200 the god would crush it, yes,
and pile a huge mountain round about our port.
So the old king foretold. Now, look, it all comes true!
Hurry, friends, do as I say, let us all comply:
stop our convoys home for every castaway
chancing on our city! As for Poseidon,
sacrifice twelve bulls to the god at once —
the pick of the herds. Perhaps he’ll pity us,
pile no looming mountain ridge around our port.”
The people, terrified, prepared the bulls at once.
210 So all of Phaeacia’s island lords and captains,
milling round the altar, lifted prayers
to Poseidon, master of the sea . . .
That very moment
great Odysseus woke from sleep on native ground at last —
he’d been away for years —but failed to know the land
for the goddess Pallas Athena, Zeus’s daughter,
showered mist over all, so under cover
she might change his appearance head to foot
as she told him every peril he’d meet at home —
keep him from being known by wife, townsmen, friends,
220 till the suitors paid the price for all their outrage.
And so to the king himself all Ithaca looked strange . . .
the winding beaten paths, the coves where ships can ride,
the steep rock face of the cliffs and the tall leafy trees.
He sprang to his feet and, scanning his own native country,
groaned, slapped his thighs with his flat palms
and Odysseus cried in anguish:
227 “Man of misery, whose land have I lit on now?
What are they here —violent, savage, lawless?
or friendly to strangers, god-fearing men?
230 Where can I take this heap of treasure now
and where in the world do I wander off myself?
If only the trove had stayed among the Phaeacians there
and I had made my way to some other mighty king
who would have hosted me well and sent me home!
But now I don’t know where to stow all this,
and I can’t leave it here, inviting any bandit
to rob me blind.
So damn those lords and captains,
those Phaeacians! Not entirely honest or upright, were they?
Sweeping me off to this, this no-man’s-land, and they,
240 they swore they’d sail me home to sunny Ithaca —well,
241 they never kept their word. Zeus of the Suppliants
pay them back —he keeps an eye on the world of men
and punishes all transgressors!
Come, quickly,
I’ll inspect my treasure and count it up myself.
Did they make off with anything in their ship?”
With that he counted up the gorgeous tripods,
cauldrons, bars of gold and the lovely woven robes.
Not a stitch was missing from the lot. But still
he wept for his native country, trailing down the shore
250 where the wash of sea on shingle ebbs and flows,
his homesick heart in turmoil.
But now Athena appeared and came toward him.
She looked like a young man . . . a shepherd boy
yet elegant too, with all the gifts that grace the sons of kings,
with a well-cut cloak falling in folds across her shoulders,
sandals under her shining feet, a hunting spear in hand.
Odysseus, overjoyed at the sight, went up to meet her,
joining her now with salutations on the wing:
“Greetings, friend! Since you are the first
260 I’ve come on in this harbor, treat me kindly —
no cruelty, please. Save these treasures,
save me too. I pray to you like a god,
I fall before your knees and ask your mercy!
And tell me this for a fact —I need to know —
where on earth am I? what land? who lives here?
Is it one of the sunny islands or some jutting shore
of the good green mainland slanting down to sea?”
Athena answered, her eyes brightening now,
“You must be a fool, stranger, or come from nowhere,
270 if you really have to ask what land this is.
Trust me, it’s not so nameless after all.
It’s known the world around,
to all who live to the east and rising sun
and to all who face the western mists and darkness.
It’s a rugged land, too cramped for driving horses,
but though it’s far from broad, it’s hardly poor.
There’s plenty of grain for bread, grapes for wine,
the rains never fail and the dewfall’s healthy.
Good country for goats, good for cattle too —
280 there’s stand on stand of timber
and water runs in streambeds through the year.
So,
stranger, the name of Ithaca’s reached as far as Troy,
and Troy, they say, is a long hard sail from Greece.”
Ithaca . . . Heart racing, Odysseus that great exile
filled with joy to hear Athena, daughter of storming Zeus,
pronounce that name. He stood on native ground at last
and he replied with a winging word to Pallas,
not with a word of truth —he choked it back,
always invoking the cunning in his heart:
290 “Ithaca . . . yes, I seem to have heard of Ithaca,
even on Crete’s broad island far across the sea,
and now I’ve reached it myself, with all this loot,
but I left behind an equal measure for my children.
294 I’m a fugitive now, you see. I killed Idomeneus’ son,
295 Orsilochus, lightning on his legs, a man who beat
all runners alive on that long island —what a racer!
He tried to rob me of all the spoil I’d won at Troy,
the plunder I went to hell and back to capture, true,
cleaving my way through wars of men and waves at sea —
300 and just because I refused to please his father,
serve under him at Troy. I led my own command.
So now with a friend I lay in wait by the road,
I killed him just loping in from the fields —
with one quick stroke of my bronze spear
in the dead of night, the heavens pitch-black . . .
no one could see us, spot me tearing out his life
with a weapon honed for action. Once I’d cut him down
308 I made for a ship and begged the Phoenician crew for mercy,
paying those decent hands a hearty share of plunder —
310 asked them to take me on and land me down in Pylos,
311 there or lovely Elis, where Epeans rule in power.
But a heavy galewind blew them way off course,
much against their will —
they’d no desire to cheat me. Driven afar,
we reached this island here at the midnight hour,
rowing for dear life, we made it into your harbor —
not a thought of supper, much as we all craved food,
we dropped from the decks and lay down, just like that!
A welcome sleep came over my weary bones at once,
320 while the crew hoisted up my loot from the holds
and set it down on the sand near where I slept.
322 They reembarked, now homeward bound for Sidon,
their own noble city, leaving me here behind,
homesick in my heart . . .”
As his story ended,
goddess Athena, gray eyes gleaming, broke into a smile
and stroked him with her hand, and now she appeared a woman,
beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things.
>
Her words went flying straight toward Odysseus:
“Any man —any god who met you —would have to be
330 some champion lying cheat to get past you
for all-round craft and guile! You terrible man,
foxy, ingenious, never tired of twists and tricks —
so, not even here, on native soil, would you give up
those wily tales that warm the cockles of your heart!
Come, enough of this now. We’re both old hands
at the arts of intrigue. Here among mortal men
you’re far the best at tactics, spinning yarns,
and I am famous among the gods for wisdom,
cunning wiles, too.
340 Ah, but you never recognized me, did you?
Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus —who always
stands beside you, shields you in every exploit:
thanks to me the Phaeacians all embraced you warmly.
And now I am here once more, to weave a scheme with you
and to hide the treasure-trove Phaeacia’s nobles
lavished on you then —I willed it, planned it so
when you set out for home —and to tell you all
the trials you must suffer in your palace . . .
Endure them all. You must. You have no choice.
350 And to no one —no man, no woman, not a soul —
reveal that you are the wanderer home at last.
No, in silence you must bear a world of pain,
subject yourself to the cruel abuse of men.”
“Ah goddess,” the cool tactician countered,
“you’re so hard for a mortal man to know on sight,
however shrewd he is —the shapes you take are endless!
But I do know this: you were kind to me in the war years,
so long as we men of Achaea soldiered on at Troy.
But once we’d sacked King Priam’s craggy city,
360 boarded ship, and a god dispersed the fleet,
361 from then on, daughter of Zeus, I never saw you,
never glimpsed you striding along my decks
to ward off some disaster. No, I wandered on,
my heart forever torn to pieces inside my chest
till the gods released me from my miseries at last,
that day in the fertile kingdom of Phaeacia when
you cheered me with words, in person, led me to their city.
But now I beg you by your almighty Father’s name . . .
for I can’t believe I’ve reached my sunny Ithaca,
370 I must be roaming around one more exotic land —
you’re mocking me, I know it, telling me tales
to make me lose my way. Tell me the truth now,
have I really reached the land I love?”
“Always the same, your wary turn of mind,”
Athena exclaimed, her glances flashing warmly.
“That’s why I can’t forsake you in your troubles —
you are so winning, so worldly-wise, so self-possessed!
Anyone else, come back from wandering long and hard,
would have hurried home at once, delighted to see
380 his children and his wife. Oh, but not you,
it’s not your pleasure to probe for news of them —
you must put your wife to the proof yourself!
But she, she waits in your halls, as always,
her life an endless hardship . . .
wasting away the nights, weeping away the days.
I never had doubts myself, no, I knew down deep
that you would return at last, with all your shipmates lost.
388 But I could not bring myself to fight my Father’s brother,
Poseidon, quaking with anger at you, still enraged
390 because you blinded the Cyclops, his dear son.
But come, let me show you Ithaca’s setting,
I’ll convince you. This haven —look around —
it’s named for Phorcys, the old god of the deep,
and here at the harbor’s head the branching olive stands
with the welcome cave nearby it, dank with sea-mist,
sacred to nymphs of the springs we call the Naiads.
Here, under its arching vault, time and again
you’d offer the nymphs a generous sacrifice
to bring success! And the slopes above you, look,
Mount Neriton decked in forests!”
400 At those words
the goddess scattered the mist and the country stood out clear
and the great man who had borne so much rejoiced at last,
thrilled to see his Ithaca —he kissed the good green earth
and raised his hands to the nymphs and prayed at once,
“Nymphs of the springs, Naiads, daughters of Zeus,
I never dreamed I would see you yet again . . .
Now rejoice in my loving prayers —and later,
just like the old days, I will give you gifts
if Athena, Zeus’s daughter, Queen of Armies
410 comes to my rescue, grants this fighter life
and brings my son to manhood!”
“Courage!” —
goddess Athena answered, eyes afire —
“Free your mind of all that anguish now.
Come, quick, let’s bury your treasures here
in some recess of this haunted hallowed cave
where they’ll be safe and sound,
then we’ll make plans so we can win the day.”
With that
the goddess swept into the cavern’s shadowed vault,
searching for hiding-places far inside its depths
420 while Odysseus hauled his treasures closer up,
the gold, durable bronze and finespun robes,
the Phaeacians’ parting gifts.
Once he’d stowed them well away, the goddess,
Pallas Athena, daughter of storming Zeus,
sealed the mouth of the cavern with a stone.
Then down they sat by the sacred olive’s trunk
to plot the death of the high and mighty suitors.
The bright-eyed goddess Athena led the way:
“Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner,
430 think how to lay your hands on all those brazen suitors,
lording it over your house now, three whole years,
courting your noble wife, offering gifts to win her.
But she, forever broken-hearted for your return,
builds up each man’s hopes —
dangling promises, dropping hints to each —
but all the while with something else in mind.”
“God help me!” the man of intrigue broke out:
“Clearly I might have died the same ignoble death
as Agamemnon, bled white in my own house too,
440 if you had never revealed this to me now,
goddess, point by point.
Come, weave us a scheme so I can pay them back!
Stand beside me, Athena, fire me with daring, fierce
as the day we ripped Troy’s glittering crown of towers down.
Stand by me —furious now as then, my bright-eyed one —
and I would fight three hundred men, great goddess,
with you to brace me, comrade-in-arms in battle!”
Gray eyes ablaze, the goddess urged him on:
“Surely I’ll stand beside you, not forget you,
450 not when the day arrives for us to do our work.
Those men who court your wife and waste your goods?
I have a feeling some will splatter your ample floors
with all their blood and brains. Up now, quickly.
First I will transform you —no one must know you.
I will shrivel the supple skin on your lithe limbs,
strip the russet curls from your head and deck you out
in rags you’d hate to see some other mortal wear;
I’ll dim the fire in your eyes, so shining once —
until you seem appalling to all those suitors,
460 even your wife and son you left behind at home.
But you, you make your way to the swineherd first,
in charge of your pigs, and true to you as always,
loyal friend to your son, to Penelope, so self-possessed.
You’ll find him posted beside his swine, grubbing round
465 by Raven’s Rock and the spring called Arethusa,
rooting for feed that makes pigs sleek and fat,
the nuts they love, the dark pools they drink.
Wait there, sit with him, ask him all he knows.
I’m off to Sparta, where the women are a wonder,
470 to call Telemachus home, your own dear son, Odysseus.
He’s journeyed to Lacedaemon’s rolling hills
to see Menelaus, searching for news of you,
hoping to learn if you are still alive.”
Shrewd Odysseus answered her at once:
“Why not tell him the truth? You know it all.
Or is he too —like father, like son —condemned
to hardship, roving over the barren salt sea
while strangers devour our livelihood right here?”
But the bright-eyed goddess reassured him firmly:
480 “No need for anguish, trust me, not for him —
I escorted your son myself
so he might make his name by sailing there.
Nor is he saddled down with any troubles now.
He sits at ease in the halls of Menelaus,
bathed in endless bounty . . . True enough,
some young lords in a black cutter lurk in ambush,
poised to kill the prince before he reaches home,
but I have my doubts they will. Sooner the earth
will swallow down a few of those young gallants
490 who eat you out of house and home these days!”
No more words, not now —
Athena stroked Odysseus with her wand.
She shriveled the supple skin on his lithe limbs,
stripped the russet curls from his head, covered his body
top to toe with the wrinkled hide of an old man
and dimmed the fire in his eyes, so shining once.
She turned his shirt and cloak into squalid rags,
ripped and filthy, smeared with grime and soot.
She flung over this the long pelt of a bounding deer,
500 rubbed bare, and gave him a staff and beggar’s sack,
torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope.
All plans made,
they went their separate ways —Athena setting off
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