Homer · a new plain-English translation from the Greek
Hermes of Cyllene now called forth the souls of the suitors. He held in his hands the wand, beautiful and golden, with which he charms to sleep the eyes of whatever men he wishes, or wakens others out of slumber. With this he roused them and led them on, and they followed, gibbering. As bats in the depths of some awesome cave flit about gibbering when one of them falls from the cluster where they cling to the rock and to one another, so the souls went gibbering together, and Hermes the Helper led them down the dank paths.
They passed the streams of Ocean and the White Rock, passed the gates of the Sun and the land of dreams, and came quickly to the meadow of asphodel, where the souls dwell, the phantoms of the used-up dead. There they found the soul of Achilles, son of Peleus, and of Patroclus, and of noble Antilochus, and of Ajax, who in build and bearing was the finest of the Danaans after the flawless son of Peleus. These crowded around Achilles, and close behind them came the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, grieving, with the others gathered about him, all those who had died with him and met their fate in the house of Aegisthus.
Achilles' soul spoke first to him. "Son of Atreus, we always said that you, of all the heroes, were the favorite of Zeus who delights in thunder, all your days — since you ruled over so many strong men in the land of Troy, where we Achaeans suffered our miseries. Yet even you were destined to meet that ruinous fate early, the doom no man born ever escapes. How much better if you had died in the glory of the power you held, there in the land of Troy, and met your death and fate there. Then the whole army of the Achaeans would have built you a grave-mound, and you would have won great fame for your son hereafter. Instead you were fated to die the most pitiful of deaths."
And the soul of Agamemnon answered him in turn. "Fortunate son of Peleus, godlike Achilles, who died at Troy far from Argos — around you others fell, the finest sons of the Trojans and the Achaeans, fighting over your body, while you lay there great in your greatness, sprawled in the whirl of dust, all thought of your horsemanship gone. We fought the whole day through, and would never have stopped the battle at all, if Zeus had not ended it with a storm.
When we had carried you from the fighting to the ships, we laid you on a bed, and cleansed your fair flesh with warm water and with oil. The Danaans wept hot tears over you and cut their hair. Your mother came up from the sea with her immortal sea-nymphs, hearing the news, and a terrible wailing rose over the water, and trembling seized every one of the Achaeans. They would have leapt up and run for their hollow ships, had not a man who knew many things ancient held them back — Nestor, whose counsel had always before proved best. He, meaning well, spoke out among them and said:
"Hold fast, Argives, do not flee, young men of the Achaeans. It is his mother coming up from the sea with her immortal nymphs, to meet the face of her dead son."
So he spoke, and the great-hearted Achaeans held back their flight. Around you the daughters of the old man of the sea stood, weeping pitifully, and clothed you in garments that do not die. And the nine Muses, all of them, sang the dirge back and forth in their beautiful voices — no one among the Argives could have kept from weeping then, so piercingly did the clear-voiced Muse stir them. For seventeen days and nights alike we wept for you, gods and mortal men together, and on the eighteenth day we gave you to the fire, and killed around you many fat sheep and shambling cattle.
You burned in the clothing of the gods, with abundant oil and sweet honey, and many Achaean heroes marched in their armor around your burning pyre, on foot and on horseback, and a great din rose up. But when the flame of Hephaestus had finished its work on you, at dawn we gathered your white bones, Achilles, and laid them in unmixed wine and oil. Your mother gave a golden urn for them — she said it was a gift of Dionysus, the work of glorious Hephaestus. In that urn your white bones lie, shining Achilles, mixed with the bones of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, who died before you, but kept apart from those of Antilochus, whom you honored above all your other companions once Patroclus was dead.
Over your bones and his, we, the sacred army of Argive spearmen, heaped up a great and flawless grave-mound on a jutting headland by the wide Hellespont, so that it might be seen from far out at sea by men now living and those yet to be born. Your mother asked the gods for splendid prizes and set them out in the middle of the gathering place for the best of the Achaeans to contend for. I have attended the funerals of many heroes before, when at the death of a king the young men gird themselves and make ready for the games, but you would have marveled most of all in your heart to see the prizes silver-footed Thetis set out in your honor — for you were greatly beloved of the gods. So even in death you have not lost your name, but your fame will always be fine among all men, Achilles.
But as for me, what joy is there in this, now that I have wound the war to its end? For on my homecoming Zeus devised for me a grim destruction, at the hands of Aegisthus and my accursed wife."
While the two of them were saying such things to each other, the messenger, the slayer of Argus, came near them, leading down the souls of the suitors killed by Odysseus. The two shades, astonished at the sight, went straight toward them. And the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, recognized the dear son of Melaneus, glorious Amphimedon, for he had been his host, living in a house on Ithaca. The soul of Atreus' son spoke first to him.
"Amphimedon, what happened to you, that you have all come down to the dark earth together, picked men, all of an age? A man choosing the best men in a city could not have chosen better. Did Poseidon overwhelm you on your ships, rousing harsh winds and towering waves? Or did hostile men cut you down on land as you were rustling their cattle and fine flocks of sheep, or while you were fighting over a city and its women? Tell me, since I ask you — I claim to be your guest-friend. Do you not remember when I came down to your house there, urging Odysseus to come with godlike Menelaus and join us on our way to Troy on the well-benched ships? A whole month it took us to cross the wide sea, so hard was it to win over Odysseus, sacker of cities."
And the soul of Amphimedon answered him in turn. "Most glorious son of Atreus, lord of men, Agamemnon, I remember all of this well, king cherished by Zeus, just as you tell it. And I will lay out for you, fully and truly, the wretched end of our death, how it came about. We were courting the wife of Odysseus, who had long been gone. She neither refused the hateful marriage nor brought it to an end, but planned death and doom for us in her heart, and this was the trick she devised. She set up a great loom in the hall and began weaving a web, fine of thread and very wide, and said to us at once:
"Young men, my suitors, since noble Odysseus is dead, wait, however eager you are for my marriage, until I finish this cloth, so that the thread I have spun will not go to waste — it is a shroud for the hero Laertes, for the day when the destroying fate of death that lays men low takes him down, so that none of the Achaean women in the district can reproach me if he who won so much should lie without a shroud."
So she spoke, and our proud hearts consented. Then by day she would weave the great web, and by night, when she had torches set beside her, she would unweave it. For three years she deceived us by this trick and won the Achaeans over. But when the fourth year came and the seasons rolled on, as the months waned and many days had run their course, one of her women who knew the truth told us of it, and we caught her in the act of unraveling the shining web. So she was forced to finish it, against her will.
When she showed us the cloth, having woven the great web and washed it, shining like the sun or the moon, then it was that some evil spirit brought Odysseus from somewhere to the edge of the estate, where the swineherd had his house. There too came the dear son of godlike Odysseus, back from sandy Pylos in his black ship. The two of them, having plotted a wretched death for the suitors, made their way to the famous town, Odysseus coming later, with Telemachus leading the way before him.
The swineherd brought him along, wearing wretched clothes on his body, looking like some miserable old beggar, leaning on a staff, with shabby rags wrapped around him. None of us could tell who he really was when he suddenly appeared before us, not even the older men among us, but we hurled abuse and missiles at him. He, for his part, endured it for a time in his own halls, pelted and abused, with a heart that bore it all patiently. But when at last the will of aegis-bearing Zeus roused him to act, he had Telemachus help him carry off all the fine armor and store it away in the storeroom, and bar the doors. Then he told his own wife, with cunning purpose, to set out the bow and the gray iron for us suitors — a contest, and the beginning of death, for us doomed men.
None of us could string the cord of that mighty bow — we fell far short of the strength needed. But when the great bow of Odysseus came around to his own hands, we all shouted out against giving him the bow, no matter how much he might argue for it. Telemachus alone urged him on and commanded it. Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus took it in his hand, strung the bow easily, and shot the arrow clean through the iron. He went and stood on the threshold, poured out the swift arrows before him, glaring terribly around, and struck down King Antinous. Then he aimed his groaning shafts at the rest of us, shooting straight at his mark, and they fell one after another.
It was plain that some god was fighting on their side, for at once they charged through the hall with all their fury and cut men down on every side, and a hideous groaning rose from men whose skulls were being smashed, and the whole floor ran with blood. So we perished, Agamemnon, and even now our bodies lie uncared for in the halls of Odysseus, for the news has not yet reached our families in each man's house, who might wash the dark clotted blood from our wounds, lay us out, and mourn us — for that is the honor due the dead."
And the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, answered him. "Fortunate son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, truly you won yourself a wife of great virtue. How good was the heart of blameless Penelope, daughter of Icarius, how well she remembered Odysseus, the husband of her youth. Because of this the fame of her virtue will never die, and the immortals will make a lovely song for those on earth in honor of steady Penelope — not like the daughter of Tyndareus, who devised wicked deeds and killed the husband of her youth. A hateful song about her will go among men, and she has brought a harsh reputation on all women, even those who do well."
While the two of them were saying such things to each other, standing in the house of Hades, deep beneath the earth, Odysseus and his companions, once they had gone down out of the city, soon reached the fine, well-worked farm of Laertes, which he himself had won long ago after great toil. There stood his house, with a shed running all around it, where the household slaves who worked for him ate and sat and slept. Among them was an old Sicilian woman who tended the old man faithfully out on the farm, far from the town.
There Odysseus spoke to the slaves and to his son. "Go on now, into the well-built house, and quickly slaughter the best of the pigs for our dinner. I will go test my father, to see whether he will know me and recognize me by sight, or fail to know me after so long a time away." So saying, he gave his slaves the weapons of war. They went off quickly toward the house, while Odysseus went nearer, to test the fruitful vineyard.
He did not find Dolius there when he went down into the great orchard, nor any of his sons or slaves — they had all gone off to gather stones for a wall to fence the vineyard, with the old man leading the way. He found his father alone in the well-worked vineyard, digging around a plant. He wore a filthy tunic, patched and shabby, with oxhide leggings bound and stitched about his shins to guard against scratches, and gloves on his hands because of the brambles, and on his head, to top it off, a cap of goatskin, nursing his grief.
When long-suffering, godlike Odysseus saw him worn down by old age, carrying such great sorrow in his heart, he stopped under a tall pear tree and let the tears fall. Then he turned the matter over in his mind and heart, whether to kiss his father and throw his arms around him and tell him everything — how he had come at last home to his own country — or whether to question him first about everything and put him to the test. As he thought it over, this seemed to him the better course: to test him first with taunting words.
With this in mind, godlike Odysseus went straight up to him. His father, head bent, was digging around the plant, and his shining son came and stood beside him and spoke. "Old man, you show no lack of skill in tending this orchard — everything is well cared for, not a plant, not a fig tree, vine, olive, pear, or garden bed in the whole plot goes untended. But I will say something else, and do not take it amiss — you yourself are not well cared for. Along with wretched old age you are unkempt and dressed shamefully.
It cannot be from laziness that your master fails to care for you, and nothing about your look or build suggests a slave — you look like a king. You seem like a man who, once bathed and fed, would sleep soft, as is fitting for old men. But come, tell me this, and speak it truly — whose slave are you, and whose orchard do you tend? And tell me truly, so that I may know for certain, whether this is really Ithaca I have reached, as a man I met just now, coming this way, told me — though he was not entirely sound of mind, for he would not stay to tell me everything, or listen when I asked about my host, whether he is still alive, or already dead and in the house of Hades.
For I will tell you plainly, and you listen and take note. Once, in my own dear homeland, I entertained a man who came to our house, and no other stranger from a distant land was ever a more welcome guest at my home. He claimed to be of Ithacan stock, and said that his father was Laertes, son of Arcesius. I brought him to my house and treated him well, welcoming him warmly, since we had plenty in the household, and I gave him the gifts due a guest, as was fitting. I gave him seven talents of well-wrought gold, and a mixing-bowl of solid silver worked with flowers, twelve cloaks of a single fold, as many rugs, as many fine mantles, and as many tunics besides, and beyond that, women skilled in flawless handiwork, four of them, comely, whichever he wished to choose."
His father answered him then, letting the tears fall. "Stranger, you have indeed come to the land you ask about, but violent, reckless men hold it now. All those gifts you gave so generously are wasted now. Had you found him alive still in the land of Ithaca, he would have sent you off well repaid with gifts and with the hospitality that is only right, when a man has first given it. But come, tell me this, and speak it truly — how many years has it been since you entertained that guest, my son, if he ever truly was — my poor, doomed son? Perhaps far from his loved ones and his native land the fish ate him in the sea, or on land he became prey for beasts and birds. His mother did not wash and dress him and weep over him, nor his father, we who bore him, nor did his devoted wife, steady Penelope, wail over her husband as he lay on the bed and close his eyes, as is fitting — for that is the honor due the dead.
And tell me this too, truly, so that I may know for certain — who are you, and where from, among men? Where is your city, and your parents? Where does your swift ship lie at anchor, the one that brought you here with your godlike companions? Or did you come as a passenger on someone else's ship..."
"So then I will tell you everything, quite truly. I come from Alybas, where I live in a splendid house, the son of lord Apheidas, son of Polypemon, and my own name is Eperitus. But some god drove me here from Sicania against my will, and my ship lies yonder off the fields, away from the city. As for Odysseus, this is now the fifth year since he left there and went away from my country,
unlucky man—though the birds were good for him as he went, birds of good omen, on the strength of which I sent him off rejoicing, and he went rejoicing too. Our hearts still hoped then that we would meet again as guest-friends and that he would give me splendid gifts."
So he spoke, and a black cloud of grief covered Laertes. With both hands he took up the grimy dust and poured it over his gray head, groaning heavily. His son's heart was stirred, and as he looked at his father a sharp force surged up through his nostrils. He rushed forward, threw his arms around him, kissed him, and said:
"I myself am the very man you ask about, father—here I am! I have come back to my native land in the twentieth year. But hold back your weeping and your tearful lament. For I will tell you plainly—though we must hurry all the same—I have killed the suitors in our halls, taking vengeance for their heart-galling insult and their wicked deeds."
Then Laertes answered him and said: "If you are truly Odysseus, my son, come here to me, tell me some clear sign now, so that I may believe it."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "First look with your own eyes at this scar, the one a boar's white tusk gave me on Parnassus, when I had gone there—you and my honored mother had sent me to my mother's father Autolycus, so that I might receive the gifts he had promised and pledged to me when he came here. And come, let me also tell you the trees in the well-tended orchard, which you once gave me—I was a small child then, following you through the garden and asking for each one. We walked among them, and you named them and told me each. You gave me thirteen pear trees and ten apple trees,
and forty fig trees, and you promised to give me fifty rows of vines as well, each one ripening at a different time—there are grapes of every kind on them, whenever the seasons of Zeus weigh down upon them from above."
So he spoke, and Laertes' knees and heart gave way beneath him, as he recognized the sure signs Odysseus had described. He threw his arms around his beloved son, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus caught him as he fainted against him. But when he had recovered his breath and his spirit gathered back into his chest, he spoke again in answer, saying:
"Father Zeus, so you gods still do exist on high Olympus, if the suitors have truly paid for their reckless insolence! But now I am terribly afraid in my heart that soon all the men of Ithaca will come down upon us here, and send messengers everywhere through the cities of the Cephallenians."
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Take heart, do not let that trouble your mind. Let us go instead to the house that lies near the orchard. I have already sent Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd ahead there, so they can get a meal ready as quickly as possible."
So the two of them spoke, and went on toward the fine house. When they arrived at the well-built dwelling, they found Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd carving great quantities of meat and mixing the sparkling wine. Meanwhile, in his own house, a Sicilian serving-woman bathed great-hearted Laertes and rubbed him with oil, and threw a fine cloak around him. And Athena, standing close beside him, filled out the limbs of the shepherd of his people, and made him taller and stronger to look at than before. He stepped out of the bath, and his own son marveled
to see him looking like one of the immortal gods, and he spoke to him with winged words: "Father, surely one of the gods who live forever has made you finer to look at, in stature and appearance."
Wise Laertes answered him: "Would, father Zeus, and Athena, and Apollo, that I were the man I was when I took Nericus, that well-built stronghold on the mainland headland, ruling the Cephallenians—had I been that man, standing beside you yesterday in our halls with armor on my shoulders, to fight off
the suitors—then I would have loosened the knees of many of them there in the hall, and you would have rejoiced in your heart!"
So the two of them talked together like this. When the others had finished their work and the meal was ready, they sat down in order on couches and chairs. There they set to their dinner, and just then old Dolius arrived, and with him the old man's sons, worn out from their labors, since their mother had gone out and called them—the aged Sicilian woman who raised them and who tended the old man carefully now that age had gripped him.
When they saw Odysseus and recognized him in their hearts, they stood there in the hall struck with amazement. But Odysseus spoke to them gently and said: "Old man, sit down to your meal, and put aside your astonishment. We have been waiting here in the hall a long while, eager to set to the food, always expecting you."
So he said, and Dolius came straight toward him with both hands outstretched, and Odysseus took his hand and kissed it at the wrist, and spoke to him with winged words: "Old friend, since you have come home to us who longed for you so much,
and no longer even hoped—since the gods themselves have brought you back—hail and welcome, and may the gods grant you happiness! And tell me this truly, so that I may know well: does careful Penelope already know for certain that you have come home, or should we send a messenger to her?"
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: "Old man, she already knows. Why should you trouble yourself over that?" So he spoke, and the old man sat back down again on the polished bench. In just the same way, Dolius's sons gathered around glorious Odysseus, greeting him with words and clasping his hands,
and then they sat down in order beside Dolius, their father. So they busied themselves with the meal there in the hall. Meanwhile Rumor, the swift messenger, went everywhere through the city, telling of the suitors' hateful death and doom. Hearing it, the people came streaming from every direction, gathering with groaning and lament before the house of Odysseus, and each family carried out its own dead and buried them, while those from other cities they sent home, putting them aboard swift fishing boats for the journey. Then they all went together to the assembly place, grieving in their hearts.
When they had gathered and were all assembled, Eupeithes rose among them and spoke, for an endless grief for his son lay in his heart—for Antinous, the first man godlike Odysseus had killed. Weeping, he addressed the assembly and said: "Friends, what a monstrous thing this man has plotted against the Achaeans! He led away many brave men in his ships and lost them—he lost the hollow ships, and he lost the men. And now he has come back and killed the very best of the Cephallenians. Come, then, before he can quickly reach Pylos
or holy Elis, where the Epeans rule, let us go after him—or else we will hang our heads in shame forever after. For this will be a disgrace even for generations yet to come to hear of, if we do not take vengeance on the murderers of our sons and brothers. As for me, it would give my heart no pleasure to go on living—I would rather die at once and be with the dead. Come, let us go, before they can cross the sea and escape us."
So he spoke, weeping, and pity seized all the Achaeans. Then Medon and the godlike singer came up to them, out of the halls of Odysseus, for sleep had released them,
and they stood in the middle of the crowd, and astonishment seized every man there. Then wise Medon spoke among them and said: "Hear me now, men of Ithaca. Odysseus did not plan these deeds without the will of the immortal gods. I myself saw a deathless god standing close beside Odysseus, looking in every way like Mentor. This immortal god appeared now in front of Odysseus, giving him courage, now again driving the suitors into confusion, rushing through the hall—and they fell one upon another."
So he spoke, and pale fear gripped every one of them.
Then old Halitherses the hero spoke among them too, Mastor's son, for he alone among them could see both forward and behind. With good will toward them he addressed the assembly and said: "Hear me now, men of Ithaca, hear what I have to say. It was through your own cowardice, my friends, that these things happened—for you would not listen to me, nor to Mentor, shepherd of the people, when we told you to stop your sons from their foolishness. They did a monstrous thing through their wicked recklessness, wasting a great man's property and dishonoring his wife, since they thought he would never come home again.
Let it now be as I say—listen to me. Let us not go after him, or someone may bring disaster down on his own head."
So he spoke, and more than half of them leapt up with a great shout; the rest stayed together where they were, for his words did not please their hearts—instead they sided with Eupeithes. Quickly then they rushed to arm themselves, and when they had put the gleaming bronze around their bodies, they gathered together before the wide-wayed city. Eupeithes led them in his folly, thinking he would avenge his son's murder, but he was not destined
to return home again—instead, he would meet his death right there.
Then Athena spoke to Zeus, son of Cronus: "Our father, son of Cronus, highest of rulers, answer me this—what does your mind hide within it now? Will you stir up further war and dreadful battle, or will you set friendship between both sides?"
Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, answered her: "My child, why do you ask and question me about this? Was it not you yourself who devised this very plan, that Odysseus should come home and take vengeance on those men?
Do as you wish. But I will tell you what is fitting. Now that godlike Odysseus has taken vengeance on the suitors, let them swear firm oaths, and let him be king forever, while we make the people forget the killing of their sons and brothers. Let them be friends with one another as before, and let there be wealth and peace in abundance."
So speaking, he roused Athena, who was already eager, and she went rushing down from the peaks of Olympus.
When they had satisfied their desire for the sweet food, long-suffering, godlike Odysseus began speaking among them: "Let someone go out and look, in case they are already close and coming."
So he spoke, and Dolius's son went out as he had ordered. He stood on the threshold and saw all of them close at hand, and at once spoke to Odysseus with winged words: "Here they are, close by—let us arm ourselves quickly!"
So he spoke, and they rose and put on their armor—four men with Odysseus, and the six sons of Dolius. Laertes and Dolius too put on armor, gray-haired as they were, seasoned fighters out of necessity. When they had put the gleaming bronze around their bodies,
they opened the doors and went out, with Odysseus leading them. Then Zeus's daughter Athena came near them, in the likeness of Mentor, in both form and voice. Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus was glad when he saw her, and at once he spoke to Telemachus, his own dear son: "Telemachus, now you will learn for yourself, once you have gone into battle where the best men are tested, not to shame the line of your fathers, who since ancient times have been famous throughout the world for their strength and their manhood."
Wise Telemachus answered him: "You will see, father, if you wish, that in my present spirit I will bring no shame at all to your line, as you say."
So he spoke, and Laertes rejoiced and said: "What a day this is for me, dear gods! How glad I am—my son and my grandson are competing over which is braver!"
Then gray-eyed Athena stood beside him and said: "Son of Arceisius, dearest by far of all my companions, pray to the gray-eyed maiden and to father Zeus, then quickly poise your long-shadowed spear and hurl it." So Pallas Athena spoke, and breathed great strength into him.
He prayed then to the daughter of great Zeus, and quickly poised his long-shadowed spear and let it fly, and struck Eupeithes through his helmet with its bronze cheek-piece. The bronze did not stop the spear but drove straight through, and he fell with a thud, and his armor rattled upon him. Then Odysseus and his splendid son charged into the front ranks, striking with swords and two-edged spears, and now they would have killed them all and left none to return home,
had not Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, called out with a great voice and held back the whole crowd:
"Hold back from this grievous war, men of Ithaca, so that you may part from one another quickly, without bloodshed."
So Athena spoke, and pale fear seized them. In their terror the weapons flew from their hands and all fell to the ground at the sound of the goddess's voice, and they turned back toward the city, eager only to save their lives. Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus gave a terrible cry, and gathering himself, swooped down like a high-flying eagle. And at that moment the son of Cronus let fly a smoking thunderbolt, which fell before the gray-eyed daughter of the mighty father.
Then gray-eyed Athena spoke to Odysseus: "Zeus-born son of Laertes, resourceful Odysseus, hold back now, put an end to this strife of leveling war, or Zeus, the wide-thundering son of Cronus, may grow angry with you."
So Athena spoke, and he obeyed her, glad at heart. And Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, in the likeness of Mentor, in form and voice both, then set oaths of peace between the two sides for all time to come.