the song whose fame had reached the skies those days:
89 The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son . . .
90 how once at the gods’ lavish feast the captains clashed
in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies,
rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so.
For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied
94 at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across
the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice —
the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down
on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once,
thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world.
That was the song the famous harper sang
100 but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape
in both powerful hands, drew it over his head
and buried his handsome face,
ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears.
Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song,
he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears
and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods.
But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing
by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale,
again Odysseus hid his face and wept.
110 His weeping went unmarked by all the others;
only Alcinous, sitting close beside him,
noticed his guest’s tears,
heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing
and said at once to the master mariners around him,
“Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia!
By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared
and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets.
Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests,
games of every kind —so our guest can tell his friends,
120 when he reaches home, how far we excel the world
at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.”
He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind.
The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg
and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace,
guiding him down the same path the island lords
had just pursued, keen to watch the contests.
They reached the meeting grounds
with throngs of people streaming in their trail
129 as a press of young champions rose for competition.
130 Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too
and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar,
Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard
and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson
and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too,
135 a match for murderous Ares, death to men —
in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians
after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People.
Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous,
139 Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships.
140 And now the games began, the first event a footrace . . .
They toed the line —
and broke flat out from the start
with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust
and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far,
144 flashing ahead the length two mules will plow a furrow
before he turned for home, leaving the pack behind
and raced to reach the crowds.
Next the wrestling,
grueling sport. They grappled, locked, and Broadsea,
pinning the strongest champions, won the bouts.
Next, in the jumping, Seagirt leapt and beat the field.
150 In the discus Rowhard up and outhurled them all by far.
And the king’s good son Laodamas boxed them to their knees.
When all had enjoyed the games to their hearts’ content
Alcinous’ son Laodamas spurred them: “Come, my friends,
let’s ask our guest if he knows the ropes of any sport.
He’s no mean man, not with a build like that . . .
Look at his thighs, his legs, and what a pair of arms —
his massive neck, his big, rippling strength!
Nor is he past his prime,
just beaten down by one too many blows.
160 Nothing worse than the sea, I always say,
to crush a man, the strongest man alive.”
And Broadsea put in quickly,
“Well said, Laodamas, right to the point.
Go up to the fellow, challenge him yourself.”
On that cue, the noble prince strode up
before Odysseus, front and center, asking,
“Come, stranger, sir, won’t you try your hand
at our contests now? If you have skill in any.
It’s fit and proper for you to know your sports.
170 What greater glory attends a man, while he’s alive,
than what he wins with his racing feet and striving hands?
Come and compete then, throw your cares to the wind!
It won’t be long, your journey’s not far off —
your ship’s already hauled down to the sea,
your crew is set to sail.”
“Laodamas,”
quick to the mark Odysseus countered sharply,
“why do you taunt me so with such a challenge?
Pains weigh on my spirit now, not your sports —
I’ve suffered much already, struggled hard.
180 But here I sit amid your assembly still,
starved for passage home, begging your king,
begging all your people.”
“Oh I knew it!”
Broadsea broke in, mocking him to his face.
“I never took you for someone skilled in games,
the kind that real men play throughout the world.
186 Not a chance. You’re some skipper of profiteers,
roving the high seas in his scudding craft,
reckoning up his freight with a keen eye out
for home-cargo, grabbing the gold he can!
You’re no athlete. I see that.”
190 With a dark glance
wily Odysseus shot back, “Indecent talk, my friend.
You, you’re a reckless fool —I see that. So,
the gods don’t hand out all their gifts at once,
not build and brains and flowing speech to all.
One man may fail to impress us with his looks
but a god can crown his words with beauty, charm,
and men look on with delight when he speaks out.
Never faltering, filled with winning self-control,
he shines forth at assembly grounds and people gaze
200 at him like a god when he walks through the streets.
Another man may look like a deathless one on high
but there’s not a bit of grace to crown his words.
Just like you, my fine, handsome friend. Not even
a god could improve those lovely looks of yours
but the mind inside is worthless.
Your slander fans the anger in my heart!
I’m no stranger to sports —for all your taunts —
I’ve held my place in the front ranks, I tell you,
long as I could trust to my youth and striving hands.
210 But now I’m wrestled down by pain and hardship, look,
I’ve borne my share of struggles, cleaving my way
through wars of men and pounding waves at sea.
Nevertheless, despite so many blows,
I’ll compete in your games, just watch. Your insults
cut to the quick —you rouse my fighting blood!”
Up he sprang, cloak and all, and seized
a discus,
huge and heavy, more weighty by far than those
the Phaeacians used to hurl and test each other.
Wheeling round, he let loose with his great hand
220 and the stone whirred on —and down to ground they went,
those lords of the long oars and master mariners cringing
under the rock’s onrush, soaring lightly out of his grip,
flying away past all the other marks, and Queen Athena,
built like a man, staked out the spot and cried
with a voice of triumph, “Even a blind man,
friend, could find your mark by groping round —
it’s not mixed up in the crowd, it’s far in front!
There’s nothing to fear in this event —
229 no one can touch you, much less beat your distance!”
230 At that the heart of the long-suffering hero laughed,
so glad to find a ready friend in the crowd that,
lighter in mood, he challenged all Phaeacia’s best:
“Now go match that, you young pups, and straightaway
I’ll hurl you another just as far, I swear, or even farther!
All the rest of you, anyone with the spine and spirit,
step right up and try me —you’ve incensed me so —
at boxing, wrestling, racing; nothing daunts me.
Any Phaeacian here except Laodamas himself.
The man’s my host. Who would fight his friend?
240 He’d have to be good-for-nothing, senseless, yes,
to challenge his host and come to grips in games,
in a far-off land at that. He’d cut his own legs short.
But there are no others I’d deny or think beneath me —
I’ll take on all contenders, gladly, test them head-to-head!
I’m no disgrace in the world of games where men compete.
246 Well I know how to handle a fine polished bow,
the first to hit my man in a mass of enemies,
even with rows of comrades pressing near me,
taking aim with our shafts to hit our targets.
250 Philoctetes alone outshot me there at Troy
when ranks of Achaean archers bent their bows.
Of the rest I’d say that I outclass them all —
men still alive, who eat their bread on earth.
But I’d never vie with the men of days gone by,
255 not Heracles, not Eurytus of Oechalia —archers
who rivaled immortal powers with their bows.
That’s why noble Eurytus died a sudden death:
no old age, creeping upon him in his halls . . .
Apollo shot him down, enraged that the man
had challenged him, the Archer God.
260 As for spears,
I can fling a spear as far as the next man wings an arrow!
Only at sprinting I fear you’d leave me in the dust.
I’ve taken a shameful beating out on heavy seas,
no conditioning there on shipboard day by day.
My legs have lost their spring.”
He finished. All stood quiet, hushed.
Only Alcinous found a way to answer. “Stranger,
friend —nothing you say among us seems ungracious.
You simply want to display the gifts you’re born with,
270 stung that a youngster marched up to you in the games,
mocking, ridiculing your prowess as no one would
who had some sense of fit and proper speech.
But come now, hear me out,
so you can tell our story to other lords
as you sit and feast in your own halls someday,
your own wife and your children by your side,
remembering there our island prowess here:
what skills great Zeus has given us as well,
down all the years from our fathers’ days till now.
280 We’re hardly world-class boxers or wrestlers, I admit,
but we can race like the wind, we’re champion sailors too,
and always dear to our hearts, the feast, the lyre and dance
and changes of fresh clothes, our warm baths and beds.
So come —all you Phaeacian masters of the dance —
now dance away! So our guest can tell his friends,
when he reaches home, how far we excel the world
in sailing, nimble footwork, dance and song.
Go, someone,
quickly, fetch Demodocus now his ringing lyre.
It must be hanging somewhere in the palace.”
290 At the king’s word the herald sprang to his feet
and ran to fetch the vibrant lyre from the house.
And stewards rose, nine in all, picked from the realm
to set the stage for contests: masters-at-arms who
leveled the dancing-floor to make a fine broad ring.
The herald returned and placed the ringing lyre now
in Demodocus’ hands, and the bard moved toward the center,
flanked by boys in the flush of youth, skilled dancers
who stamped the ground with marvelous pulsing steps
as Odysseus gazed at their flying, flashing feet,
his heart aglow with wonder.
300 A rippling prelude —
now the bard struck up an irresistible song:
302 The Love of Ares and Aphrodite Crowned with Flowers . . .
how the two had first made love in Hephaestus’ mansion,
all in secret. Ares had showered her with gifts
and showered Hephaestus’ marriage bed with shame
but a messenger ran to tell the god of fire —
307 Helios, lord of the sun, who’d spied the couple
lost in each other’s arms and making love.
Hephaestus, hearing the heart-wounding story,
310 bustled toward his forge, brooding on his revenge —
planted the huge anvil on its block and beat out chains,
not to be slipped or broken, all to pin the lovers on the spot.
This snare the Firegod forged, ablaze with his rage at War,
then limped to the room where the bed of love stood firm
and round the posts he poured the chains in a sweeping net
with streams of others flowing down from the roofbeam,
gossamer-fine as spider webs no man could see,
not even a blissful god —
the Smith had forged a masterwork of guile.
320 Once he’d spun that cunning trap around his bed
321 he feigned a trip to the well-built town of Lemnos,
dearest to him by far of all the towns on earth.
But the god of battle kept no blind man’s watch.
As soon as he saw the Master Craftsman leave
he plied his golden reins and arrived at once
and entered the famous god of fire’s mansion,
chafing with lust for Aphrodite crowned with flowers.
She’d just returned from her father’s palace, mighty Zeus,
and now she sat in her rooms as Ares strode right in
330 and grasped her hand with a warm, seductive urging:
“Quick, my darling, come, let’s go to bed
and lose ourselves in love! Your husband’s away —
by now he must be off in the wilds of Lemnos,
334 consorting with his raucous Sintian friends.”
So he pressed
and her heart raced with joy to sleep with War
and off they went to bed and down they lay —
and down around them came those cunning chains
of the crafty god of fire, showering down now
till the couple could not move a limb or lift a finger —
340 then they knew at last: there was no way out, not now.
But now the glorious crippled Smith was drawing near . . .
he’d turned around, miles short of the Lemnos coast,
so back he rushed to his house, his heart consumed with anguish.
Halting there at the gates, seized with savage rage
he howled a terrible cry, imploring all the gods,
“Father Zeus, look here —
the rest of you happy gods who live forever —
349 here is a sight to make you laugh, revolt you too!
350 Just because I am crippled, Zeus’s daughter Aphrodite
will always spurn me and love that devastating Ares,
just because of his striking looks and racer’s legs
while I am a weakling, lame from birth, and who’s to blame?
Both my parents —who else? If only they’d never bred me!
Just look at the two lovers . . . crawled inside my bed,
locked in each other’s arms —the sight makes me burn!
But I doubt they’ll want to lie that way much longer,
not a moment more —mad as they are for each other.
No, they’ll soon tire of bedding down together,
360 but then my cunning chains will bind them fast
361 till our Father pays my bride-gifts back in full,
all I handed him for that shameless bitch his daughter,
irresistible beauty —all unbridled too!”
So Hephaestus wailed
as the gods came crowding up to his bronze-floored house.
Poseidon god of the earthquake came, and Hermes came,
the running god of luck, and the Archer, lord Apollo,
while modesty kept each goddess to her mansion.
The immortals, givers of all good things, stood at the gates,
369 and uncontrollable laughter burst from the happy gods
370 when they saw the god of fire’s subtle, cunning work.
One would glance at his neighbor, laughing out,
“A bad day for adultery! Slow outstrips the Swift.”
“Look how limping Hephaestus conquers War,
the quickest of all the gods who rule Olympus!”
“The cripple wins by craft.”
“The adulterer,
he will pay the price!”
So the gods would banter
among themselves but lord Apollo goaded Hermes on:
“Tell me, Quicksilver, giver of all good things —
even with those unwieldy shackles wrapped around you,
380 how would you like to bed the golden Aphrodite?”
381 “Oh Apollo, if only!” the giant-killer cried.
“Archer, bind me down with triple those endless chains!
Let all you gods look on, and all you goddesses too —
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