of Nestor, Neleus’ son, had bathed Telemachus.
Rinsing him off now, rubbing him down with oil,
she drew a shirt and handsome cape around him.
Out of his bath he stepped, glistening like a god,
strode in and sat by the old commander Nestor.
They roasted the prime cuts, pulled them off the spits
and sat down to the feast while ready stewards saw
to rounds of wine and kept the gold cups flowing.
530 When they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Nestor the noble chariot-driver issued orders:
“Hurry, my boys! Bring Telemachus horses,
a good full-maned team —
hitch them to a chariot —he must be off at once.”
They listened closely, snapped to his commands
and hitched a rapid team to a chariot’s yoke in haste.
A housekeeper stowed some bread and wine aboard
and meats too, food fit for the sons of kings.
Telemachus vaulted onto the splendid chariot —
540 right beside him Nestor’s son Pisistratus,
captain of armies, boarded, seized the reins,
whipped the team to a run and on the horses flew,
holding nothing back, out into open country,
leaving the heights of Pylos fading in their trail,
shaking the yoke across their shoulders all day long.
The sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark
547 as they reached Phera, pulling up to Diocles’ halls,
548 the son of Ortilochus, son of the Alpheus River.
He gave them a royal welcome; there they slept the night.
550 When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
they yoked their pair again, mounted the blazoned car
and out through the gates and echoing colonnade
they whipped the team to a run and on they flew,
holding nothing back —and the princes reached
the wheatlands, straining now for journey’s end,
so fast those purebred stallions raced them on
as the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark.
BOOK FOUR
The King and Queen of Sparta
At last they gained the ravines of Lacedaemon ringed by hills
and drove up to the halls of Menelaus in his glory.
They found the king inside his palace, celebrating
with throngs of kinsmen a double wedding-feast
for his son and lovely daughter. The princess
6 he was sending on to the son of great Achilles,
breaker of armies. Years ago Menelaus vowed,
he nodded assent at Troy and pledged her hand
and now the gods were sealing firm the marriage.
10 So he was sending her on her way with team and chariot,
north to the Myrmidons’ famous city governed by her groom.
12 From Sparta he brought Alector’s daughter as the bride
13 for his own full-grown son, the hardy Megapenthes,
14 born to him by a slave. To Helen the gods had granted
no more offspring once she had borne her first child,
16 the breathtaking Hermione,
17 a luminous beauty gold as Aphrodite.
So now
they feasted within the grand, high-roofed palace,
all the kin and clansmen of Menelaus in his glory,
20 reveling warmly here as in their midst
an inspired bard sang out and struck his lyre —
and through them a pair of tumblers dashed and sprang,
whirling in leaping handsprings, leading on the dance.
The travelers, Nestor’s shining son and Prince Telemachus,
had brought themselves and their horses to a standstill
26 just outside the court when good lord Eteoneus,
passing through the gates now, saw them there,
and the ready aide-in-arms of Menelaus
took the message through his sovereign’s halls
30 and stepping close to his master broke the news:
“Strangers have just arrived, your majesty, Menelaus.
Two men, but they look like kin of mighty Zeus himself.
Tell me, should we unhitch their team for them
or send them to someone free to host them well?”
The red-haired king took great offense at that:
36 “Never a fool before, Eteoneus, son of Boëthous,
now I see you’re babbling like a child!
Just think of all the hospitality we enjoyed
at the hands of other men before we made it home,
40 and god save us from such hard treks in years to come.
Quick, unhitch their team. And bring them in,
strangers, guests, to share our flowing feast.”
Back through the halls he hurried, calling out
to other brisk attendants to follow quickly.
They loosed the sweating team from under the yoke,
tethered them fast by reins inside the horse-stalls,
tossing feed at their hoofs, white barley mixed with wheat,
and canted the chariot up against the polished walls,
shimmering in the sun, then ushered in their guests,
50 into that magnificent place. Both struck by the sight,
they marveled up and down the house of the warlord dear to Zeus —
a radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding
through the high-roofed halls of illustrious Menelaus.
Once they’d feasted their eyes with gazing at it all,
into the burnished tubs they climbed and bathed.
56 When women had washed them, rubbed them down with oil
and drawn warm fleece and shirts around their shoulders,
they took up seats of honor next to Atrides Menelaus.
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher
60 and over a silver basin tipped it out
so they might rinse their hands,
then pulled a gleaming table to their side.
A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them,
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty.
As a carver lifted platters of meat toward them,
meats of every sort, and set before them golden cups,
the red-haired king Menelaus greeted both guests warmly:
“Help yourselves to food, and welcome! Once you’ve dined
we’ll ask you who you are. But your parents’ blood
70 is hardly lost in you. You must be born of kings,
bred by the gods to wield the royal scepter.
No mean men could sire sons like you.”
With those words
he passed them a fat rich loin with his own hands,
the choicest part, that he’d been served himself.
They reached for the good things that lay outspread
and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Telemachus, leaning his head close to Nestor’s son,
spoke low to the prince so no one else could hear:
“Look, Pisistratus —joy of my heart, my friend —
80 the sheen of bronze, the blaze of gold and amber,
silver, ivory too, through all this echoing mansion!
Surely Zeus’s court on Olympus must be just like this,
the boundless glory of all this wealth inside!
My eyes dazzle . . . I am struck with wonder.”
But the red-haired warlord overheard his guest
and cut in quickly with winged words for both:
“No man alive could rival Zeus, dear boys,
with his everlasting palace and possessions.
But among men, I must say, few if any
90 could rival me in riches. Believe me,
much I suffered, many a mile I roved to haul
such treasures home in my ships. Eight years out,
93 wandering off as far as Cyprus, Phoenicia, even Egypt,
94 I reached the Ethiopians, Sidonians, Erembians —Libya too,
where lambs no sooner spring from the womb than they grow horns.
96 Three times in the circling year the ewes give birth.
So no one, neither king nor shepherd could want
for cheese or mutton, or sweet milk either,
udders swell for the sucklings round the year.
100 But while I roamed those lands, amassing a fortune,
a stranger killed my brother, blind to the danger, duped blind —
thanks to the cunning of his cursed, murderous queen!
So I rule all this wealth with no great joy.
You must have heard my story from your fathers,
whoever they are —what hardships I endured,
106 how I lost this handsome palace built for the ages,
filled to its depths with hoards of gorgeous things.
Well, would to god I’d stayed right here in my own house
with a third of all that wealth and they were still alive,
110 all who died on the wide plain of Troy those years ago,
far from the stallion-land of Argos.
And still,
much as I weep for all my men, grieving sorely,
time and again, sitting here in the royal halls,
now indulging myself in tears, now brushing tears away —
the grief that numbs the spirit gluts us quickly —
for none of all those comrades, pained as I am,
do I grieve as much for one . . .
that man who makes sleep hateful, even food,
119 as I pore over his memory. No one, no Achaean
120 labored hard as Odysseus labored or achieved so much.
And how did his struggles end? In suffering for that man;
for me, in relentless, heartbreaking grief for him,
lost and gone so long now —dead or alive, who knows?
How they must mourn him too, Laertes, the old man,
and self-possessed Penelope. Telemachus as well,
the boy he left a babe in arms at home.”
Such memories
stirred in the young prince a deep desire to grieve
for Odysseus. Tears streamed down his cheeks
and wet the ground when he heard his father’s name,
130 both hands clutching his purple robe before his eyes.
Menelaus recognized him at once but pondered
whether to let him state his father’s name
or probe him first and prompt him step by step.
While he debated all this now within himself,
Helen emerged from her scented, lofty chamber —
136 striking as Artemis with her golden shafts —
and a train of women followed . . .
138 Adreste drew up her carved reclining-chair,
139 Alcippe brought a carpet of soft-piled fleece,
140 Phylo carried her silver basket given by Alcandre,
141 King Polybus’ wife, who made his home in Egyptian Thebes
where the houses overflow with the greatest troves of treasure.
The king gave Menelaus a pair of bathing-tubs in silver,
144 two tripods, ten bars of gold, and apart from these
his wife presented Helen her own precious gifts:
a golden spindle, a basket that ran on casters,
solid silver polished off with rims of gold.
Now Phylo her servant rolled it in beside her,
heaped to the brim with yarn prepared for weaving;
150 the spindle swathed in violet wool lay tipped across it.
Helen leaned back in her chair, a stool beneath her feet,
and pressed her husband at once for each detail:
“Do we know, my lord Menelaus, who our visitors
claim to be, our welcome new arrivals?
Right or wrong, what can I say? My heart tells me
to come right out and say I’ve never seen such a likeness,
neither in man nor woman —I’m amazed at the sight.
To the life he’s like the son of great Odysseus,
surely he’s Telemachus! The boy that hero left
160 a babe in arms at home when all you Achaeans
fought at Troy, launching your headlong battles
just for my sake, shameless whore that I was.”
“My dear, my dear,” the red-haired king assured her,
“now that you mention it, I see the likeness too . . .
165 Odysseus’ feet were like the boy’s, his hands as well,
his glancing eyes, his head, and the fine shock of hair.
Yes, and just now, as I was talking about Odysseus,
remembering how he struggled, suffered, all for me,
a flood of tears came streaming down his face
170 and he clutched his purple robe before his eyes.”
“Right you are” —Pisistratus stepped in quickly —
172 “son of Atreus, King Menelaus, captain of armies:
here is the son of that great hero, as you say.
But the man is modest, he would be ashamed
to make a show of himself, his first time here,
and interrupt you. We delight in your voice
as if some god were speaking!
The noble horseman Nestor sent me along
to be his escort. Telemachus yearned to see you,
180 so you could give him some advice or urge some action.
When a father’s gone, his son takes much abuse
in a house where no one comes to his defense.
So with Telemachus now. His father’s gone.
No men at home will shield him from the worst.”
“Wonderful!” the red-haired king cried out.
“The son of my dearest friend, here in my own house!
That man who performed a hundred feats of arms for me.
And I swore that when he came I’d give him a hero’s welcome,
him above all my comrades —if only Olympian Zeus,
190 farseeing Zeus, had granted us both safe passage
home across the sea in our swift trim ships.
Why, I’d have settled a city in Argos for him,
built him a palace, shipped him over from Ithaca,
him and all his wealth, his son, his people too —
emptied one of the cities nestling round about us,
one I rule myself. Both fellow-countrymen then,
197 how often we’d have mingled side-by-side!
Nothing could have parted us,
bound by love for each other, mutual delight . . .
200 till death’s dark cloud came shrouding round us both.
But god himself, jealous of all this, no doubt,
robbed that unlucky man, him and him alone,
of the day of his return.”
So Menelaus mused
and stirred in them all a deep desire to grieve.
Helen of Argos, daughter of Zeus, dissolved in tears,
Telemachus wept too, and so did Atreus’ son Menelaus.
Nor could Nestor’s son Pisistratus stay dry-eyed,
remembering now his gallant brother Antilochus,
209 cut down by Memnon, splendid son of the Morning.
210 Thinking of him, the young prince broke out:
“Old Nestor always spoke of you, son of Atreus,
as the wisest man of all the men he knew,
whenever we talked about you there at home,
questioning back and forth. So now, please,
if it isn’t out of place, indulge me, won’t you?
Myself, I take no joy in weeping over supper.
Morning will soon bring time enough for that.
Not that I’d grudge a tear
for any man gone down to meet his fate.
220 What other tr
ibute can we pay to wretched men
than to cut a lock, let tears roll down our cheeks?
And I have a brother of my own among the dead,
and hardly the poorest soldier in our ranks.
You probably knew him. I never met him, never
saw him myself. But they say he outdid our best,
Antilochus —lightning on his feet and every inch a fighter!”
“Well said, my friend,” the red-haired king replied.
“Not even an older man could speak and do as well.
Your father’s son you are —your words have all his wisdom.
230 It’s easy to spot the breed of a man whom Zeus
has marked for joy in birth and marriage both.
Take great King Nestor now:
Zeus has blessed him, all his livelong days,
growing rich and sleek in his old age at home,
his sons expert with spears and full of sense.
Well, so much for the tears that caught us just now;
let’s think again of supper. Come, rinse our hands.
Tomorrow, at dawn, will offer me and Telemachus
time to talk and trade our thoughts in full.”
240 Asphalion quickly rinsed their hands with water,
another of King Menelaus’ ready aides-in-arms.
Again they reached for the good things set before them.
Then Zeus’s daughter Helen thought of something else.
Into the mixing-bowl from which they drank their wine
she slipped a drug, heart’s-ease, dissolving anger,
magic to make us all forget our pains . . .
No one who drank it deeply, mulled in wine,
could let a tear roll down his cheeks that day,
not even if his mother should die, his father die,
250 not even if right before his eyes some enemy brought down
a brother or darling son with a sharp bronze blade.
So cunning the drugs that Zeus’s daughter plied,
253 potent gifts from Polydamna the wife of Thon,
a woman of Egypt, land where the teeming soil
bears the richest yield of herbs in all the world:
many health itself when mixed in the wine,
and many deadly poison.
Every man is a healer there, more skilled
than any other men on earth —Egyptians born
260 of the healing god himself. So now Helen, once
she had drugged the wine and ordered winecups filled,
resuming the conversation, entertained the group:
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