The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)
Page 14
who’d killed his famous father.
And you, my friend —
how tall and handsome I see you now —be brave, you too,
so men to come will sing your praises down the years.”
Telemachus, weighing the challenge closely, answered,
“Oh Nestor, son of Neleus, Achaea’s pride and glory,
230 what a stroke of revenge that was! All Achaeans
will spread Orestes’ fame across the world,
a song for those to come.
If only the gods would arm me in such power
I’d take revenge on the lawless, brazen suitors
riding roughshod over me, plotting reckless outrage.
But for me the gods have spun out no such joy,
for my father or myself. I must bear up,
that’s all.”
And the old charioteer replied,
“Now that you mention it, dear boy, I do recall
240 a mob of suitors, they say, besets your mother
there in your own house, against your will,
and plots your ruin. Tell me, though, do you
let yourself be so abused, or do people round about,
stirred up by the prompting of some god, despise you now?
Who knows if he will return someday to take revenge
on all their violence? Single-handed perhaps
or with an Argive army at his back? If only
the bright-eyed goddess chose to love you just
as she lavished care on brave Odysseus, years ago
250 in the land of Troy where we Achaeans struggled!
I’ve never seen the immortals show so much affection
as Pallas openly showed him, standing by your father —
if only she’d favor you, tend you with all her heart,
many a suitor then would lose all thought of marriage,
blotted out forever.”
“Never, your majesty,”
Telemachus countered gravely, “that will never
come to pass, I know. What you say dumbfounds me,
staggers imagination! Hope, hope as I will,
that day will never dawn . . .
not even if the gods should will it so.”
260 “Telemachus!”
Pallas Athena broke in sharply, her eyes afire —
“What’s this nonsense slipping through your teeth?
It’s light work for a willing god to save a mortal
even half the world away. Myself, I’d rather
sail through years of trouble and labor home
and see that blessed day, than hurry home
to die at my own hearth like Agamemnon,
killed by Aegisthus’ cunning —by his own wife.
269 But the great leveler, Death: not even the gods
270 can defend a man, not even one they love, that day
when fate takes hold and lays him out at last.”
“Mentor,”
wise Telemachus said, “distraught as we are for him,
let’s speak of this no more. My father’s return?
It’s inconceivable now. Long ago the undying gods
have sealed his death, his black doom. But now
there’s another question I would put to Nestor:
Nestor excels all men for sense and justice,
his knowledge of the world.
Three generations he has ruled, they say,
280 and to my young eyes he seems a deathless god!
Nestor, son of Neleus, tell me the whole story —
how did the great king Agamemnon meet his death?
Where was Menelaus? What fatal trap did he set,
that treacherous Aegisthus, to bring down a man
far stronger than himself? Was Menelaus gone
from Achaean Argos, roving the world somewhere,
so the coward found the nerve to kill the king?”
And old Nestor the noble charioteer replied:
289 “Gladly, my boy, I’ll tell you the story first to last . . .
290 Right you are, you guess what would have happened
if red-haired Menelaus, arriving back from Troy,
had found Aegisthus alive in Agamemnon’s palace.
No barrow piled high on the earth for his dead body,
no, the dogs and birds would have feasted on his corpse,
sprawled on the plain outside the city gates, and no one,
no woman in all Achaea, would have wept a moment,
such a monstrous crime the man contrived!
But there we were, camped at Troy, battling out
the long hard campaign while he at his ease at home,
300 in the depths of Argos, stallion-country —he lay siege
to the wife of Agamemnon, luring, enticing her with talk.
At first, true, she spurned the idea of such an outrage,
303 Clytemnestra the queen, her will was faithful still.
And there was a man, what’s more, a bard close by,
to whom Agamemnon, setting sail for Troy,
gave strict commands to guard his wife. But then,
that day the doom of the gods had bound her to surrender,
Aegisthus shipped the bard away to a desert island,
marooned him there, sweet prize for the birds of prey,
310 and swept her off to his own house, lover lusting for lover.
And many thighbones he burned on the gods’ holy altars,
many gifts he hung on the temple walls —gold, brocades —
in thanks for a conquest past his maddest hopes.
Now we,
you see, were sailing home from Troy in the same squadron,
Menelaus and I, comrades-in-arms from years of war.
316 But as we rounded holy Sounion, Athens’ headland,
317 lord Apollo attacked Atrides’ helmsman, aye,
with his gentle shafts he shot the man to death —
an iron grip on the tiller, the craft scudding fast —
320 Phrontis, Onetor’s son, who excelled all men alive
at steering ships when gales bore down in fury.
So Menelaus, straining to sail on, was held back
till he could bury his mate with fitting rites.
But once he’d got off too, plowing the wine-dark sea
325 in his ribbed ships, and made a run to Malea’s beetling cape,
farseeing Zeus decided to give the man rough sailing,
poured a hurricane down upon him, shrilling winds,
giant, rearing whitecaps, monstrous, mountains high.
There at a stroke he cut the fleet in half and drove
330 one wing to Crete, where Cydonians make their homes
331 along the Iardanus River. Now, there’s a sheer cliff
332 plunging steep to the surf at the farthest edge of Gortyn,
out on the mist-bound sea, where the South Wind piles breakers,
334 huge breakers, left of the headland’s horn, toward Phaestos,
with only a low reef to block the crushing tides.
In they sailed, and barely escaped their death —
the ships’ crews, that is —
the rollers smashed their hulls against the rocks.
But as for the other five with pitch-black prows,
340 the wind and current swept them on toward Egypt.
So Menelaus, amassing a hoard of stores and gold,
was off cruising his ships to foreign ports of call
while Aegisthus hatched his vicious work at home.
344 Seven years he lorded over Mycenae rich in gold,
once he’d killed Agamemnon —he ground the people down.
346 But the eighth year ushered in his ruin, Prince Orestes
home from Athens, yes, he cut him down, that cunning,
murderous Aegisthus, who’d killed his famous father.
Vengeance done, he held a feast for the Argives,
350 to bury his hated mo
ther, craven Aegisthus too,
the very day Menelaus arrived, lord of the warcry,
freighted with all the wealth his ships could carry.
So you,
dear boy, take care. Don’t rove from home too long,
too far, leaving your own holdings unprotected —
crowds in your palace so brazen
they’ll carve up all your wealth, devour it all,
and then your journey here will come to nothing.
Still I advise you, urge you to visit Menelaus.
He’s back from abroad at last, from people so removed
360 you might abandon hope of ever returning home,
once the winds had driven you that far off course,
into a sea so vast not even cranes could wing their way
in one year’s flight —so vast it is, so awesome . . .
So, off you go with your ships and shipmates now.
Or if you’d rather go by land, there’s team and chariot,
my sons at your service too, and they’ll escort you
367 to sunny Lacedaemon, home of the red-haired king.
Press him yourself to tell the whole truth:
he’ll never lie —the man is far too wise.”
So he closed
370 as the sun set and darkness swept across the earth
and the bright-eyed goddess Pallas spoke for all:
“There was a tale, old soldier, so well told.
373 Come, cut out the victims’ tongues and mix the wine,
so once we’ve poured libations out to the Sea-lord
and every other god, we’ll think of sleep. High time —
the light’s already sunk in the western shadows.
It’s wrong to linger long at the gods’ feast;
we must be on our way.”
Zeus’s daughter —
they all hung closely on every word she said.
380 Heralds sprinkled water over their hands for rinsing,
the young men brimmed the mixing bowls with wine,
they tipped first drops for the god in every cup
then poured full rounds for all. They rose and flung
the victims’ tongues on the fire and poured libations out.
When they’d poured, and drunk to their hearts’ content,
Athena and Prince Telemachus both started up
to head for their ship at once.
But Nestor held them there, objecting strongly:
“Zeus forbid —and the other deathless gods as well —
390 that you resort to your ship and put my house behind
like a rank pauper’s without a stitch of clothing,
no piles of rugs, no blankets in his place
for host and guests to slumber soft in comfort.
Why, I’ve plenty of fine rugs and blankets here.
No, by god, the true son of my good friend Odysseus
won’t bed down on a ship’s deck, not while I’m alive
or my sons are left at home to host our guests,
whoever comes to our palace, newfound friends.”
“Dear old man,
you’re right,” Athena exclaimed, her eyes brightening now.
400 “Telemachus should oblige you. Much the better way.
Let him follow you now, sleep in your halls,
but I’ll go back to our trim black ship,
hearten the crew and give each man his orders.
I’m the only veteran in their ranks, I tell you.
All the rest, of an age with brave Telemachus,
are younger men who sailed with him as friends.
I’ll bed down there by the dark hull tonight,
408 at dawn push off for the proud Cauconians.
Those people owe me a debt long overdue,
410 and no mean sum, believe me.
But you, seeing my friend is now your guest,
speed him on his way with a chariot and your son
and give him the finest horses that you have,
bred for stamina, trained to race the wind.”
With that the bright-eyed goddess winged away
in an eagle’s form and flight.
Amazement fell on all the Achaeans there.
The old king, astonished by what he’d seen,
grasped Telemachus’ hand and cried out to the prince,
420 “Dear boy —never fear you’ll be a coward or defenseless,
not if at your young age the gods will guard you so.
Of all who dwell on Olympus, this was none but she,
423 Zeus’s daughter, the glorious one, his third born,
who prized your gallant father among the Argives.
Now, O Queen, be gracious! Give us high renown,
myself, my children, my loyal wife and queen.
And I will make you a sacrifice, a yearling heifer
broad in the brow, unbroken, never yoked by men.
I’ll offer it up to you —I’ll sheathe its horns in gold.”
430 So he prayed, and Pallas Athena heard his prayer.
And Nestor the noble chariot-driver led them on,
his sons and sons-in-law, back to his regal palace.
Once they reached the storied halls of the aged king
they sat on rows of low and high-backed chairs.
As they arrived the old man mixed them all a bowl,
stirring the hearty wine, seasoned eleven years
before a servant broached it, loosed its seal.
Mulling it in the bowl, old Nestor poured
a libation out, praying hard to Pallas Athena,
440 daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder.
Once they had poured their offerings, drunk their fill,
the Pylians went to rest, each in his own house.
But the noble chariot-driver let Telemachus,
King Odysseus’ son, sleep at the palace now,
on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade,
with Prince Pisistratus close beside him there,
the young spearman, already captain of armies,
though the last son still unwed within the halls.
The king retired to chambers deep in his lofty house
450 where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
old Nestor the noble chariot-driver climbed from bed,
went out and took his seat on the polished stones,
a bench glistening white, rubbed with glossy oil,
placed for the king before his looming doors.
There Neleus held his sessions years ago,
a match for the gods in counsel,
but his fate had long since forced him down to Death.
Now royal Nestor in turn, Achaea’s watch and ward,
460 sat there holding the scepter while his sons,
coming out of their chambers, clustered round him,
462 hovering near: Echephron, Stratius, Perseus
463 and Aretus, Thrasymedes like a god, and sixth,
young lord Pisistratus came to join their ranks.
They escorted Prince Telemachus in to sit beside them.
Nestor, noble charioteer, began the celebration:
“Quickly, my children, carry out my wishes now
so I may please the gods, Athena first of all —
she came to me at Poseidon’s flowing feast,
470 Athena in all her glory!
Now someone go to the fields to fetch a heifer,
lead her here at once —a herdsman drive her in.
Someone hurry down to Prince Telemachus’ black ship
and bring up all his crewmen, leave just two behind.
475 And another tell our goldsmith, skilled Laerces,
to come and sheathe the heifer’s horns in gold.
The rest stay here together. Tell the maids
inside the hall to prepare a sumptuous feast —
br
ing seats and firewood, bring pure water too.”
480 They all pitched in to carry out his orders.
The heifer came from the fields, the crewmen came
from brave Telemachus’ ship, and the smith came in
with all his gear in hand, the tools of his trade,
the anvil, hammer and well-wrought tongs he used
485 for working gold. And Athena came as well
to attend her sacred rites.
The old horseman passed the gold to the smith,
and twining the foil, he sheathed the heifer’s horns
so the goddess’ eyes might dazzle, delighted with the gift.
490 Next Stratius and Echephron led the beast by the horns.
Aretus, coming up from the storeroom, brought them
lustral water filling a flower-braided bowl,
in his other hand, the barley in a basket.
Thrasymedes, staunch in combat, stood ready,
whetted ax in his grasp to cut the heifer down,
and Perseus held the basin for the blood.
Now Nestor the old charioteer began the rite.
498 Pouring the lustral water, scattering barley-meal,
he lifted up his ardent prayers to Pallas Athena,
500 launching the sacrifice, flinging onto the fire
the first tufts of hair from the victim’s head.
Prayers said, the scattering barley strewn,
suddenly Nestor’s son impetuous Thrasymedes
strode up close and struck —the ax chopped
the neck tendons through —
and the blow stunned
the heifer’s strength —
The women shrilled their cry,
Nestor’s daughters, sons’ wives and his own loyal wife
508 Eurydice, Clymenus’ eldest daughter. Then, hoisting up
the victim’s head from the trampled earth, they held her fast
510 as the captain of men Pisistratus slashed her throat.
Dark blood gushed forth, life ebbed from her limbs —
they quartered her quickly, cut the thighbones out
and all according to custom wrapped them round in fat,
a double fold sliced clean and topped with strips of flesh.
And the old king burned these over dried split wood
and over the fire poured out glistening wine
while young men at his side held five-pronged forks.
Once they’d burned the bones and tasted the organs,
they sliced the rest into pieces, spitted them on skewers
520 and raising points to the fire, broiled all the meats.
521 During the ritual lovely Polycaste, youngest daughter