The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

by Robert Fagles

  to bring Telemachus home from hallowed Lacedaemon.

  BOOK FOURTEEN

  The Loyal Swineherd

  So up from the haven now Odysseus climbed a rugged path

  through timber along high ground —Athena had shown the way —

  to reach the swineherd’s place, that fine loyal man

  who of all the household hands Odysseus ever had

  cared the most for his master’s worldly goods.

  Sitting at the door of his lodge he found him,

  there in his farmstead, high-walled, broad and large,

  with its long view on its cleared rise of ground . . .

  The swineherd made those walls with his own hands

  10 to enclose the pigs of his master gone for years.

  Alone, apart from his queen or old Laertes,

  he’d built them up of quarried blocks of stone

  and coped them well with a fence of wild pear.

  Outside he’d driven stakes in a long-line stockade,

  a ring of thickset palings split from an oak’s dark heart.

  Within the yard he’d built twelve sties, side-by-side,

  to bed his pigs, and in each one fifty brood-sows

  slept aground, penned and kept for breeding.

  The boars slept outside, but far fewer of them,

  20 thanks to the lordly suitors’ feasts that kept on

  thinning the herd and kept the swineherd stepping,

  sending to town each day the best fat hog in sight.

  By now they were down to three hundred and sixty head.

  But guarding them all the time were dogs like savage beasts,

  a pack of four, reared by the swineherd, foreman of men.

  The man himself was fitting sandals to his feet,

  carving away at an oxhide, dark and supple.

  As for his men, three were off with their pigs,

  herding them here or there. Under orders he’d sent

  30 a fourth to town, with hog in tow for the gorging suitors

  to slaughter off and glut themselves with pork.

  Suddenly —those snarling dogs spotted Odysseus,

  charged him fast —a shatter of barks —but Odysseus

  sank to the ground at once, he knew the trick:

  the staff dropped from his hand but here and now,

  on his own farm, he might have taken a shameful mauling.

  Yes, but the swineherd, quick to move, dashed for the gate,

  flinging his oxhide down, rushed the dogs with curses,

  scattered them left and right with flying rocks

  40 and warned his master, “Lucky to be alive, old man —

  a moment more, my pack would have torn you limb from limb!

  Then you’d have covered me with shame. As if the gods

  had never given me blows and groans aplenty . . .

  Here I sit, my heart aching, broken for him,

  my master, my great king —fattening up

  his own hogs for other men to eat, while he,

  starving for food, I wager, wanders the earth,

  a beggar adrift in strangers’ cities, foreign-speaking lands,

  if he’s still alive, that is, still sees the rising sun.

  50 Come, follow me into my place, old man, so you,

  at least, can eat your fill of bread and wine.

  Then you can tell me where you’re from

  and all the pains you’ve weathered.”

  On that note

  the loyal swineherd led the way to his shelter,

  55 showed his guest inside and sat Odysseus down

  on brush and twigs he piled up for the visitor,

  flinging over these the skin of a shaggy wild goat,

  broad and soft, the swineherd’s own good bedding.

  The king, delighted to be so well received,

  60 thanked the man at once: “My host —may Zeus

  and the other gods give you your heart’s desire

  for the royal welcome you have shown me here!”

  63 And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,

  “It’s wrong, my friend, to send any stranger packing —

  even one who arrives in worse shape than you.

  Every stranger and beggar comes from Zeus

  and whatever scrap they get from the likes of us,

  they’ll find it welcome. That’s the best we can do,

  we servants, always cowed by our high and mighty masters,

  70 especially our young lords . . . But my old king?

  The gods, they must have blocked his journey home.

  He’d have treated me well, he would, with a house,

  a plot of land and a wife you’d gladly prize.

  Goods that a kind lord will give a household hand

  who labors for him, hard, whose work the gods have sped,

  just as they speed the work I labor at all day.

  My master, I tell you, would have repaid me well

  if he’d grown old right here. But now he’s dead . . .

  If only Helen and all her kind had died out too,

  80 brought to her knees, just as she cut the legs

  from under troops of men! My king among them,

  he went off to the stallion-land of Troy

  to fight the Trojans, save Agamemnon’s honor!”

  Enough —

  he brusquely cinched his belt around his shirt,

  strode out to the pens, crammed with droves of pigs,

  picked out two, bundled them in and slaughtered both,

  singed them, sliced them down, skewered them through

  and roasting all to a turn, set them before Odysseus,

  sizzling hot on the spits.

  90 Then coating the meat with white barley groats

  and mixing honeyed wine in a carved wooden bowl,

  he sat down across from his guest, inviting warmly,

  “Eat up now, my friend. It’s all we slaves have got,

  scrawny pork, while the suitors eat the fatted hogs —

  no fear of the gods in their hard hearts, no mercy!

  Trust me, the blessed gods have no love for crime.

  They honor justice, honor the decent acts of men.

  Even cutthroat bandits who raid foreign parts —

  and Zeus grants them a healthy share of plunder,

  100 ships filled to the brim, and back they head for home —

  even their dark hearts are stalked by the dread of vengeance.

  But the suitors know, they’ve caught some godsent rumor

  of master’s grisly death! That’s why they have no mind

  to do their courting fairly or go back home in peace.

  No, at their royal ease they devour all his goods,

  those brazen rascals never spare a scrap!

  Not a day or a night goes by, sent down by Zeus,

  but they butcher victims, never stopping at one or two,

  and drain his wine as if there’s no tomorrow —

  110 swilling the last drop . . .

  Believe me, my master’s wealth was vast!

  No other prince on earth could match his riches,

  not on the loamy mainland or here at home in Ithaca —

  no twenty men in the world could equal his great treasures!

  Let me count them off for you. A dozen herds of cattle

  back on the mainland, just as many head of sheep,

  as many droves of pigs and goatflocks ranging free;

  hired hands or his own herdsmen keep them grazing there.

  Here in Ithaca, goatflocks, eleven in all, scatter

  120 to graze the island, out at the wild end,

  and trusty goatherds watch their every move.

  And each herdsman, day after day, it never ends,

  drives in a beast for the suitors —best in sight,

  a sheep or well-fed goat. While I tend to these pigs,

  I guard them, pick the best for those carousers

&nbs
p; and send it to the slaughter!”

  His voice rose

  while the stranger ate his meat and drank his wine,

  ravenous, bolting it all down in silence . . .

  brooding on ways to serve the suitors right.

  130 But once he’d supped and refreshed himself with food,

  he filled the wooden bowl he’d been drinking from,

  brimmed it with wine and passed it to his host

  who received the offer gladly, spirit cheered

  as the stranger probed him now with winging words:

  “Friend, who was the man who bought you with his goods,

  the master of such vast riches, powerful as you say?

  You tell me he died defending Agamemnon’s honor?

  What’s his name? I just might know such a man . . .

  Zeus would know, and the other deathless gods,

  140 if I ever saw him, if I bring you any news.

  I’ve roamed the whole earth over.”

  And the good swineherd answered, foreman of men,

  “Old friend, no wanderer landing here with news of him

  is likely to win his wife and dear son over.

  Random drifters, hungry for bed and board,

  lie through their teeth and swallow back the truth.

  Why, any tramp washed up on Ithaca’s shores

  scurries right to my mistress, babbling lies,

  and she ushers him in, kindly, pressing for details,

  150 and the warm tears of grief come trickling down her cheeks,

  the loyal wife’s way when her husband’s died abroad.

  Even you, old codger, could rig up some fine tale —

  and soon enough, I’d say,

  if they gave you shirt and clothing for your pains.

  My master? Well, no doubt the dogs and wheeling birds

  have ripped the skin from his ribs by now, his life is through —

  or fish have picked him clean at sea, and the man’s bones

  lie piled up on the mainland, buried deep in sand . . .

  he’s dead and gone. Aye, leaving a broken heart

  160 for loved ones left behind, for me most of all.

  Never another master kind as he!

  I’ll never find one —no matter where I go,

  not even if I went back to mother and father,

  the house where I was born and my parents reared me once.

  Ah, but much as I grieve for them, much as I long

  to lay my eyes on them, set foot on the old soil,

  it’s longing for him, him that wrings my heart —

  Odysseus, lost and gone!

  That man, old friend, far away as he is . . .

  170 I can scarcely bear to say his name aloud,

  so deeply he loved me, cared for me, so deeply.

  Worlds away as he is, I call him Master, Brother!”

  “My friend,” the great Odysseus, long in exile, answered,

  “since you are dead certain, since you still insist

  he’s never coming back, still the soul of denial,

  I won’t simply say it —on my oath I swear

  Odysseus is on his way!

  Reward for such good news? Let me have it

  the moment he sets foot in his own house,

  180 dress me in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes.

  Before then, poor as I am, I wouldn’t take a thing.

  182 I hate that man like the very Gates of Death who,

  ground down by poverty, stoops to peddling lies.

  I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods,

  by this table of hospitality here, my host,

  by Odysseus’ hearth where I have come for help:

  all will come to pass, I swear, exactly as I say.

  True, this very month —just as the old moon dies

  and the new moon rises into life —Odysseus will return!

  190 He will come home and take revenge on any man

  who offends his wedded wife and princely son!”

  “Good news,” you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,

  “but I will never pay a reward for that, old friend —

  Odysseus, he’ll never come home again. Never . . .

  Drink your wine, sit back, let’s talk of other things.

  Don’t remind me of all this. The heart inside me

  breaks when anyone mentions my dear master.

  That oath of yours, we’ll let it pass —

  Odysseus,

  oh come back! —

  just as I wish, I and Penelope,

  200 old Laertes too, Telemachus too, the godlike boy.

  How I grieve for him now, I can’t stop —Odysseus’ son,

  Telemachus. The gods reared him up like a fine young tree

  and I often said, ‘In the ranks of men he’ll match his father,

  his own dear father —amazing in build and looks, that boy!’

  But all of a sudden a god wrecks his sense of balance —

  god or man, no matter —off he’s gone to catch

  some news of his father, down to holy Pylos.

  And now those gallant suitors lie in wait for him,

  sailing home, to tear the royal line of Arcesius

  210 out of Ithaca, root and branch, good name and all!

  Enough. Let him pass too —whether he’s trapped

  or the hand of Zeus will pull him through alive.

  Come,

  old soldier, tell me the story of your troubles,

  tell me truly, too, I’d like to know it well . . .

  Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?

  What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors

  land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are?

  I hardly think you came this way on foot.”

  The great teller of tales returned at length,

  220 “My story —the whole truth —I’m glad to tell it all.

  If only the two of us had food and mellow wine

  to last us long, here in your shelter now,

  for us to sup on, undisturbed,

  while others take the work of the world in hand,

  I could easily spend all year and never reach the end

  of my endless story, all the heartbreaking trials

  I struggled through. The gods willed it so . . .

  I hail from Crete’s broad land, I’m proud to say,

  and I am a rich man’s son. And many other sons

  230 he brought up in his palace, born in wedlock,

  sprung of his lawful wife. Unlike my mother.

  She was a slave, a concubine he’d purchased, yes,

  but he treated me on a par with all his true-born sons —

  234 Castor, Hylax’ son. I’m proud to boast his blood, that man

  revered like a god throughout all Crete those days,

  for wealth, power and all his glorious offspring.

  But the deadly spirits soon swept him down

  to the House of Death, and his high and mighty sons

  carved up his lands and then cast lots for the parts

  240 and gave me just a pittance, a paltry house as well.

  But I won myself a wife from wealthy, landed people,

  thanks to my own strong points. I was no fool

  and never shirked a fight.

  But now my heyday’s gone —

  I’ve had my share of blows. Yet look hard at the husk

  and you’ll still see, I think, the grain that gave it life.

  By heaven, Ares gave me courage, Athena too, to break

  the ranks of men wide open, once, in the old days,

  whenever I picked my troops and formed an ambush,

  plotting attacks to spring against our foes —

  250 no hint of death could daunt my fighting spirit!

  Far out of the front I’d charge and spear my man,

  I’d cut down any enemy soldier backing off.

  Such was I in battle, t
rue, but I had no love

  for working the land, the chores of households either,

  the labor that raises crops of shining children. No,

  it was always oarswept ships that thrilled my heart,

  and wars, and the long polished spears and arrows,

  dreadful gear that makes the next man cringe.

  I loved them all —god planted that love inside me.

  260 Each man delights in the work that suits him best.

  Why, long before we Achaeans ever camped at Troy,

  nine commands I led in our deep-sea-going ships,

  raiding foreign men, and a fine haul reached my hands.

  I helped myself to the lion’s share and still more spoils

  came by lot. And my house grew by leaps and bounds,

  266 I walked among the Cretans, honored, feared as well.

  But then, when thundering Zeus contrived that expedition —

  that disaster that brought so many fighters to their knees —

  269 and men kept pressing me and renowned Idomeneus

  270 to head a fleet to Troy,

  there was no way out, no denying them then,

  the voice of the people bore down much too hard.

  So nine whole years we Achaeans soldiered on at Troy,

  in the tenth we sacked King Priam’s city, then embarked

  for home in the long ships, and a god dispersed the fleet.

  Unlucky me. Shrewd old Zeus was plotting still more pain.

  No more than a month I stayed at home, taking joy

  in my children, loyal wife and lovely plunder.

  But a spirit in me urged, ‘Set sail for Egypt —

  280 fit out ships, take crews of seasoned heroes!’

  Nine I fitted out, the men joined up at once

  and then six days my shipmates feasted well,

  while I provided a flock of sheep to offer up

  to the gods and keep the feasters’ table groaning.

  On the seventh we launched out from the plains of Crete

  with a stiff North Wind fair astern —smooth sailing,

  aye, like coasting on downstream . . .

  And not one craft in our squadron foundered;

  all shipshape, and all hands sound, we sat back

  290 while the wind and helmsmen kept us true on course.

  Five days out and we raised the great river Nile

  and there in the Nile delta moored our ships of war.

  God knows I ordered my trusty crews to stand by,

  just where they were, and guard the anchored fleet

  and I sent a patrol to scout things out from higher ground.