I knew it was a sign. No line more kingly than yours
in all of Ithaca —yours will reign forever!”
“If only, friend,”
alert Telemachus answered, “all you say comes true!
600 You’d soon know my affection, know my gifts.
Any man you meet would call you blest.”
602 He turned to a trusted friend and said, “Piraeus,
603 son of Clytius, you are the one who’s done my bidding,
more than all other friends who sailed with me to Pylos.
Please, take this guest of mine to your own house,
treat him kindly, host him with all good will
till I can come myself.”
“Of course, Telemachus,”
Piraeus the gallant spearman offered warmly:
“Stay up-country just as long as you like.
610 I’ll tend the man, he’ll never lack a lodging.”
Piraeus boarded ship and told the crew
to embark at once and cast off cables quickly —
they swung aboard and sat to the oars in ranks.
Telemachus fastened rawhide sandals on his feet
and took from the decks his rugged bronze-tipped spear.
The men cast off, pushed out and pulled for town
as Telemachus ordered, King Odysseus’ son.
The prince strode out briskly,
legs speeding him on till he reached the farm
620 where his great droves of pigs crowded their pens
and the loyal swineherd often slept beside them,
always the man to serve his masters well.
BOOK SIXTEEN
Father and Son
As dawn came into the lodge, the king and loyal swineherd
set out breakfast, once they had raked the fire up
and got the herdsmen off with droves of pigs.
And now Telemachus . . .
the howling dogs went nuzzling up around him,
not a growl as he approached. From inside
Odysseus noticed the pack’s quiet welcome,
noticed the light tread of footsteps too
and turned to Eumaeus quickly, winged a word:
10 “Eumaeus, here comes a friend of yours, I’d say.
Someone you know, at least. The pack’s not barking,
must be fawning around him. I can hear his footfall.”
The words were still on his lips when his own son
stood in the doorway, there. The swineherd started up,
amazed, he dropped the bowls with a clatter —he’d been busy
mixing ruddy wine. Straight to the prince he rushed
and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes,
both hands, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.
As a father, brimming with love, welcomes home
20 his darling only son in a warm embrace —
what pain he’s borne for him and him alone! —
home now, in the tenth year from far abroad,
so the loyal swineherd hugged the beaming prince,
he clung for dear life, covering him with kisses, yes,
like one escaped from death. Eumaeus wept and sobbed,
his words flew from the heart: “You’re home, Telemachus,
sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I’d see you again,
once you’d shipped to Pylos! Quick, dear boy, come in,
let me look at you, look to my heart’s content —
30 under my own roof, the rover home at last.
You rarely visit the farm and men these days,
always keeping to town, as if it cheered you
to see them there, that infernal crowd of suitors!”
“Have it your way,” thoughtful Telemachus replied.
“Dear old man, it’s all for you that I’ve come,
36 to see you for myself and learn the news —
whether mother still holds out in the halls
or some other man has married her at last,
and Odysseus’ bed, I suppose, is lying empty,
blanketed now with filthy cobwebs.”
40 “Surely,”
the foreman of men responded, “she’s still waiting
there in your halls, poor woman, suffering so,
her life an endless hardship . . .
wasting away the nights, weeping away the days.”
With that
he took the bronze spear from the boy, and Telemachus,
crossing the stone doorsill, went inside the lodge.
As he approached, his father, Odysseus, rose
to yield his seat, but the son on his part
waved him back: “Stay where you are, stranger.
50 I know we can find another seat somewhere,
here on our farm, and here’s the man to fetch it.”
So Odysseus, moving back, sat down once more,
and now for the prince the swineherd strewed a bundle
of fresh green brushwood, topped it off with sheepskin
and there the true son of Odysseus took his place.
Eumaeus set before them platters of roast meat
left from the meal he’d had the day before;
he promptly served them bread, heaped in baskets,
mixed their hearty wine in a wooden bowl
60 and then sat down himself to face the king.
They reached for the good things that lay at hand,
and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink
Telemachus asked his loyal serving-man at last,
“Old friend, where does this stranger come from?
Why did the sailors land him here in Ithaca?
Who did they say they are?
I hardly think he came this way on foot.”
You answered him, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
“Here, my boy, I’ll tell you the whole true story.
70 He hails from Crete’s broad land, he’s proud to say,
but he claims he’s drifted round through countless towns of men,
roaming the earth . . . and so a god’s spun out his fate.
He just now broke away from some Thesprotian ship
and came to my farm. I’ll put him in your hands,
you tend to him as you like.
He counts on you, he says, for care and shelter.”
“Shelter? Oh Eumaeus,” Telemachus replied,
“that word of yours, it cuts me to the quick!
How can I lend the stranger refuge in my house?
80 I’m young myself. I can hardly trust my hands
to fight off any man who rises up against me.
Then my mother’s wavering, always torn two ways:
whether to stay with me and care for the household,
true to her husband’s bed, the people’s voice as well,
85 or leave at long last with the best man in Achaea
who courts her in the halls, who offers her the most.
But our new guest, since he’s arrived at your house,
I’ll give him a shirt and cloak to wear, good clothing,
give him a two-edged sword and sandals for his feet
90 and send him off, wherever his heart desires.
Or if you’d rather, keep him here at the farmstead,
tend to him here, and I’ll send up the clothes
and full rations to keep the man in food;
he’ll be no drain on you and all your men.
But I can’t let him go down and join the suitors.
They’re far too abusive, reckless, know no limits:
they’ll make a mockery of him —that would break my heart.
It’s hard for a man to win his way against a mob,
even a man of iron. They are much too strong.”
100 “Friend” —the long-enduring Odysseus stepped in —
“surely it’s right for me to say a word at this point.
My heart, by god, is torn to pieces hearing this,
both of you telling how these reckless suitors,
there in your own house, against your will,
plot your ruin —a fine young prince like you.
Tell me, though, do you let yourself be so abused
or do people round about, stirred up by the prompting
of some god, despise you? Or are your brothers at fault?
Brothers a man can trust to fight beside him, true,
110 no matter what deadly blood-feud rages on.
Would I were young as you, to match my spirit now,
or I were the son of great Odysseus, or the king himself
returned from all his roving —there’s still room for hope!
Then let some foreigner lop my head off if I failed
to march right into Odysseus’ royal halls
and kill them all. And what if I went down,
crushed by their numbers —I, fighting alone?
I’d rather die, cut down in my own house
than have to look on at their outrage day by day.
120 Guests treated to blows, men dragging the serving-women
through the noble house, exploiting them all, no shame,
and the gushing wine swilled, the food squandered —
gorging for gorging’s sake —
and the courting game goes on, no end in sight!”
“You’re right, my friend,” sober Telemachus agreed.
“Now let me tell you the whole story, first to last.
It’s not that all our people have turned against me,
keen for a showdown. Nor have I any brothers at fault,
brothers a man can trust to fight beside him, true,
130 no matter what deadly blood-feud rages on . . .
131 Zeus made our line a line of only sons.
Arcesius had only one son, Laertes,
and Laertes had only one son, Odysseus,
and I am Odysseus’ only son. He fathered me,
he left me behind at home, and from me he got no joy.
So now our house is plagued by swarms of enemies.
All the nobles who rule the islands round about,
Dulichion, and Same, and wooded Zacynthus too,
and all who lord it in rocky Ithaca as well —
140 down to the last man they court my mother,
they lay waste my house! And mother . . .
she neither rejects a marriage she despises
nor can she bear to bring the courting to an end —
while they continue to bleed my household white.
Soon —you wait —they’ll grind me down as well!
But all lies in the lap of the great gods.
Eumaeus,
good old friend, go, quickly, to wise Penelope.
Tell her I’m home from Pylos safe and sound.
I’ll stay on right here. But you come back
150 as soon as you’ve told the news to her alone.
No other Achaean must hear —
all too many plot to take my life.”
“I know,”
you assured your prince, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd.
“I see your point —there’s sense in this old head.
One thing more, and make your orders clear.
On the same trip do I go and give the news
to King Laertes too? For many years, poor man,
heartsick for his son, he’d always keep an eye
on the farm and take his meals with the hired hands
160 whenever he felt the urge to. Now, from the day
you sailed away to Pylos, not a sip or a bite
he’s touched, they say, not as he did before,
and his eyes are shut to all the farmyard labors.
Huddled over, groaning in grief and tears,
he wastes away —the man’s all skin and bones.”
“So much the worse,” Telemachus answered firmly.
“Leave him alone; though it hurts us now, we must.
If men could have all they want, free for the taking,
I’d take first my father’s journey home. So,
170 you go and give the message, then come back,
no roaming over the fields to find Laertes.
Tell my mother to send her housekeeper,
fast as she can, in secret —
she can give the poor old man the news.”
That roused Eumaeus. The swineherd grasped his sandals,
strapped them onto his feet and made for town.
His exit did not escape Athena’s notice . . .
Approaching, closer, now she appeared a woman,
beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things.
180 Just at the shelter’s door she stopped, visible to Odysseus
but Telemachus could not see her, sense her there —
the gods don’t show themselves to every man alive.
Odysseus saw her, so did the dogs; no barking now,
they whimpered, cringing away in terror through the yard.
She gave a sign with her brows, Odysseus caught it,
out of the lodge he went and past the high stockade
and stood before the goddess. Athena urged him on:
“Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner,
now is the time, now tell your son the truth.
190 Hold nothing back, so the two of you can plot
the suitors’ doom and then set out for town.
I myself won’t lag behind you long —
I’m blazing for a battle!”
Athena stroked him with her golden wand.
First she made the cloak and shirt on his body
fresh and clean, then made him taller, supple, young,
his ruddy tan came back, the cut of his jawline firmed
and the dark beard clustered black around his chin.
Her work complete, she went her way once more
200 and Odysseus returned to the lodge. His own son
gazed at him, wonderstruck, terrified too, turning
his eyes away, suddenly —
this must be some god —
and he let fly with a burst of exclamations:
“Friend, you’re a new man —not what I saw before!
Your clothes, they’ve changed, even your skin has changed —
surely you are some god who rules the vaulting skies!
Oh be kind, and we will give you offerings,
gifts of hammered gold to warm your heart —
spare us, please, I beg you!”
“No, I am not a god,”
210 the long-enduring, great Odysseus returned.
“Why confuse me with one who never dies?
No, I am your father —
the Odysseus you wept for all your days,
you bore a world of pain, the cruel abuse of men.”
And with those words Odysseus kissed his son
and the tears streamed down his cheeks and wet the ground,
though before he’d always reined his emotions back.
But still not convinced that it was his father,
Telemachus broke out, wild with disbelief,
220 “No, you’re not Odysseus! Not my father!
Just some spirit spellbinding me now —
to make me ache with sorrow all the more.
Impossible for a mortal to work such marvels,
not with his own devices, not unless some god
comes down in person, eager to make that mortal
young or old —like that! Why, just now
you were old, and wrapped in rags, but now, look,
you seem like a god who rules the skies up there!”
“Telemachus,” Odysseus, man of exploits, urged his son,
230 “it’s wrong to marvel, carried away in wonder so
to see your father here before your eyes.
No other Odysseus will ever return to you.
That man and I are one, the man you see . . .
here
after many hardships,
endless wanderings, after twenty years
I have come home to native ground at last.
My changing so? Athena’s work, the Fighter’s Queen —
she has that power, she makes me look as she likes,
now like a beggar, the next moment a young man,
240 decked out in handsome clothes about my body.
It’s light work for the gods who rule the skies
to exalt a mortal man or bring him low.”
At that
Odysseus sat down again, and Telemachus threw his arms
around his great father, sobbing uncontrollably
as the deep desire for tears welled up in both.
They cried out, shrilling cries, pulsing sharper
than birds of prey —eagles, vultures with hooked claws —
when farmers plunder their nest of young too young to fly.
Both men so filled with compassion, eyes streaming tears,
250 that now the sunlight would have set upon their cries
if Telemachus had not asked his father, all at once,
“What sort of ship, dear father, brought you here? —
Ithaca, at last. Who did the sailors say they are?
I hardly think you came back home on foot!”
So long an exile, great Odysseus replied,
“Surely, my son, I’ll tell you the whole story now.
Phaeacians brought me here, the famous sailors
who ferry home all men who reach their shores.
They sailed me across the sea in their swift ship,
260 they set me down in Ithaca, sound asleep, and gave me
glittering gifts —bronze and hoards of gold and robes.
All lie stowed in a cave, thanks to the gods’ help,
and Athena’s inspiration spurred me here, now,
so we could plan the slaughter of our foes.
Come, give me the full tally of these suitors —
I must know their numbers, gauge their strength.
Then I’ll deploy this old tactician’s wits,
decide if the two of us can take them on,
alone, without allies,
or we should hunt reserves to back us up.”
270 “Father,”
clear-headed Telemachus countered quickly,
“all my life I’ve heard of your great fame —
a brave man in war and a deep mind in counsel —
but what you say dumbfounds me, staggers imagination!
How on earth could two men fight so many and so strong?
The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) Page 39