But swept away by their own reckless fury, the crew went berserk —
they promptly began to plunder the lush Egyptian farms,
dragged off the women and children, killed the men.
Outcries reached the city in no time —stirred by shouts
300 the entire town came streaming down at the break of day,
filling the river plain with chariots, ranks of infantry
and the gleam of bronze. Zeus who loves the lightning
flung down murderous panic on all my men-at-arms —
no one dared to stand his ground and fight,
disaster ringed us round from every quarter.
Droves of my men they hacked down with swords,
led off the rest alive, to labor for them as slaves.
And I? Zeus flashed an inspiration through my mind,
though I wish I’d died a soldier down in Egypt then!
310 A world of pain, you see, still lay in wait for me . . .
Quickly I wrenched the skullcap helmet off my head,
I tore the shield from my back and dropped my spear
and ran right into the path of the king’s chariot,
hugged and kissed his knees. He pitied me, spared me,
hoisted me onto his war-car, took me home in tears.
Troops of his men came rushing after, shaking javelins,
mad to kill me —their fighting blood at the boil —
but their master drove them off.
He feared the wrath of Zeus, the god of guests,
the first of the gods to pay back acts of outrage.
320 So,
there I lingered for seven years, amassing a fortune
from all the Egyptian people loading me with gifts.
Then, at last, when the eighth had come full turn,
along comes this Phoenician one fine day . . .
a scoundrel, swindler, an old hand at lies
who’d already done the world a lot of damage.
Well, he smoothly talked me round and off we sailed,
Phoenicia-bound, where his house and holdings lay.
There in his care I stayed till the year was out.
330 Then, when the months and days had run their course
and the year wheeled round and the seasons came again,
he conned me aboard his freighter bound for Libya,
pretending I’d help him ship a cargo there for sale
but in fact he’d sell me there and make a killing!
I suspected as much, of course, but had no choice,
so I boarded with him, yes, and the ship ran on
with a good strong North Wind gusting —
fast on the middle passage clear of Crete —
but Zeus was brewing mischief for that crew . . .
340 Once we’d left the island in our wake —
no land at all in sight, nothing but sea and sky —
then Zeus the son of Cronus mounted a thunderhead
above our hollow ship and the deep went black beneath it.
Then, then in the same breath Zeus hit the craft
with a lightning-bolt and thunder. Round she spun,
reeling under the impact, filled with reeking brimstone,
shipmates pitching out of her, bobbing round like seahawks
swept along by the breakers past the trim black hull —
and the god cut short their journey home forever.
Not mine.
350 Zeus himself —when I was just at the final gasp —
thrust the huge mast of my dark-prowed vessel
right into my arms so I might flee disaster
one more time. Wrapping myself around it,
I was borne along by the wretched galewinds,
rushed along nine days —on the tenth, at dead of night,
356 a shouldering breaker rolled me up along Thesprotia’s beaches.
357 There the king of Thesprotia, Phidon, my salvation,
treated me kindly, asked for no reward at all.
His own good son had found me, half-dead
360 from exhaustion and the cold. He raised me up
by the hand and led me home to his father’s house
and dressed me in cloak and shirt and decent clothes.
That’s where I first got wind of him —Odysseus . . .
The king told me he’d hosted the man in style,
befriended him on his way home to native land,
and showed me all the treasure Odysseus had amassed.
Bronze and gold and plenty of hard wrought iron,
enough to last a man and ten generations of his heirs —
so great the wealth stored up for him in the king’s vaults!
370 But Odysseus, he made clear, was off at Dodona then
to hear the will of Zeus that rustles forth
from the god’s tall leafy oak: how should he return,
after all the years away, to his own green land of Ithaca —
openly or in secret? Phidon swore to me, what’s more,
as the princely man poured out libations in his house,
‘The ship’s hauled down and the crew set to sail,
to take Odysseus home to native land.’
But I . . .
he shipped me off before. A Thesprotian cutter
chanced to be heading for Dulichion rich in wheat,
380 so he told the crew to take me to the king, Acastus,
treat me kindly, too, but it pleased them more
to scheme foul play against me,
sink me into the very depths of pain. As soon
as the ship was far off land, scudding in mid-sea,
they sprang their trap —my day of slavery then and there!
They stripped from my back the shirt and cloak I wore,
decked me out in a new suit of clothes, all rags,
ripped and filthy —the rags you see right now.
But then, once they’d gained the fields of Ithaca,
390 still clear in the evening light, they lashed me fast
to the rowing-benches, twisting a cable round me;
all hands went ashore
and rushed to catch their supper on the beach.
But the gods themselves unhitched my knots at once
with the gods’ own ease. I wrapped my head in rags,
slid down the gangplank polished smooth, slipped my body
into the water, not a splash, chest-high, then quick,
launched out with both my arms and swam away —
out of the surf in no time, clear of the crew.
400 I clambered upland, into a flowery, fragrant brush
and crouched there, huddling low. They raised a hue and cry,
wildly beat the bushes, but when it seemed no use
to pursue the hunt, back they trudged again and
boarded their empty ship.
The gods hid me themselves —
it’s light work for them —and brought me here,
the homestead of a man who knows the world.
So it seems to be my lot that I’ll live on.”
And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
“So much misery, friend! You’ve moved my heart,
410 deeply, with your long tale . . . such blows, such roving.
But one part’s off the mark, I know —you’ll never persuade me —
what you say about Odysseus. A man in your condition,
who are you, I ask you, to lie for no good reason?
Well I know the truth of my good lord’s return,
how the gods detested him, with a vengeance —
never letting him go under, fighting Trojans,
or die in the arms of loved ones,
once he’d wound down the long coil of war.
Then all united Achaea would have raised his tomb
420 and he’d have won his son great fame for years to come.
But now the whirlwinds have ripped him away —no fame for
him!
And I live here, cut off from the world, with all my pigs.
I never go into town unless, perhaps, wise Penelope
calls me back, when news drops in from nowhere.
There they crowd the messenger, cross-examine him,
heartsick for their long-lost lord or all too glad
to eat him out of house and home, scot-free.
But I’ve no love for all that probing, prying,
429 not since some Aetolian fooled me with his yarn.
430 He’d killed a man, wandered over the face of the earth,
stumbled onto my hut, and I received him warmly.
He told me he’d seen Odysseus
lodged with King Idomeneus down in Crete —
refitting his ships, hard-hit by the gales,
but he’d be home, he said, by summer or harvest-time,
his hulls freighted with treasure, manned by fighting crews.
So you, old misery, seeing a god has led you here to me,
don’t try to charm me now, don’t spellbind me with lies!
Never for that will I respect you, treat you kindly;
440 no, it’s my fear of Zeus, the god of guests,
and because I pity you . . .”
“Good god,” the crafty man pressed on,
“what a dark, suspicious heart you have inside you!
Not even my oath can win you over, make you see the light.
Come, strike a bargain —all the gods of Olympus
witness now our pact!
If your master returns, here to your house,
dress me in shirt and cloak and send me off
to Dulichion at once, the place I long to be.
450 But if your master doesn’t return as I predict,
set your men on me —fling me off some rocky crag
so the next beggar here may just think twice
before he peddles lies.”
“Surely, friend!” —
the swineherd shook his head —“and just think
of the praise and fame I’d win among mankind,
now and for all time to come, if first I took you
under my roof, I treated you kindly as my guest
then cut you down and robbed you of your life —
how keen I’d be to say my prayers to Zeus!
460 But it’s high time for a meal.
I hope the men will be home at any moment
so we can fix a tasty supper in the lodge.”
As host and guest confided back and forth
the herdsmen came in, driving their hogs up close,
penning sows in their proper sties for the night,
squealing for all they’re worth, shut inside their yard,
and the good swineherd shouted to his men,
“Bring in your fattest hog!
I’ll slaughter it for our guest from far abroad.
470 We’ll savor it ourselves. All too long we’ve sweated
over these white-tusked boars —our wretched labor —
while others wolf our work down free of charge!”
Calling out
as he split up kindling now with a good sharp ax
and his men hauled in a tusker five years old,
rippling fat, and stood him steady by the hearth.
The swineherd, soul of virtue, did not forget the gods.
He began the rite by plucking tufts from the porker’s head,
threw them into the fire and prayed to all the powers,
“Bring him home, our wise Odysseus, home at last!”
480 Then raising himself full-length, with an oak log
he’d left unsplit he clubbed and stunned the beast
and it gasped out its life . . .
The men slashed its throat, singed the carcass,
quickly quartered it all, and then the swineherd,
cutting first strips for the gods from every limb,
spread them across the thighs, wrapped in sleek fat,
and sprinkling barley over them, flung them on the fire.
They sliced the rest into pieces, pierced them with skewers,
broiled them all to a turn and, pulling them off the spits,
490 piled the platters high. The swineherd, standing up
to share the meat —his sense of fairness perfect —
carved it all out into seven equal portions.
One he set aside, lifting up a prayer
494 to the forest nymphs and Hermes, Maia’s son,
and the rest he handed on to each man in turn.
But to Odysseus he presented the boar’s long loin
and the cut of honor cheered his master’s heart.
The man for all occasions thanked his host:
“I pray, Eumaeus, you’ll be as dear to Father Zeus
500 as you are to me —a man in my condition —
you honor me by giving me your best.”
You replied in kind, Eumaeus, swineherd:
“Eat, my strange new friend . . . enjoy it now,
it’s all we have to offer. As for Father Zeus,
one thing he will give and another he’ll hold back,
whatever his pleasure. All things are in his power.”
He burned choice parts for the gods who never die
and pouring glistening wine in a full libation,
placed the cup in his guest’s hands —Odysseus,
510 raider of cities —and down he sat to his own share.
511 Mesaulius served them bread, a man the swineherd
purchased for himself in his master’s absence —
alone, apart from his queen or old Laertes —
bought him from Taphians, bartered his own goods.
They reached out for the spread that lay at hand
and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Mesaulius cleared the things away. And now, content
with bread and meat, they made for bed at once.
A foul night came on —the dark of the moon —and Zeus
520 rained from dusk to dawn and a sodden West Wind raged.
Odysseus spoke up now, keen to test the swineherd.
Would he take his cloak off, hand it to his guest
or at least tell one of his men to do the same?
He cared for the stranger so, who ventured now,
“Listen, Eumaeus, and all you comrades here,
allow me to sing my praises for a moment.
Say it’s the wine that leads me on, the wild wine
that sets the wisest man to sing at the top of his lungs,
laugh like a fool —it drives the man to dancing . . . it even
530 tempts him to blurt out stories better never told.
But now that I’m sounding off, I can’t hold back.
Oh make me young again, and the strength inside me
steady as a rock! Just as I was that day
we sprang a sudden ambush against the Trojans.
Odysseus led the raid with Atreus’ son Menelaus.
I was third in command —they’d chosen me themselves.
Once we’d edged up under the city’s steep ramparts,
crowding the walls but sinking into the thick brake,
the reeds and marshy flats, huddling under our armor
540 there we lay, and a foul night came on, the North Wind struck,
freezing cold, and down from the skies the snow fell like frost,
packed hard —the rims of our shields armored round with ice.
There all the rest of the men wore shirts and cloaks and,
hunching shields over their shoulders, slept at ease.
Not I. I’d left my cloak at camp when I set out —
idiot —never thinking it might turn cold,
so I joined in with just the shield on my back
and a shining waist-guard . . . But then at last,
the night’s third watch, the stars just wheeling down —
550 I mutte
red into his ear, Odysseus, right beside me,
nudging him with an elbow —he perked up at once —
‘Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, full of tactics,
I’m not long for the living. The cold will do me in.
See, I’ve got no cloak. Some spirit’s fooled me —
I came out half-dressed. Now there’s no escape!’
I hadn’t finished —a thought flashed in his mind;
no one could touch the man at plots or battles.
‘Shhh!’ he hissed back —Odysseus had a plan —
‘One of our fighters over there might hear you.’
560 Then he propped his head on his forearm, calling out,
‘Friends, wake up. I slept and a god sent down a dream.
It warned that we’re too far from the ships, exposed.
Go, someone, tell Agamemnon, our field marshal —
he might rush reinforcements from the beach.’
565 Thoas, son of Andraemon, sprang up at once,
flung off his purple cloak and ran to the ships
while I, bundling into his wrap, was glad at heart
till Dawn rose on her golden throne once more.
Oh make me young again
570 and the strength inside me steady as a rock!
One of the swineherds here would lend a wrap
for love of a good soldier, respect as well.
Now they spurn me, dressed in filthy rags.”
And you replied, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
“Now that was a fine yarn you told, old-timer,
not without point, not without profit either.
You won’t want for clothes or whatever else
is due a worn-out traveler come for help —
not for tonight at least. Tomorrow morning
580 you’ll have to flap around in rags again.
Here we’ve got no store of shirts and cloaks,
no changes. Just one wrap per man, that’s all.
But just you wait till Odysseus’ dear son comes back —
that boy will deck you out in a cloak and shirt
and send you off, wherever your heart desires!”
With that
he rose to his feet and laid out a bed by the fire,
throwing over it skins of sheep and goats and
down Odysseus lay. Eumaeus flung on his guest
the heavy flaring cloak he kept in reserve
to wear when winter brought some wild storm.
590 So here
Odysseus slept and the young hands slept beside him.
Not the swineherd. Not his style to bed indoors,
apart from his pigs. He geared up to go outside
and it warmed Odysseus’ heart,
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