how I’d love to bed that golden Aphrodite!”
A peal of laughter broke from the deathless ones
but not Poseidon, not a smile from him; he kept on
begging the famous Smith to loose the god of war,
pleading, his words flying, “Let him go!
I guarantee you Ares will pay the price,
390 whatever you ask, Hephaestus,
whatever’s right in the eyes of all the gods.”
But the famous crippled Smith appealed in turn,
“God of the earthquake, please don’t urge this on me.
A pledge for a worthless man is a worthless pledge indeed.
What if he slips out of his chains —his debts as well?
How could I shackle you while all the gods look on?”
But the god of earthquakes reassured the Smith,
“Look, Hephaestus, if Ares scuttles off and away,
squirming out of his debt, I’ll pay the fine myself.”
400 And the famous crippled Smith complied at last:
“Now there’s an offer I really can’t refuse!”
With all his force the god of fire loosed the chains
and the two lovers, free of the bonds that overwhelmed them so,
404 sprang up and away at once, and the Wargod sped to Thrace
405 while Love with her telltale laughter sped to Paphos,
Cyprus Isle, where her grove and scented altar stand.
There the Graces bathed and anointed her with oil,
ambrosial oil, the bloom that clings to the gods
who never die, and swathed her round in gowns
410 to stop the heart . . . an ecstasy —a vision.
That was the song the famous harper sang
and Odysseus relished every note as the islanders,
the lords of the long oars and master mariners rejoiced.
Next the king asked Halius and Laodamas to dance,
the two alone, since none could match that pair.
So taking in hand a gleaming sea-blue ball
417 made by the craftsman Polybus —arching back,
one prince would hurl it toward the shadowy clouds
as the other leaping high into the air would catch it
420 quickly, nimbly, before his feet hit ground again.
Once they’d vied at throwing the ball straight up,
they tossed it back and forth in a blur of hands
as they danced across the earth that feeds us all,
while boys around the ring stamped out the beat
and a splendid rhythmic drumming sound arose
and good Odysseus looked at his host, exclaiming,
“King Alcinous, shining among your island people,
you boasted Phaeacia’s dancers are the best —
they prove your point —I watch and I’m amazed!”
430 His praises cheered the hallowed island king
who spoke at once to the master mariners around him:
“Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia,
our guest is a man of real taste, I’d say. Come,
let’s give him the parting gifts a guest deserves.
435 There are twelve peers of the realm who rule our land,
thirteen, counting myself. Let each of us contribute
a fresh cloak and shirt and a bar of precious gold.
Gather the gifts together, hurry, so our guest
can have them all in hand when he goes to dine,
440 his spirit filled with joy.
As for Broadsea, let him make amends,
man-to-man, with his words as well as gifts.
His first remarks were hardly fit to hear.”
All assented and gave their own commands,
each noble sent a page to fetch his gifts.
And Broadsea volunteered in turn, obliging:
“Great Alcinous, shining among our island people,
of course I’ll make amends to our newfound friend
as you request. I’ll give the man this sword.
450 It’s solid bronze and the hilt has silver studs,
the sheath around it ivory freshly carved.
Here’s a gift our guest will value highly.”
He placed the silver-studded sword in Odysseus’ hands
with a burst of warm words: “Farewell, stranger, sir —
if any remark of mine gave you offense,
may stormwinds snatch it up and sweep it off!
May the gods grant you safe passage home to see your wife —
you’ve been so far from loved ones, suffered so!”
Tactful Odysseus answered him in kind:
460 “And a warm farewell to you, too, my friend.
May the gods grant you good fortune —
may you never miss this sword, this gift you give
with such salutes. You’ve made amends in full.”
With that
he slung the silver-studded sword across his shoulder.
As the sun sank, his glittering gifts arrived
and proud heralds bore them into the hall
where sons of King Alcinous took them over,
spread them out before their noble mother’s feet —
a grand array of gifts. The king in all his majesty
470 led the rest of his peers inside, following in a file
and down they sat on rows of high-backed chairs.
The king turned to the queen and urged her, “Come,
my dear, bring in an elegant chest, the best you have,
and lay inside it a fresh cloak and shirt, your own gifts.
Then heat a bronze cauldron over the fire, boil water,
so once our guest has bathed and reviewed his gifts —
all neatly stacked for sailing,
gifts our Phaeacian lords have brought him now —
he’ll feast in peace and hear the harper’s songs.
480 And I will give him this gorgeous golden cup of mine,
so he’ll remember Alcinous all his days to come
when he pours libations out in his own house
to Father Zeus and the other gods on high.”
And at that Arete told her serving-women,
“Set a great three-legged cauldron over the fire —
do it right away!”
And hoisting over the blaze
a cauldron, filling it brimful with bathing water,
they piled fresh logs beneath and lit them quickly.
The fire lapped at the vessel’s belly, the water warmed.
490 Meanwhile the queen had a polished chest brought forth
from an inner room and laid the priceless gifts inside,
the clothes and gold the Phaeacian lords had brought,
and added her own gifts, a cloak and a fine shirt,
and gave her guest instructions quick and clear:
“Now look to the lid yourself and bind it fast
with a good tight knot, so no one can rob you
on your voyage —drifting into a sweet sleep
as the black ship sails you home.”
Hearing that,
the storm-tossed man secured the lid straightway,
500 he battened it fast with a swift, intricate knot
501 the lady Circe had taught him long ago.
And the housekeeper invited him at once
to climb into a waiting tub and bathe —
a hot, steaming bath . . .
what a welcome sight to Odysseus’ eyes!
He’d been a stranger to comforts such as these
since he left the lovely-haired Calypso’s house,
yet all those years he enjoyed such comforts there,
never-ending, as if he were a god . . . And now,
510 when maids had washed him, rubbed him down with oil
and drawn warm fleece and a shirt around his shoulders,
he stepped from the bath to join the nobles at their wine.
And ther
e stood Nausicaa as he passed. Beside a column
that propped the sturdy roof she paused, endowed
by the gods with all her beauty, gazing at
Odysseus right before her eyes. Wonderstruck,
she hailed her guest with a winning flight of words:
518 “Farewell, my friend! And when you are at home,
home in your own land, remember me at times.
520 Mainly to me you owe the gift of life.”
Odysseus rose to the moment deftly, gently:
“Nausicaa, daughter of generous King Alcinous,
may Zeus the Thunderer, Hera’s husband, grant it so —
that I travel home and see the dawn of my return.
Even at home I’ll pray to you as a deathless goddess
all my days to come. You saved my life, dear girl.”
And he went and took his seat beside the king.
By now they were serving out the portions, mixing wine,
and the herald soon approached, leading the faithful bard
530 Demodocus, prized by all the people —seated him in a chair
amid the feasters, leaning it against a central column.
At once alert Odysseus carved a strip of loin,
rich and crisp with fat, from the white-tusked boar
that still had much meat left, and called the herald over:
“Here, herald, take this choice cut to Demodocus
so he can eat his fill —with warm regards
from a man who knows what suffering is . . .
From all who walk the earth our bards deserve
esteem and awe, for the Muse herself has taught them
540 paths of song. She loves the breed of harpers.”
The herald placed the gift in Demodocus’ hands
and the famous blind bard received it, overjoyed.
They reached for the good things that lay outspread
and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Odysseus, master of many exploits, praised the singer:
“I respect you, Demodocus, more than any man alive —
surely the Muse has taught you, Zeus’s daughter,
or god Apollo himself. How true to life,
all too true . . . you sing the Achaeans’ fate,
550 all they did and suffered, all they soldiered through,
as if you were there yourself or heard from one who was.
552 But come now, shift your ground. Sing of the wooden horse
553 Epeus built with Athena’s help, the cunning trap that
good Odysseus brought one day to the heights of Troy,
filled with fighting men who laid the city waste.
Sing that for me —true to life as it deserves —
and I will tell the world at once how freely
the Muse gave you the gods’ own gift of song.”
559 Stirred now by the Muse, the bard launched out
560 in a fine blaze of song, starting at just the point
where the main Achaean force, setting their camps afire,
had boarded the oarswept ships and sailed for home
but famed Odysseus’ men already crouched in hiding —
in the heart of Troy’s assembly —dark in that horse
the Trojans dragged themselves to the city heights.
Now it stood there, looming . . .
and round its bulk the Trojans sat debating,
clashing, days on end. Three plans split their ranks:
either to hack open the hollow vault with ruthless bronze
570 or haul it up to the highest ridge and pitch it down the cliffs
or let it stand —a glorious offering made to pacify the gods —
and that, that final plan, was bound to win the day.
For Troy was fated to perish once the city lodged
inside her walls the monstrous wooden horse
where the prime of Argive power lay in wait
with death and slaughter bearing down on Troy.
And he sang how troops of Achaeans broke from cover,
streaming out of the horse’s hollow flanks to plunder Troy —
he sang how left and right they ravaged the steep city,
580 sang how Odysseus marched right up to Deiphobus’ house
like the god of war on attack with diehard Menelaus.
There, he sang, Odysseus fought the grimmest fight
he had ever braved but he won through at last,
thanks to Athena’s superhuman power.
That was the song the famous harper sang
but great Odysseus melted into tears,
running down from his eyes to wet his cheeks . . .
as a woman weeps, her arms flung round her darling husband,
a man who fell in battle, fighting for town and townsmen,
590 trying to beat the day of doom from home and children.
Seeing the man go down, dying, gasping for breath,
she clings for dear life, screams and shrills —
but the victors, just behind her,
digging spear-butts into her back and shoulders,
drag her off in bondage, yoked to hard labor, pain,
and the most heartbreaking torment wastes her cheeks.
So from Odysseus’ eyes ran tears of heartbreak now.
But his weeping went unmarked by all the others;
only Alcinous, sitting close beside him,
600 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!
Let Demodocus rest his ringing lyre now —
this song he sings can hardly please us all.
Ever since our meal began and the stirring bard
launched his song, our guest has never paused
in his tears and throbbing sorrow.
Clearly grief has overpowered his heart.
Break off this song! Let us all enjoy ourselves,
the hosts and guest together. Much the warmer way.
All these things are performed for him, our honored guest,
the royal send-off here and gifts we give in love.
Treat your guest and suppliant like a brother:
anyone with a touch of sense knows that.
So don’t be crafty now, my friend, don’t hide
the truth I’m after. Fair is fair, speak out!
Come, tell us the name they call you there at home —
your mother, father, townsmen, neighbors round about.
620 Surely no man in the world is nameless, all told.
Born high, born low, as soon as he sees the light
his parents always name him, once he’s born.
And tell me your land, your people, your city too,
so our ships can sail you home —their wits will speed them there.
For we have no steersmen here among Phaeacia’s crews
or steering-oars that guide your common craft.
Our ships know in a flash their mates’ intentions,
know all ports of call and all the rich green fields.
With wings of the wind they cross the sea’s huge gulfs,
630 shrouded in mist and cloud —no fear in the world of foundering,
fatal shipwreck.
True, there’s an old tale I heard
my father telling once. Nausithous used to say
that lord Poseidon was vexed with us because
we escorted all mankind and never came to grief.
He said that one day, as a well-built ship of ours
sailed home on the misty sea from such a convoy,
the god would crush it, yes,
and pile a huge mountain round about our port.
So the old king foretold . . . And as for the god, well,
640 he can do his worst or leave it quite undone,
whatever warms his heart.
tell us your own story now, and tell it truly.
Where have your rovings forced you?
What lands of men have you seen, what sturdy towns,
what men themselves? Who were wild, savage, lawless?
Who were friendly to strangers, god-fearing men? Tell me,
why do you weep and grieve so sorely when you hear
the fate of the Argives, hear the fall of Troy?
That is the gods’ work, spinning threads of death
650 through the lives of mortal men,
and all to make a song for those to come . . .
Did one of your kinsmen die before the walls of Troy,
some brave man —a son by marriage? father by marriage?
Next to our own blood kin, our nearest, dearest ties.
Or a friend perhaps, someone close to your heart,
staunch and loyal? No less dear than a brother,
the brother-in-arms who shares our inmost thoughts.”
BOOK NINE
In the One-Eyed Giant’s Cave
Odysseus, the great teller of tales, launched out on his story:
“Alcinous, majesty, shining among your island people,
what a fine thing it is to listen to such a bard
as we have here —the man sings like a god.
The crown of life, I’d say. There’s nothing better
than when deep joy holds sway throughout the realm
and banqueters up and down the palace sit in ranks,
enthralled to hear the bard, and before them all, the tables
heaped with bread and meats, and drawing wine from a mixing-bowl
10 the steward makes his rounds and keeps the winecups flowing.
This, to my mind, is the best that life can offer.
But now
you’re set on probing the bitter pains I’ve borne,
so I’m to weep and grieve, it seems, still more.
Well then, what shall I go through first,
what shall I save for last?
What pains —the gods have given me my share.
Now let me begin by telling you my name . . .
so you may know it well and I in times to come,
if I can escape the fatal day, will be your host,
20 your sworn friend, though my home is far from here.
21 I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, known to the world
for every kind of craft —my fame has reached the skies.
Sunny Ithaca is my home. Atop her stands our seamark,
The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) Page 24