeked Helen came near, holding the robe in her hands, and spoke, calling him by name:
"I too give you this gift, dear child, a keepsake made by Helen's own hands, for your bride to wear on the happy day of your wedding. Until then, let it lie in your house in your mother's keeping. And may you come home safely to your well-built house and your own dear country."
So saying she placed it in his hands, and he received it gladly. The hero Peisistratus took the gifts and laid them in the chariot's basket, and marveled at them all in his heart. Fair-haired Menelaus led them into the house, and they sat down on couches and chairs. A maidservant brought water for washing in a beautiful golden pitcher, and poured it out over a silver basin, and set a polished table beside them. A grave housekeeper brought bread and set it out, adding many good things from her stores. Boëthous's son carved the meat and served the portions, while the son of glorious Menelaus poured the wine. And they reached out their hands to the good things laid ready before them.
When they had satisfied their hunger and thirst, Telemachus and Nestor's noble son yoked the horses and mounted the painted chariot, and drove out through the gateway and the echoing colonnade. Fair-haired Menelaus, son of Atreus, went after them, holding in his right hand a cup of honey-sweet wine, of gold, so the two might pour a libation before setting out. He stood in front of the horses and, pouring the offering, spoke to them:
"Farewell, young men, and give my greetings to Nestor, shepherd of his people — for he was as gentle to me as a father, in the days we Achaeans fought at Troy."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "We will surely tell him everything, nurtured by Zeus, just as you say, when we reach him. And how I wish that when I return to Ithaca and find Odysseus at home, I could tell him that I come from you, having met with every kindness, bringing back many fine treasures."
As he spoke these words, a bird flew by on the right — an eagle carrying off a huge white goose it had seized in its talons from the farmyard, a tame bird — and men and women followed after it, crying out. The eagle swooped close in front of the horses on the right, and when they saw it they rejoiced, and the hearts of everyone were warmed. Then Peisistratus, son of Nestor, spoke first among them:
"Consider, Menelaus, nurtured by Zeus, leader of men, whether the god has shown this sign to us or to you yourself."
So he spoke, and Menelaus, dear to Ares, pondered how he might rightly answer once he had thought it through. But long-robed Helen spoke before him, breaking in:
"Hear me — I will prophesy as the immortals put it in my heart, and as I believe it will come to pass. Just as this eagle seized the goose that was raised and fed in the house, coming down from the mountain where it was born and bred, so will Odysseus, after suffering much hardship and wandering far, come home and take his revenge — or perhaps he is home already, and is sowing ruin for all the suitors."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "So may Zeus, Hera's thundering husband, bring it to pass. Then I would pray to you there as to a god."
With that he flicked the whip over the horses, and they bolted eagerly out across the plain toward the city. All day long they shook the yoke that held them both. The sun went down and all the roads grew shadowed, and they came to Pherae, to the house of Diocles, son of Ortilochus, whom the river Alpheus had fathered. There they slept the night, and Diocles set out gifts of hospitality before them.
When early Dawn appeared with her rose-red fingers, they yoked the horses and mounted the painted chariot, and drove out through the gateway and the echoing colonnade. Telemachus whipped the horses on, and they flew eagerly. Soon they reached the steep citadel of Pylos, and Telemachus spoke to Nestor's son:
"Son of Nestor, could you promise me one thing and see it through? We claim to be friends going back through our fathers' friendship, and besides, we are of an age — and this journey together will only bind us closer still. Nurtured by Zeus, don't drive me past my ship, but leave me there, so the old man doesn't hold me back against my will in his house out of eagerness to entertain me. I need to get home quickly."
So he spoke, and Nestor's son turned it over in his mind, wondering how he might rightly keep his promise. As he thought it through, this seemed to him the better course: he turned the horses toward the swift ship and the shore of the sea, and took the fine gifts out of the chariot — the clothing and the gold that Menelaus had given — and stowed them in the ship's stern, and urged Telemachus on with winged words:
"Go aboard quickly now, and tell all your comrades to do the same, before I get home and report to the old man. I know this well in my heart and soul — his temper is fierce, and he will not let you go. He'll come himself to fetch you, and I don't think he'll go back empty-handed — he'll be thoroughly angry otherwise."
With these words he drove his fine-maned horses back toward the city of the Pylians, and soon reached his house. And Telemachus urged his comrades on, giving the order:
"Stow the gear, comrades, aboard the black ship, and let us all go aboard ourselves, so we can get on with the voyage."
So he spoke, and they listened well and obeyed, and quickly went aboard and took their places at the oarlocks. While he was busy with these tasks and praying, offering sacrifice to Athena beside the ship's stern, a man came up to him from far off, a fugitive from Argos who had killed a man — a seer, descended from the line of Melampus, who had once lived in Pylos, mother of flocks, in a rich and splendid house, far above the other Pylians. But then he had come to another people, fleeing his own country and great-hearted Neleus, most lordly of living men, who for a full year had held his great wealth by force, while he himself lay bound in cruel chains in the halls of Phylacus, suffering terrible pain because of Neleus's daughter and the crushing madness that the dread goddess of vengeance, the Fury, had put into his heart.
But he escaped death, and drove the loud-bellowing cattle from Phylace to Pylos, and paid back the godlike Neleus for his shameful act, and brought a wife home for his brother. He himself went off to another land, to Argos, land of fine horses — for it was fated that he should settle there and rule over many Argives. There he married a wife and built a high-roofed house, and fathered Antiphates and Mantius, two mighty sons. Antiphates fathered great-hearted Oicles, and Oicles fathered Amphiaraus, rouser of men, whom Zeus who bears the aegis and Apollo both loved with all their heart — yet he did not reach the threshold of old age, but perished at Thebes, brought down by a woman's love of gifts. His sons were Alcmaon and Amphilochus.
Mantius, in turn, fathered Polypheides and Clitus. Golden-throned Dawn carried off Clitus for his beauty, so that he might live among the immortals. But Apollo made great-hearted Polypheides the finest seer among mortals, after Amphiaraus died — he moved away to Hyperesia, angered at his father, and there he lived and prophesied to all mankind.
His son came up now — Theoclymenus was his name — and he stood close by Telemachus, and found him pouring a libation and praying beside his swift black ship, and spoke to him with winged words:
"Friend, since I find you sacrificing here in this place, I beg you, by the offering and by the god you honor, and then by your own life and by the lives of the comrades who follow you — tell me truly what I ask, and hide nothing: who are you, and where from? Where is your city, and who are your parents?"
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Then I will tell you plainly, stranger. I am from Ithaca by birth, and my father is Odysseus — if he ever truly was, for now he has perished by some grim fate. That is why I have taken my comrades and my black ship and come to learn news of my father, gone so long."
And godlike Theoclymenus said to him in turn: "So it is with me too — I have left my own country, having killed a man of my own tribe. He has many brothers and kinsmen through Argos, land of fine horses, and they hold great power among the Achaeans. To escape death and black fate at their hands I am fleeing, since it is my lot now to wander among men. But take me aboard your ship, since I have fled to you and beg your protection, or they will kill me — for I am sure they are in pursuit."
And thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "Since you wish it, I certainly won't turn you away from my trim ship. Come along, then — you'll be treated well among us, with whatever we have to offer."
So saying, he took the man's bronze spear from him and laid it down along the deck of the curved ship, and he himself climbed aboard the seafaring vessel. He sat down in the stern, and seated Theoclymenus beside him, and the crew loosed the stern cables. Telemachus urged his comrades on and told them to lay hold of the rigging, and they obeyed at once. They raised the fir mast and set it upright in its socket in the hollow hold, made it fast with the forestays, and hauled up the white sail with braided ox-hide ropes.
Grey-eyed Athena sent them a following wind, rushing strong through the sky, so that the ship might race as fast as possible across the salt water of the sea. They sailed past Crounoi and fair-flowing Chalcis. The sun went down and all the roads grew shadowed. Driven on by the wind of Zeus, the ship reached Pheae, and then passed by bright Elis, where the Epeians hold sway. From there Telemachus steered on toward the swift islands, wondering whether he would escape death or be caught.
Meanwhile in the hut Odysseus and the noble swineherd were taking their supper, and the other men supped beside them. When they had put away their desire for food and drink, Odysseus spoke among them, testing the swineherd, to see whether he would still treat him kindly and urge him to stay there at the steading, or would send him off to the city.
"Listen now, Eumaeus, and all you other companions. At dawn I mean to go into the town to beg, so that I won't wear you and your men down any longer. Only give me good advice, and send a guide with me, someone reliable, to lead me there. In the city itself I'll have to wander on my own, in hope that someone will hand me a cup and a crust of bread. And if I could reach the house of godlike Odysseus, I might bring word to wise Penelope, and I could even mix with those overbearing suitors — perhaps they'll give me a meal, since they have food in abundance. I'd be quick to do whatever work they wanted among them. For I'll tell you plainly, and you mark my words and listen: thanks to the guide Hermes, who gives grace and glory to the labors of all men, no other mortal could rival me in service — building up a fire well, splitting dry kindling, carving meat, roasting it, pouring wine — the sort of tasks lesser men do for their betters."
Then, greatly troubled, you answered him, swineherd Eumaeus: "Ah, stranger, why has this notion come into your mind? You must be truly longing to die there among them, if you really mean to plunge into the crowd of suitors, whose violence and outrage reach the iron sky. The men who serve them are nothing like you — no, they're young, finely dressed in cloaks and tunics, their hair always sleek, their faces handsome, and it's such men who wait on them, while the polished tables groan under bread and meat and wine. Stay here instead — no one begrudges your presence, not I, nor any of my fellow herdsmen here. And when the beloved son of Odysseus comes home, he'll dress you himself in a cloak and tunic, and send you wherever your heart desires."
Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered him: "Eumaeus, may you be as dear to father Zeus as you are to me, for putting an end to my wandering and my bitter misery. There is nothing worse for men than a roaming life — yet for the sake of their cursed bellies men endure grievous hardships, whenever wandering and pain and suffering come upon them. But now, since you press me to stay and wait for him, tell me — of the mother of godlike Odysseus, and of his father, whom he left behind on the threshold of old age when he sailed — are they still alive, still looking on the light of the sun, or are they dead already, in the house of Hades?"
Then the swineherd, leader of men, answered him: "Then I will tell you the plain truth, stranger. Laertes still lives, but he prays continually to Zeus that the life may waste from his limbs there in his own halls, for he grieves terribly for his son who is gone, and for his wedded wife, wise in her ways, whose death grieved him most of all and brought him early into old age. She died of sorrow for her glorious son — a wretched death — may no one who lives here and loves me and treats me kindly die such a death as hers.
While she still lived, grieving as she was, it was always dear to me to ask after things and question her, since she had raised me herself, together with Ctimene of the trailing robe, her own daughter, the youngest of her children — I was raised alongside her, and my mistress honored me only a little less. But when we both reached lovely youth, they sent Ctimene off to Same and took a rich bride-price for her, and me she dressed in a fine cloak and tunic, gave me sandals for my feet, and sent me out to the fields — and she loved me all the more in her heart for it.
Now I have lost all that. Still, the blessed gods make the work I tend to prosper — from it I have eaten and drunk and given to those who deserve honor. But from my mistress there is no kind word or deed to be had any longer, not since ruin fell upon the house — insolent men — and yet servants long badly to speak with their mistress face to face and learn all her news, and to eat and drink, and then to carry something back to the fields as well, the sort of thing that always warms a servant's heart."
Then resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Ah, Eumaeus, swineherd, how far you must have wandered as a child from your homeland and your parents! But come, tell me this and recount it truly — was it a broad-streeted city of men that was sacked, where your father and honored mother lived, or were you alone, tending sheep or cattle, when hostile men seized you, carried you off in their ships, and sold you here at this man's house, and he paid a fair price for you?"
Then the swineherd, leader of men, answered him again: "Stranger, since you ask and question me about these things, listen now in silence and enjoy yourself, and drink your wine as you sit. These nights are endless — there's time enough for sleep, and time enough to enjoy listening. You have no need to lie down before it's time — too much sleep is a burden in itself. As for the rest of you, let anyone whose heart urges him go out and sleep, and at the first light of dawn let him eat and follow the king's swine out. But the two of us, drinking and feasting here in the hut, will take some comfort in each other's bitter sorrows, remembering them — for a man finds pleasure even in pain, once he has suffered greatly and wandered far and wide. So I'll tell you what you ask and want to know.
There is an island called Syrie, if you've ever heard of it, above Ortygia, where the sun makes its turning. It isn't very crowded with people, but it's a good land — rich in pasture, rich in flocks, rich in wine, rich in wheat. Famine never comes upon its people, nor does any other hateful sickness fall on its wretched folk — but when the tribes of men grow old throughout the city, Apollo of the silver bow comes with Artemis, and moving among them with their gentle arrows, kills them without pain.
There are two cities on it, and everything is divided evenly between them, and over both my father ruled as king — Ctesius, son of Ormenus, a man like the immortals. Now there came to us Phoenicians, famous seafarers, cunning traders, bringing countless trinkets in their black ship. In my father's house there was a Phoenician woman, tall and beautiful, skilled in fine handiwork, and the crafty Phoenicians set about seducing her. First one of them lay with her by the hollow ship while she was washing clothes, in bed and in love — the very thing that leads astray the wits of even a capable woman, whatever her virtue.
He asked her then who she was and where she came from, and at once she told him of her father's high-roofed house: 'I claim to be from Sidon, rich in bronze, and I am the daughter of wealthy Arybas. But Taphian pirates snatched me away as I was coming in from the fields, and brought me here and sold me at this man's house, and he paid a fair price for me.'
Then the man who had lain with her in secret answered her: 'Then would you come back home again now with us, to see the high-roofed house of your father and mother, and them themselves? For they're still living, and still called wealthy.'
Then the woman answered him and spoke again: 'That could happen too, if you sailors would be willing to swear an oath to bring me home unharmed.'
So she spoke, and they all swore as she demanded. And when they had sworn and completed the oath, the woman spoke to them once more: 'Be silent now — let none of your companions speak to me, whether he meets me in the street or by the spring, for fear someone go to the old man in the house and tell him, and he suspect and bind me in painful chains, and plot your destruction as well. Keep the matter locked in your minds, and hurry the purchase of your cargo. But when your ship is full of goods, let word come to me quickly at the house, for I will bring gold too, whatever comes to hand, and I would gladly give you a further passage-fare besides. For I am nursing in the house the son of a good man — such a clever little thing, always running out the door with me — I could bring him aboard the ship, and he'd fetch you a vast price wherever you sold him among men of a foreign tongue.'
With these words she went back to the fine house, and they stayed on with us a full year, trading for great store of goods aboard their hollow ship. But when the hollow ship was loaded and ready for the voyage home, they sent a messenger to tell the woman. A cunning man came to my father's house bearing a golden necklace strung with amber beads.
The maidservants in the hall and my honored mother handled it and admired it with their eyes, offering him a price for it, but he only nodded to the woman in silence. Having given his sign, he went back to the hollow ship, and she took me by the hand and led me out of the house. In the front hall she found cups and tables left by the men who had been feasting there, guests of my father's — they had gone off to the assembly and the public gathering — and she quickly hid three goblets in the fold of her robe and carried them out. And I, in my innocence, followed along.
The sun set, and all the streets grew dark, and we came quickly down to the famous harbor, where the swift Phoenician ship lay. Then they put us aboard and set sail over the watery ways, and Zeus sent a fair wind behind us. For six days alike we sailed, nights and days together, but when Zeus, son of Cronos, brought on the seventh day, Artemis the archer struck the woman down, and she fell with a thud into the bilge like a diving seabird.
They threw her overboard as prey for seals and fish, and I was left behind, grieving in my heart. The wind and the current carried them on and brought them to Ithaca, where Laertes bought me with his own wealth. That is how I first saw this land with my own eyes."
Then Zeus-born Odysseus answered him again: "Eumaeus, truly you have stirred my heart deeply, telling me all these griefs you've suffered in your soul. And yet Zeus has set some good beside your ill, since after all your toil you came to the house of a kind man, who gives you food and drink freely, and you live a good life. But as for me, I have come here after wandering through many cities of men."
So they talked together of such things, and lay down to sleep, but not for long — only a little while, for soon fair-throned Dawn came. On shore, Telemachus's men were loosing the sails and quickly lowering the mast, and rowing the ship in to her mooring. They threw out the anchor stones and made the stern cables fast, and they themselves stepped out onto the breaking surf, made ready their meal, and mixed the sparkling wine.
When they had put away their desire for food and drink, wise Telemachus began to speak among them: "Now you row the black ship on to the city, while I go up to the fields and the herdsmen. In the evening, once I've looked over my lands, I'll come down into the town. And at dawn I'll set before you a traveler's fare, a fine feast of meat and sweet wine."
Then godlike Theoclymenus answered him: "And where shall I go, dear child? To whose house shall I come, of the men who rule over rocky Ithaca? Or shall I go straight to your mother's house and yours?"
Then wise Telemachus answered him: "At another time I would tell you to come to our own house — there'd be no lack of hospitality — but for you it would be worse, since I myself will be away, and my mother won't be there to see you. She doesn't often show herself before the suitors in the house — she keeps apart from them, weaving at her loom in the upper chamber. But I'll name you another man you might go to instead — Eurymachus, glorious son of wise Polybus, whom the men of Ithaca now look upon as though he were a god. He is by far the best man among them, and eager above all to marry my mother and take Odysseus's honor for himself. Yet Zeus who dwells in heaven, on Olympus, knows whether he'll bring some evil day upon them before that wedding comes."
As he was speaking a bird flew by on his right hand, a hawk, swift messenger of Apollo, with a dove clutched in its talons, and it plucked the feathers and let them fall to the ground midway between the ship and Telemachus himself. Then Theoclymenus called him apart from his companions, took his hand, and spoke, calling him by name:
"Telemachus, it was not without a god's will that this bird flew on your right — I knew it for an omen the moment I saw it face on. There is no house in the land of Ithaca more royal than yours — you and yours will always hold the power."
Then wise Telemachus answered him: "If only, stranger, this word might be fulfilled! Then you would soon know my friendship and many gifts from me, so that anyone who met you would call you blessed." And he turned and spoke to Peiraeus, his trusted companion: "Peiraeus, son of Clytius, you are the one of my companions who came with me to Pylos who obeys me most readily in everything else.
Now too, take this stranger, bring him to your house, and treat him kindly and with honor until I come."
Then spear-famed Peiraeus answered him: "Telemachus, even if you should stay away here a long time, I will look after him, and he'll lack nothing in hospitality."
With these words he went aboard the ship, and told his companions to embark as well and loose the stern cables. So they quickly went aboard and took their places at the oars. Telemachus bound the fine sandals on his feet, and took up his sturdy spear, tipped with sharp bronze, from the deck of the ship, while his men loosed the stern cables.
They pushed off and sailed toward the city, as Telemachus, dear son of godlike Odysseus, had ordered. His feet carried him swiftly forward until he reached the farmstead, where his countless swine were kept, and where the good swineherd slept, ever loyal in heart to his masters.