once you shipped to Pylos —against my will, so secret,
out for news of your dear father. Quick tell me,
did you catch sight of the man —meet him —what?”
“Please, mother,” steady Telemachus replied,
“don’t move me to tears, don’t stir the heart inside me.
I’ve just escaped from death. Sudden death.
No. Bathe now, put on some fresh clothes,
go up to your own room with your serving-women,
50 pray, and promise the gods a generous sacrifice
to bring success, if Zeus will ever grant us
the hour of our revenge. I myself am off
to the meeting grounds to summon up a guest
who came with me from abroad when I sailed home.
I sent him on ahead with my trusted crew.
I told Piraeus to take him to his house,
treat him well, host him with all good will
till I could come myself.”
Words to the mark
that left his mother silent . . .
60 She bathed now, put on some fresh clothes,
prayed, and promised the gods a generous sacrifice
to bring success, if Zeus would ever grant
the hour of their revenge.
Spear in hand,
Telemachus strode on through the hall and out,
and a pair of sleek hounds went trotting at his heels.
And Athena lavished a marvelous splendor on the prince
so the people all gazed in wonder as he came forward.
The swaggering suitors clustered, milling round him,
welcome words on their lips, and murder in their hearts.
70 But he gave them a wide berth as they came crowding in
71 and there where Mentor sat, Antiphus, Halitherses too —
his father’s loyal friends from days gone by —
he took his seat as they pressed him with their questions.
And just then Piraeus the gallant spearman approached,
leading the stranger through the town and out onto
the meeting grounds. Telemachus, not hanging back,
went right up to greet Theoclymenus, his guest,
but Piraeus spoke out first: “Quickly now,
Telemachus, send some women to my house
80 to retrieve the gifts that Menelaus gave you.”
“Wait, Piraeus,” wary Telemachus cautioned,
“we’ve no idea how all of this will go.
If the brazen suitors cut me down in the palace —
off guard —and carve apart my father’s whole estate,
I’d rather you yourself, or one of his friends here,
keep those gifts and get some pleasure from them.
But if I can bring down slaughter on that crew,
you send the gifts to my house —we’ll share the joy.”
Their plans made, he led the wayworn stranger home
90 and once they reached the well-constructed palace,
spreading out their cloaks on a chair or bench,
into the burnished tubs they climbed and bathed.
When women had washed them, rubbed them down with oil
and drawn warm fleece and shirts around their shoulders,
out of the baths they stepped and sat on high-backed chairs.
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher
and over a silver basin tipped it out
so they might rinse their hands,
then pulled a gleaming table to their side.
100 A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them,
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty.
Penelope sat across from her son, beside a pillar,
leaning back on a low chair and winding finespun yarn.
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand
and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
the queen, for all her composure, said at last,
“Telemachus, I’m going back to my room upstairs
and lie down on my bed . . .
that bed of pain my tears have streaked, year in,
110 year out, from the day Odysseus sailed away to Troy
with Atreus’ two sons.
But you, you never had the heart —
before those insolent suitors crowd back to the house —
to tell me clearly about your father’s journey home,
if you’ve heard any news.”
“Of course, mother,”
thoughtful Telemachus reassured her quickly,
“I will tell you the whole true story now.
We sailed to Pylos, to Nestor, the great king,
and he received me there in his lofty palace,
treated me well and warmly, yes, as a father treats
120 a long-lost son just home from voyaging, years abroad:
such care he showered on me, he and his noble sons.
But of strong, enduring Odysseus, dead or alive,
he’s heard no news, he said, from any man on earth.
He sent me on to the famous spearman Atrides Menelaus,
on with a team of horses drawing a bolted chariot.
And there I saw her, Helen of Argos —all for her
Achaeans and Trojans suffered so much hardship,
thanks to the gods’ decree . . .
The lord of the warcry, Menelaus, asked at once
130 what pressing need had brought me to lovely Lacedaemon,
and when I told him the whole story, first to last,
the king burst out, ‘How shameful! That’s the bed
of a brave man of war they’d like to crawl inside,
those spineless, craven cowards!
Weak as the doe that beds down her fawns
in a mighty lion’s den —her newborn sucklings —
then trails off to the mountain spurs and grassy bends
to graze her fill, but back the lion comes to his own lair
and the master deals both fawns a ghastly bloody death,
140 just what Odysseus will deal that mob —ghastly death.
Ah if only —Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo —
that man who years ago in the games at Lesbos
rose to Philomelides’ challenge, wrestled him,
pinned him down with one tremendous throw
and the Argives roared with joy . . .
if only that Odysseus sported with those suitors,
a blood wedding, a quick death would take the lot!
But about the things you’ve asked me, so intently,
I’ll skew and sidestep nothing, not deceive you, ever.
150 Of all he told me —the Old Man of the Sea who never lies —
I’ll hide or hold back nothing, not a single word.
He said he’d seen Odysseus on an island,
ground down in misery, off in a goddess’ house,
the nymph Calypso, who holds him there by force.
He has no way to voyage home to his own native land,
no trim ships in reach, no crew to ply the oars
and send him scudding over the sea’s broad back.’
So Menelaus, the famous spearman, told me.
My mission accomplished, back I came at once,
160 and the gods sent me a stiff following wind
that sped me home to the native land I love.”
His reassurance stirred the queen to her depths
and the godlike seer Theoclymenus added firmly,
“Noble lady, wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus,
Menelaus can have no perfect revelations;
mark my words —I will make you a prophecy,
quite precise, and I’ll hold nothing back.
I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods,
by this table of hospitality here, my host,
170 by Odysseus’ hearth where I have come for help —
I swear Ody
sseus is on native soil, here and now!
Poised or on the prowl, learning of these rank crimes
he’s sowing seeds of ruin for all your suitors.
So clear, so true, that bird-sign I saw
175 as I sat on the benched ship
and sounded out the future to the prince!”
“If only, my friend,” reserved Penelope exclaimed,
“everything you say would come to pass!
You’d soon know my affection, know my gifts.
180 Any man you meet would call you blest.”
And so the three confided in the halls
while all the suitors, before Odysseus’ palace,
amused themselves with discus and long throwing spears,
out on the leveled grounds, free and easy as always,
full of swagger. When the dinner-hour approached
and sheep came home from pastures near and far,
driven in by familiar drovers,
Medon called them all, their favorite herald,
always present at their meals: “My young lords,
190 now you’ve played your games to your hearts’ content,
come back to the halls so we can fix your supper.
Nothing’s better than dining well on time!”
They came at his summons, rising from the games
and now, bustling into the well-constructed palace,
flinging down their cloaks on a chair or bench,
they butchered hulking sheep and fatted goats,
full-grown hogs and a young cow from the herd,
preparing for their feast.
At the same time
the king and his loyal swineherd geared to leave
200 the country for the town. Eumaeus, foreman of men,
set things in motion: “Friend, I know you’re keen
on going down to town today, just as my master bid,
though I’d rather you stay here to guard the farm.
But I prize the boy, I fear he’ll blame me later —
a dressing-down from your master’s hard to bear.
So off we go now. The shank of the day is past.
You’ll find it colder with nightfall coming on.”
“I know, I see your point,” the crafty man replied.
“There’s sense in this old head. So let’s be off.
210 And from now on, you lead me all the way.
Just give me a stick to lean on,
if you have one ready-cut. You say the road
is treacherous, full of slips and slides.”
With that
he flung his beggar’s sack across his shoulders —
torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope.
Eumaeus gave him a staff that met his needs.
Then the two moved out, leaving behind them
dogs and herdsmen to stay and guard the farm.
And so the servant led his master toward the city,
220 looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar
hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags . . .
Down over the rugged road they went till hard by town
they reached the stone-rimmed fountain running clear
where the city people came and drew their water.
225 Ithacus built it once, with Neritus and Polyctor.
Round it a stand of poplar thrived on the dank soil,
all in a nestling ring, and down from a rock-ledge overhead
the cold water splashed, and crowning the fountain
rose an altar-stone erected to the nymphs,
230 where every traveler paused and left an offering.
231 Here Dolius’ son, Melanthius, crossed their path,
herding his goats with a pair of drovers’ help,
the pick of his flocks to make the suitors’ meal.
As soon as he saw them there he broke into a flood
of brutal, foul abuse that made Odysseus’ blood boil.
“Look!” —he sneered —“one scum nosing another scum along,
dirt finds dirt by the will of god —it never fails!
Wretched pig-boy, where do you take your filthy swine,
this sickening beggar who licks the pots at feasts?
240 Hanging round the doorposts, rubbing his back,
scavenging after scraps,
no hero’s swords and cauldrons, not for him.
Hand him over to me —I’ll teach him to work a farm,
muck out my stalls, pitch feed to the young goats;
whey to drink will put some muscle on his hams!
Oh no, he’s learned his lazy ways too well,
he’s got no itch to stick to good hard work,
he’d rather go scrounging round the countryside,
begging for crusts to stuff his greedy gut!
250 Let me tell you —so help me it’s the truth —
if he sets foot in King Odysseus’ royal palace,
salvos of footstools flung at his head by all the lords
will crack his ribs as he runs the line of fire through the house!”
Wild, reckless taunts —and just as he passed Odysseus
the idiot lurched out with a heel and kicked his hip
but he couldn’t knock the beggar off the path,
he stood his ground so staunchly. Odysseus was torn . . .
should he wheel with his staff and beat the scoundrel senseless? —
or hoist him by the midriff, split his skull on the rocks?
260 He steeled himself instead, his mind in full control.
But Eumaeus glared at the goatherd, cursed him to his face,
then lifted up his hands and prayed his heart out:
“O nymphs of the fountain, daughters of Zeus —
if Odysseus ever burned you the long thighs
of lambs or kids, covered with rich fat,
now bring my prayer to pass!
Let that man come back —some god guide him now!
He’d toss to the winds the flashy show you make,
Melanthius, so cocksure —always strutting round the town
270 while worthless fieldhands leave your flocks a shambles!”
“Listen to him!” the goatherd shouted back.
“All bark and no bite from the vicious mutt!
One fine day I’ll ship him out in a black lugger,
miles from Ithaca —sell him off for a good stiff price!
Just let Apollo shoot Telemachus down with his silver bow,
today in the halls, or the suitors snuff his life out —
as sure as I know the day of the king’s return
is blotted out, the king is worlds away!”
With his parting shot he left them trudging on
280 and went and reached the royal house in no time.
Slipping in, he took his seat among the suitors,
facing Eurymachus, who favored him the most.
The carvers set before him his plate of meat,
a staid housekeeper brought the man his bread.
And now at last the king and loyal swineherd,
drawing near the palace, halted just outside
as the lyre’s rippling music drifted round them —
Phemius, striking up a song for assembled guests —
and the master seized his servant’s hand, exclaiming,
290 “Friend, what a noble house! Odysseus’ house, it must be!
No mistaking it —you could tell it among a townful, look.
One building linked to the next, and the courtyard wall
is finished off with a fine coping, the double doors
are battle-proof —no man could break them down!
I can tell a crowd is feasting there in force —
smell the savor of roasts . . . the ringing lyre, listen,
the lyre that god has made the friend of feasts.”
“An easy guess,” you said, Eumaeus, swineherd,
“for a man as keen as you a
t every turn.
300 Put heads together. What do we do next?
Either you’re the first one into the palace —
mix with the suitors, leave me where I am.
Or if you like, stay put, and I’ll go first myself.
Don’t linger long. Someone might spot you here outside,
knock you down or pelt you. Mark my words. Take care.”
The man who’d borne long years abroad replied,
“Well I know. Remember? There’s sense in this old head.
You go in, you first, while I stay here behind.
Stones and blows and I are hardly strangers.
310 My heart is steeled by now,
I’ve had my share of pain in the waves and wars.
Add this to the total. Bring the trial on.
But there’s no way to hide the belly’s hungers —
what a curse, what mischief it brews in all our lives!
Just for hunger we rig and ride our long benched ships
on the barren salt sea, speeding death to enemies.”
Now, as they talked on, a dog that lay there
lifted up his muzzle, pricked his ears . . .
319 It was Argos, long-enduring Odysseus’ dog
320 he trained as a puppy once, but little joy he got
since all too soon he shipped to sacred Troy.
In the old days young hunters loved to set him
coursing after the wild goats and deer and hares.
But now with his master gone he lay there, castaway,
on piles of dung from mules and cattle, heaps collecting
out before the gates till Odysseus’ serving-men
could cart it off to manure the king’s estates.
Infested with ticks, half-dead from neglect,
here lay the hound, old Argos.
330 But the moment he sensed Odysseus standing by
he thumped his tail, nuzzling low, and his ears dropped,
though he had no strength to drag himself an inch
toward his master. Odysseus glanced to the side
and flicked away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus,
diverting his friend in a hasty, offhand way:
“Strange, Eumaeus, look, a dog like this,
lying here on a dung-hill . . .
what handsome lines! But I can’t say for sure
if he had the running speed to match his looks
340 or he was only the sort that gentry spoil at table,
show-dogs masters pamper for their points.”
You told the stranger, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
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