Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Then cunning Odysseus stripped off his rags and leaped up onto the great threshold, bow in hand and quiver full of arrows. He poured the swift shafts out before his feet and spoke to the suitors.
“This contest, unwinnable, is finished. Now I will aim at another mark no man has yet struck, if I can hit it — and may Apollo grant me the glory.”
With that he aimed a bitter arrow straight at Antinous, who was just then lifting a fine two-handled golden cup, about to raise it to his lips and drink. Death was the last thing on his mind — who would imagine that one man, alone among so many feasters, however strong he might be, would bring him death and black doom? But Odysseus took aim at his throat and shot, and the point drove clean through the soft neck. Antinous slumped sideways, the cup fell from his hand, and at once a thick jet of blood spurted from his nostrils. He kicked the table from him, spilling the food to the ground — bread and roasted meat lay fouled in the dust.
When the suitors saw him fall, an uproar rose through the hall. They sprang up from their seats in confusion, scanning the well-built walls on every side, but there was no shield to be found anywhere, no sturdy spear to snatch up. They turned on Odysseus with furious words.
“Stranger, you shoot at men — that was an evil thing to do! You will try no more contests. Now sheer destruction is certain for you. You have just killed the best young man in all Ithaca — the vultures will eat you for this.”
So each man cried out, thinking he had killed Antinous without meaning to. Fools — they did not see that the cords of death already bound them all. But Odysseus, glaring at them, answered.
“Dogs! You told yourselves I would never come home from the land of Troy. So you ate through my house, forced yourselves on my slave women, and while I still lived you courted my wife — with no fear of the gods who hold the wide heaven, and no thought that men would ever take revenge. Now the cords of death are fastened on you all.”
At his words pale fear seized every one of them, and each man looked about for some way to escape sheer ruin. Eurymachus alone spoke up in answer.
“If you are truly Odysseus of Ithaca come home, then what you say is just — all the reckless wrongs the Achaeans committed, so many in your halls and so many in your fields. But the man responsible for it all already lies dead — Antinous. He was the one who drove us to it, not so much wanting the marriage or needing it, but with another plan in mind, which the son of Cronus never let him finish — to become king himself over the fair land of Ithaca, once he had ambushed and killed your son. Now he has died as he deserved. Spare your own people. As for us, we will make amends afterward, gathering from the whole land the worth of everything eaten and drunk in your halls, each man paying you back the price of twenty oxen, in bronze and gold, until your heart is warmed. Until then no one could blame you for your anger.”
Glaring at him, Odysseus answered.
“Eurymachus, not even if you gave me all your fathers’ wealth, everything you now possess and whatever else you could add to it — not even then would I hold my hands back from killing until the suitors have paid in full for all their crimes. Now the choice lies before you: fight me face to face, or run, if any man thinks he can escape death and doom. But I do not think a single one of you will escape sheer ruin.”
At this their knees gave way and their hearts failed within them. Then Eurymachus spoke to the suitors once more.
“Friends, this man will not hold back his invincible hands. Now that he has the polished bow and the quiver, he will keep shooting from that smooth threshold until he has killed us all. Let us think of fighting. Draw your swords, and hold up the tables against his death-dealing arrows. Then all together let us rush him in a mass, and try to drive him from the threshold and the door. Then let us get out into the town, and raise the alarm as fast as we can — this man would soon be shooting his last arrow.”
So he spoke, and drew his sharp bronze sword, edged on both sides, and sprang at Odysseus with a terrible cry. But at that same moment noble Odysseus loosed an arrow and struck him in the chest beside the nipple, driving the swift shaft deep into his liver. The sword fell from his hand to the ground, and he doubled over, crashing across a table in his death throes, spilling the food and the two-handled cup to the floor. He beat the earth with his forehead in his agony, kicking at his chair with both feet until it toppled, and darkness poured down over his eyes.
Amphinomus then rushed straight at glorious Odysseus, sword drawn, hoping to force him back from the doorway. But Telemachus was quicker — he struck him from behind with his bronze-tipped spear, between the shoulders, and drove it clean through his chest. Amphinomus fell with a crash, striking the ground full on his forehead. Telemachus sprang back, leaving the long-shadowed spear planted in the body, afraid that some Achaean might rush him with a sword or stab him while he bent to pull it free. He ran, and quickly reached his father’s side, and standing close beside him spoke winged words.
“Father, let me bring you a shield and two spears now, and a bronze helmet to fit your temples. I will arm myself too as I go, and I will bring more to the swineherd and the cowherd — it is better that we all be armed.”
Resourceful Odysseus answered him.
“Run and fetch them, while I still have arrows to defend myself with, or they may push me back from the door while I stand here alone.”
So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his father, and went to the storeroom where the fine weapons lay. From there he took out four shields, eight spears, and four bronze helmets crested with horsehair, and hurried back to his father with them. He was the first to arm himself in bronze, and the two herdsmen likewise put on the fine armor, and all three took their stand around wise, cunning Odysseus.
As long as he had arrows to defend himself, he kept aiming and dropping one suitor after another inside his own house, and they fell in heaps. But when the arrows failed the shooting lord, he leaned the bow against the doorpost of the strong-built hall, against the shining wall, and slung the four-layered shield over his shoulders, and set on his mighty head the well-made helmet with its horsehair crest nodding fearsomely above, and took up two stout bronze-tipped spears.
Now there was a side door set in the well-built wall, high up near the top of the threshold of the strong-built hall, opening onto a passage, its panels fitted close. Odysseus told the noble swineherd to stand guard there, for it was the only other way in.
Then Agelaus spoke up, putting the thought before them all.
“Friends, could not one of us climb up through that side door and tell the people, and raise the alarm as fast as possible? Then this man would soon be shooting his last arrow.”
The goatherd Melanthius answered him.
“That cannot be done, Agelaus, son of the gods — the fine courtyard gate is far too close, and the mouth of the passage is narrow. One man of any courage could hold off you all from there. But come, let me go and bring you armor to put on from the storeroom — I am sure that is the only place Odysseus and his son have stored their weapons, and nowhere else.”
With this, the goatherd Melanthius climbed up through the smoke-vents of the hall to Odysseus’s storerooms. From there he took twelve shields, as many spears, and as many bronze helmets crested with horsehair, and hurried back and gave them to the suitors. When Odysseus saw them arming themselves, brandishing the long spears in their hands, his knees went weak and his heart sank — the task now looked huge to him. At once he spoke winged words to Telemachus.
“Telemachus, surely one of the women in the hall is stirring up this cruel fight against us — or it is Melanthius.”
Wise Telemachus answered him.
“Father, this fault is mine alone, no one else’s — I left the storeroom door standing open, and their watch was sharper than mine. But go now, good Eumaeus, and shut that door, and see whether it is one of the women doing this, or Melanthius, Dolius’s son, as I suspect.”
While they were saying this to each other, the goatherd Melanthius went back to the storeroom again to fetch more fine armor. But the noble swineherd noticed him, and quickly spoke to Odysseus, who stood nearby.
“Son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, there goes that treacherous man we suspected, heading for the storeroom. Tell me plainly — shall I kill him, if I prove the stronger, or bring him here to you, so he can pay for all the many crimes he has plotted against your house?”
Cunning Odysseus answered him.
“Telemachus and I will hold the noble suitors back inside the hall, eager as they are. The two of you twist his hands and feet up behind him and throw him into the storeroom, and tie the door shut behind him. Then run a braided rope from his body up to a high pillar and hoist him close to the roof beams, so that he stays alive a long while, suffering cruel pain.”
So he spoke, and they listened closely and obeyed. They went to the storeroom, and Melanthius did not notice them, being inside. While he searched the depths of the room for weapons, the two of them stood waiting on either side of the doorposts. When the goatherd Melanthius stepped over the threshold, carrying a fine helmet in one hand and in the other a broad old shield crusted with mold, once carried by the hero Laertes in his youth and now lying discarded, its straps come apart with age — the two men sprang and seized him, and dragged him inside by the hair, and threw him down on the floor, sick at heart. They bound his hands and feet tight behind him in a painful knot, twisting them well back, just as the son of Laertes, long-suffering, godlike Odysseus, had commanded. They ran a braided rope from his body up to a high pillar and hoisted him close to the roof beams. Then Eumaeus the swineherd taunted him.
“Now, Melanthius, you will keep watch through the night in comfort, stretched on a soft bed, as you deserve. You will not miss the golden-throned Dawn as she rises from the streams of Ocean, at the hour when you usually bring in goats for the suitors’ feast.”
So he was left there, stretched tight in his agonizing bonds. The two men put on their armor, shut the shining door, and went back to wise, cunning Odysseus. There they stood, breathing fury — four at the threshold, and inside the hall many brave men besides. Then Athena, daughter of Zeus, came near them, looking in form and voice like Mentor. Odysseus was glad to see her and spoke.
“Mentor, help me in this danger, and remember your dear comrade, who always treated you well — you are the same age as I am.”
So he spoke, though he guessed it was Athena, rouser of armies.
Meanwhile the suitors on the other side of the hall shouted threats. Agelaus, son of Damastor, was first to rebuke her.
“Mentor, do not let Odysseus talk you into fighting the suitors on his side, to defend him. For this is how I think our plan will end: once we have killed these two, father and son, you will be killed along with them for what you mean to do in this hall — you will pay for it with your own head. And once we have stripped your strength from you with bronze, we will add whatever you own, inside the house and out, to Odysseus’s goods, and we will not let your sons live on in your halls, nor your daughters, nor your honored wife go about the streets of Ithaca.”
At this Athena grew angrier still at heart, and rebuked Odysseus with furious words.
“Odysseus, your strength and courage are no longer what they were, that day you fought the Trojans nine years without pause for fair-armed, well-born Helen, killing many men in the dread press of battle — it was your plan that brought down Priam’s broad-streeted city. How is it that now, when you have come to your own house and your own possessions, you shrink from facing the suitors and being brave? Come now, stand by me, friend, and watch what I do, so you may see what kind of man Mentor, son of Alcimus, is among enemies — one who repays kindness.”
Yet she did not yet grant them outright victory, but went on testing the strength and courage of both Odysseus and his glorious son. She flew up into the smoky rafters of the hall and perched there, like a swallow to look at.
Meanwhile Agelaus, son of Damastor, rallied the suitors, along with Eurynomus, Amphimedon, Demoptolemus, Peisander son of Polyctor, and wise Polybus — these were by far the best of the suitors still alive and fighting for their lives, for the rest had already been brought down by the bow and its rain of arrows. Agelaus spoke to them, putting his thought before them all.
“Friends, this man will soon have to stop — his invincible hands will tire. Look, Mentor has gone off, after speaking empty boasts, and they stand alone at the front door. So do not all of you throw your long spears at once — come, let six of us throw first, and see if Zeus grants that Odysseus be struck and we win glory. Once he falls, the rest will be easy.”
So he spoke, and all six threw as he ordered, eager to hit their mark. But Athena made every throw miss. One man’s spear struck the doorpost of the strong-built hall, another’s struck the close-fitted door, another’s ashen spear, heavy with bronze, struck the wall. When the suitors’ spears had all gone wide, long-suffering, noble Odysseus spoke first among his men.
“Friends, now I say it is time for us to throw as well, into that crowd of suitors who are eager to strip and kill us, on top of all their earlier crimes.”
So he spoke, and all his men threw their sharp spears together, aiming straight ahead. Odysseus killed Demoptolemus, Telemachus killed Euryades, the swineherd killed Elatus, and the cowherd killed Peisander. All four suitors bit the vast earth in their fall, and the rest drew back into a corner of the hall. Odysseus’s men rushed forward and pulled their spears from the bodies.
Once more the suitors threw their sharp spears, eager to hit their mark, but Athena made most of the throws go wide. One man’s spear struck the doorpost of the strong-built hall, another’s struck the close-fitted door, another’s ashen spear, heavy with bronze, struck the wall. Amphimedon grazed Telemachus’s wrist with a glancing blow, the bronze just scratching the skin, and Ctesippus’s long spear passed over Eumaeus’s shield, grazing his shoulder before flying on and falling to the ground.
Then the men around wise, cunning Odysseus threw their sharp spears back into the crowd of suitors. City-sacking Odysseus struck Eurydamas, Telemachus struck Amphimedon, the swineherd struck Polybus, and then the cowherd struck Ctesippus full in the chest, and boasted over him as he fell.
“Son of Polytherses, lover of mockery — never again give in to your folly and talk big, but leave the outcome to the gods, since they are far stronger than you. This is my gift in return for the ox-hoof you once threw at godlike Odysseus, when he was begging through this house.”
So spoke the herder of shambling cattle. Meanwhile Odysseus stabbed the son of Damastor at close range with his long spear, and Telemachus stabbed Leocritus, son of Euenor, through the middle of the belly, driving the bronze clean through, and he fell forward, striking the ground full with his forehead.
Then Athena raised aloft from the roof her death-dealing aegis, and the suitors’ hearts were struck with terror. They fled through the hall like a herd of cattle that a darting gadfly drives wild and scatters in the springtime, when the days grow long.
The others in turn hurled their sharp spears at Odysseus, the wise and resourceful. Odysseus, sacker of cities, struck Eurydamas; Telemachus struck Amphimedon; the swineherd struck Polybus. And the man who tended the cattle struck Ctesippus square in the chest, and crowed over him as he spoke:
"Son of Polytherses, lover of mockery, never again puff yourself up with foolish talk and speak so grandly — leave the verdict to the gods, since they are far stronger than you. This is your guest-gift in return for the ox-hoof you once gave godlike Odysseus, when he went begging through his own house."
So spoke the herdsman of the curved-horned cattle. And Odysseus, meanwhile, wounded the son of Damastor with a thrust of his long spear. Telemachus struck Leocritus, son of Evenor, driving his spear through the middle of his belly, the bronze point punching clean through; he crumpled forward and struck the ground full on his forehead.
Then Athena raised aloft, from up near the roof-beam, her man-destroying aegis, and the suitors' hearts were struck with terror. They fled through the hall like a herd of cattle stampeding, driven mad when the darting gadfly strikes them in the season of spring, when the days grow long. And as vultures with hooked claws and curved beaks come down from the mountains and swoop upon smaller birds — the birds cower low, fleeing into the clouds over the plain, but the vultures pounce and cut them down, and no strength or flight can save them, while men rejoice at the hunt — so the suitors' killers swept through the hall and struck them down on every side, and a horrible groaning rose up from men whose skulls were being split, and the whole floor ran with blood.
Then Leodes rushed forward and caught hold of Odysseus's knees, and begged him, speaking words that flew like arrows:
"I clasp your knees, Odysseus — have mercy on me, spare me. Never once, I swear, did I speak or do anything reckless to any woman in this house. In fact I tried to stop the other suitors, whenever one of them meant to act so. But they would not listen to me, would not hold their hands back from wrongdoing, and so their own recklessness has brought them to this ugly death. And now I, who was only their priest, who did no wrong, will lie dead among them — since it seems there's no gratitude afterward for good service."
Odysseus of many designs looked at him darkly and answered:
"If you truly claim to have been their priest, then you must often have prayed in this hall that the sweet end of my homecoming would be kept far from me, and that my dear wife would follow you, and bear you children. For that, you will not escape a painful death."
So he spoke, and with his heavy hand he snatched up the sword that Agelaus had dropped to the ground when he was killed, and drove it clean through the middle of Leodes' neck. His head was still speaking when it rolled into the dust.
But Phemius the singer, son of Terpes, was still trying to escape black death — Phemius, who sang for the suitors only because he was forced to. He stood there holding his clear-toned lyre near the side door, torn between two thoughts: whether to slip out of the hall and sit at the great altar of Zeus of the courtyard, the well-built altar where Laertes and Odysseus had so often burned the thigh-pieces of oxen, or whether to rush forward and clasp Odysseus by the knees and beg him. And as he weighed it, this seemed the better course to him — to clasp the knees of Odysseus, son of Laertes.
So he set his hollow lyre down on the ground, between the mixing-bowl and the silver-studded chair, and rushed at Odysseus himself and caught his knees, and begged him, speaking words that flew like arrows:
"I clasp your knees, Odysseus — have mercy on me, spare me. You yourself will grieve for it afterward, if you kill a singer, one who sings for gods and men alike. I am self-taught; a god has planted in my mind songs of every kind, and I am fit to sing before you as before a god. Do not be so eager to cut my throat. Telemachus himself, your own dear son, could tell you this — that it was not by my own will or wish that I came to your house to sing at the suitors' feasts, but they were many and strong, and they forced me to it."
So he spoke, and the strong, sacred force that was Telemachus heard him, and quickly called out to his father, who stood near:
"Stop — do not strike this innocent man with your bronze. And let us spare Medon the herald too, who always cared for me in our house when I was a child — unless Philoetius or the swineherd has already killed him, or he ran into you as you raged through the hall."
So he spoke, and Medon, a man of careful judgment, heard him — for he lay crouched beneath a chair, wrapped in a freshly flayed oxhide, trying to escape black death. He sprang up quickly from under the chair and threw off the hide, then rushed to Telemachus and caught him by the knees, and begged him, speaking words that flew like arrows:
"Friend, here I am — hold back, and tell your father not to destroy me with the sharp bronze in his overwhelming strength, in his anger at the suitors who devoured his goods in this hall and, fools that they were, never once honored you."
Odysseus of many designs smiled at him and answered:
"Take heart, since this man has rescued you and saved your life, so that you will know in your heart, and tell others too, how much better a good deed is than an evil one. But now go out of the hall and sit outside in the courtyard, away from the killing — you and the singer of many songs — while I finish here in the house what still needs to be done."
So he spoke, and the two of them went out of the hall and sat down at the great altar of Zeus, glancing about them on every side, still expecting death at any moment.
Odysseus looked around his own house to see if any man was still alive, hiding, trying to escape black death. But he saw them all lying in blood and dust, so many of them, like fish that fishermen have hauled up out of the gray sea onto a curving beach in a wide-meshed net — and all of them lie heaped on the sand, gasping for the waves of the sea, until the shining sun takes the life out of them. So now the suitors lay heaped upon one another. Then Odysseus of many designs spoke to Telemachus:
"Telemachus, go and call the nurse Eurycleia to me, so I can tell her something that is on my mind."
So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his dear father. He shook the door and said to the nurse Eurycleia:
"Get up now, old woman, come here — you who watch over all the serving women in our house. Come — my father calls you, he wants to tell you something."
So he spoke, and his words found their mark unspoken further. She opened the doors of the well-built hall and went to him, with Telemachus leading the way before her.
She found Odysseus among the bodies of the men he had slain, spattered with blood and gore like a lion that has just fed on a farmyard ox — his whole chest and both cheeks are stained with blood, and he is terrible to look upon. So Odysseus was spattered, his feet and hands above them stained with blood. When she saw the bodies and the immense pool of blood, she made ready to cry out in triumph, so great was the deed she saw — but Odysseus held her back and checked her, eager as she was, and spoke to her, saying words that flew like arrows:
"Rejoice in your heart, old woman, but hold it in — do not cry out. It is not right to exult over slain men. It was the doom of the gods that overcame these men, and their own reckless deeds — for they honored no one among men on the earth who came to them, neither the good man nor the bad. And so their own recklessness brought them to this ugly death. But come now, tell me about the women in the house — which ones dishonor me, and which are blameless."
Then his dear nurse Eurycleia answered him:
"Then I will tell you the truth, my child.
There are fifty women serving in the house, whom we have taught to do their work, to card wool and bear the burden of servitude. Of these, twelve in all have crossed over into shamelessness, honoring neither me nor Penelope herself. And Telemachus was still growing up, and his mother would not let him give orders to the serving women. But come, let me go up to the gleaming upper rooms and tell your wife, upon whom some god has cast a sleep."
Odysseus of many designs answered her:
"Do not wake her yet. Instead, tell the women who have behaved shamefully in the past to come here."
So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to carry the message to the women and hurry them along. Meanwhile Odysseus called Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd to him and spoke to them, saying words that flew like arrows:
"Now begin carrying out the bodies, and set the women to it as well. Afterward, clean the beautiful chairs and tables with water and porous sponges. And once you have set the whole house in order,
lead the serving women out of the well-built hall, between the round-house and the fine wall of the courtyard, and cut them down with your long swords there, until you have taken the life from every one of them, and they have forgotten the love they knew beneath the suitors, sneaking off with them in secret."
So he spoke, and the women all came crowding together, wailing terribly and shedding warm tears. First they carried out the bodies of the dead and laid them under the portico of the walled courtyard, propping them one against another; Odysseus himself directed them,
driving them on, and they carried the bodies out because they had no choice. Then they cleaned the beautiful chairs and tables with water and porous sponges. Meanwhile Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd scraped the floor of the well-built house clean with spades, and the serving women carried the scrapings out and threw them away. And when they had set the whole hall in order,
they led the serving women out of the well-built house, and herded them into the narrow space between the round-house and the courtyard wall, from which there was no way to escape.
Then wise Telemachus began to speak among them:
"I will not let these women die a clean death — women who poured shame down on my head and on my mother, and who used to sleep with the suitors."
So he spoke, and he took the cable of a dark-prowed ship and looped it around a great pillar of the round-house, stretching it high up so that none of the women's feet could touch the ground. And just as when thrushes with spread wings, or doves, fly into a snare set in a thicket, meaning to come to roost, and a grim bed receives them there,
so the women's heads were held in a row, and around every neck a noose was fastened, so that they might die most piteously. They struggled with their feet a little while, but not for very long.
Then they led Melanthius out through the doorway into the courtyard, and with pitiless bronze they cut off his nose and ears, tore away his genitals for the dogs to eat raw, and hacked off his hands and feet in their fury. And then, once they had washed their hands and feet, they went in to Odysseus, and the work was done. Odysseus spoke to his dear nurse Eurycleia:
"Bring sulfur, old woman, a remedy for evils, and bring me fire, so I can purify the hall with fumes. And you, tell Penelope to come here with her attendant women; and rouse all the serving women to come to the hall as well."
Then his dear nurse Eurycleia answered him:
"Yes, my child, all this you have said is right and proper. But let me bring you a cloak and tunic to wear — do not go on standing here in the hall with your broad shoulders wrapped in rags. That would be a shameful thing."
Odysseus of many designs answered her:
"Let there first be fire for me here in the hall."
So he spoke, and his dear nurse Eurycleia did not disobey, but brought fire and sulfur, and Odysseus thoroughly fumigated the hall, the house, and the courtyard. Then the old woman went back through the fine rooms of Odysseus's house to carry the message to the women and hurry them along. They came out of the hall carrying torches in their hands, and they crowded around Odysseus and embraced him, and kissed his head and shoulders in welcome, taking hold of his hands. And sweet longing came over him to weep and groan, for he recognized every one of them in his heart.