The Odyssey(Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)
Page 51
kills your enemies, pays you back for service!”
Rousing words —
but she gave no all-out turning of the tide, not yet,
she kept on testing Odysseus and his gallant son,
putting their force and fighting heart to proof.
250 For all the world like a swallow in their sight
she flew on high to perch
on the great hall’s central roofbeam black with smoke.
But the suitors closed ranks, commanded now by Damastor’s son
254 Agelaus, flanked by Eurynomus, Demoptolemus and Amphimedon,
255 Pisander, Polyctor’s son, and Polybus ready, waiting —
head and shoulders the best and bravest of the lot
still left to fight for their lives,
now that the pelting shafts had killed the rest.
Agelaus spurred his comrades on with battle-plans:
260 “Friends, at last the man’s invincible hands are useless!
Mentor has mouthed some empty boasts and flitted off —
just four are left to fight at the front doors. So now,
no wasting your long spears —all at a single hurl,
just six of us launch out in the first wave!
If Zeus is willing, we may hit Odysseus,
carry off the glory! The rest are nothing
once the captain’s down!”
At his command,
concentrating their shots, all six hurled as one
but Athena sent the whole salvo wide of the mark —
270 one of them hit the jamb of the great hall’s doors,
another the massive door itself, and the heavy bronze point
of a third ashen javelin crashed against the wall.
Seeing his men untouched by the suitors’ flurry,
steady Odysseus leapt to take command:
“Friends! now it’s for us to hurl at them, I say,
into this ruck of suitors! Topping all their crimes
they’re mad to strip the armor off our bodies!”
Taking aim at the ranks, all four let fly as one
and the lances struck home —Odysseus killed Demoptolemus,
280 Telemachus killed Euryades —the swineherd, Elatus —
and the cowherd cut Pisander down in blood.
They bit the dust of the broad floor, all as one.
Back to the great hall’s far recess the others shrank
as the four rushed in and plucked up spears from corpses.
And again the suitors hurled their whetted shafts
but Athena sent the better part of the salvo wide —
one of them hit the jamb of the great hall’s doors,
another the massive door itself, and the heavy bronze point
of a third ashen javelin crashed against the wall.
290 True, Amphimedon nicked Telemachus on the wrist —
the glancing blade just barely broke his skin.
Ctesippus sent a long spear sailing over
Eumaeus’ buckler, grazing his shoulder blade
but the weapon skittered off and hit the ground.
And again those led by the brilliant battle-master
hurled their razor spears at the suitors’ ranks —
and now Odysseus raider of cities hit Eurydamas,
Telemachus hit Amphimedon —Eumaeus, Polybus —
and the cowherd stabbed Ctesippus
300 right in the man’s chest and triumphed over his body:
301 “Love your mockery, do you? Son of that blowhard Polytherses!
No more shooting off your mouth, you idiot, such big talk —
leave the last word to the gods —they’re much stronger!
Take this spear, this guest-gift, for the cow’s hoof
you once gave King Odysseus begging in his house!”
So the master of longhorn cattle had his say —
as Odysseus, fighting at close quarters, ran Agelaus
through with a long lance —Telemachus speared Leocritus
so deep in the groin the bronze came punching out his back
310 and the man crashed headfirst, slamming the ground full-face.
And now Athena, looming out of the rafters high above them,
brandished her man-destroying shield of thunder, terrifying
the suitors out of their minds, and down the hall they panicked —
wild, like herds stampeding, driven mad as the darting gadfly
strikes in the late spring when the long days come round.
The attackers struck like eagles, crook-clawed, hook-beaked,
swooping down from a mountain ridge to harry smaller birds
that skim across the flatland, cringing under the clouds
but the eagles plunge in fury, rip their lives out —hopeless,
320 never a chance of flight or rescue —and people love the sport —
so the attackers routed suitors headlong down the hall,
wheeling into the slaughter, slashing left and right
and grisly screams broke from skulls cracked open —
the whole floor awash with blood.
Leodes now —
he flung himself at Odysseus, clutched his knees,
crying out to the king with a sudden, winging prayer:
“I hug your knees, Odysseus —mercy! spare my life!
Never, I swear, did I harass any woman in your house —
never a word, a gesture —nothing, no, I tried
330 to restrain the suitors, whoever did such things.
They wouldn’t listen, keep their hands to themselves —
so reckless, so they earn their shameful fate.
But I was just their prophet —
my hands are clean —and I’m to die their death!
Look at the thanks I get for years of service!”
A killing look, and the wry soldier answered,
“Only a priest, a prophet for this mob, you say?
How hard you must have prayed in my own house
that the heady day of my return would never dawn —
340 my dear wife would be yours, would bear your children!
For that there’s no escape from grueling death —you die!”
And snatching up in one powerful hand a sword
left on the ground —Agelaus dropped it when he fell —
Odysseus hacked the prophet square across the neck
and the praying head went tumbling in the dust.
Now one was left,
346 trying still to escape black death. Phemius, Terpis’ son,
the bard who always performed among the suitors —
they forced the man to sing . . .
There he stood, backing into the side-door,
350 still clutching his ringing lyre in his hands,
his mind in turmoil, torn —what should he do?
Steal from the hall and crouch at the altar-stone
of Zeus who Guards the Court, where time and again
Odysseus and Laertes burned the long thighs of oxen?
Or throw himself on the master’s mercy, clasp his knees?
That was the better way —or so it struck him, yes,
grasp the knees of Laertes’ royal son. And so,
cradling his hollow lyre, he laid it on the ground
between the mixing-bowl and the silver-studded throne,
360 then rushed up to Odysseus, yes, and clutched his knees,
singing out to his king with a stirring, winged prayer:
“I hug your knees, Odysseus —mercy! spare my life!
What a grief it will be to you for all the years to come
if you kill the singer now, who sings for gods and men.
I taught myself the craft, but a god has planted
deep in my spirit all the paths of song —
songs I’m fit to sing for you as for a god.
Calm your bloodlust now —don’t take my head!
He’d bear me out, y
our own dear son Telemachus —
370 never of my own will, never for any gain did I
perform in your house, singing after the suitors
had their feasts. They were too strong, too many —
they forced me to come and sing —I had no choice!”
The inspired Prince Telemachus heard his pleas
and quickly said to his father close beside him,
“Stop, don’t cut him down! This one’s innocent.
So is the herald Medon —the one who always
tended me in the house when I was little —
spare him too. Unless he’s dead by now,
380 killed by Philoetius or Eumaeus here —
or ran into you rampaging through the halls.”
The herald pricked up his anxious ears at that . . .
cautious soul, he cowered, trembling, under a chair —
wrapped in an oxhide freshly stripped —to dodge black death.
He jumped in a flash from there, threw off the smelly hide
and scuttling up to Telemachus, clutching his knees,
the herald begged for life in words that fluttered:
“Here I am, dear boy —spare me! Tell your father,
flushed with victory, not to kill me with his sword —
390 enraged as he is with these young lords who bled
his palace white and showed you no respect,
the reckless fools!”
Breaking into a smile
the canny Odysseus reassured him, “Courage!
The prince has pulled you through, he’s saved you now
so you can take it to heart and tell the next man too:
clearly doing good puts doing bad to shame.
Now leave the palace, go and sit outside —
out in the courtyard, clear of the slaughter —
you and the bard with all his many songs.
400 Wait till I’ve done some household chores
that call for my attention.”
The two men scurried out of the house at once
and crouched at the altar-stone of mighty Zeus —
glancing left and right,
fearing death would strike at any moment.
Odysseus scanned his house to see if any man
still skulked alive, still hoped to avoid black death.
But he found them one and all in blood and dust . . .
great hauls of them down and out like fish that fishermen
410 drag from the churning gray surf in looped and coiling nets
and fling ashore on a sweeping hook of beach —some noble catch
heaped on the sand, twitching, lusting for fresh salt sea
but the Sungod hammers down and burns their lives out . . .
so the suitors lay in heaps, corpse covering corpse.
At last the seasoned fighter turned to his son:
“Telemachus, go, call the old nurse here —
I must tell her all that’s on my mind.”
Telemachus ran to do his father’s bidding,
shook the women’s doors, calling Eurycleia:
420 “Come out now! Up with you, good old woman!
You who watch over all the household hands —
quick, my father wants you, needs to have a word!”
Crisp command that left the old nurse hushed —
she spread the doors to the well-constructed hall,
slipped out in haste, and the prince led her on . . .
She found Odysseus in the thick of slaughtered corpses,
splattered with bloody filth like a lion that’s devoured
some ox of the field and lopes home, covered with blood,
his chest streaked, both jaws glistening, dripping red —
430 a sight to strike terror. So Odysseus looked now,
splattered with gore, his thighs, his fighting hands,
and she, when she saw the corpses, all the pooling blood,
was about to lift a cry of triumph —here was a great exploit,
look —but the soldier held her back and checked her zeal
with warnings winging home: “Rejoice in your heart,
old woman —peace! No cries of triumph now.
It’s unholy to glory over the bodies of the dead.
These men the doom of the gods has brought low,
and their own indecent acts. They’d no regard
440 for any man on earth —good or bad —
who chanced to come their way. And so, thanks
to their reckless work, they met this shameful fate.
Quick, report in full on the women in my halls —
who are disloyal to me, who are guiltless?”
“Surely, child,”
his fond old nurse replied, “now here’s the truth.
Fifty women you have inside your house,
women we’ve trained to do their duties well,
to card the wool and bear the yoke of service.
Some dozen in all went tramping to their shame,
450 thumbing their noses at me, at the queen herself!
And Telemachus, just now come of age —his mother
would never let the boy take charge of the maids.
But let me climb to her well-lit room upstairs
and tell your wife the news —
some god has put the woman fast asleep.”
“Don’t wake her yet,” the crafty man returned,
“you tell those women to hurry here at once —
just the ones who’ve shamed us all along.”
Away the old nurse bustled through the house
460 to give the women orders, rush them to the king.
Odysseus called Telemachus over, both herdsmen too,
with strict commands: “Start clearing away the bodies.
Make the women pitch in too. Chairs and tables —
scrub them down with sponges, rinse them clean.
And once you’ve put the entire house in order,
march the women out of the great hall —between
the roundhouse and the courtyard’s strong stockade —
and hack them with your swords, slash out all their lives —
blot out of their minds the joys of love they relished
470 under the suitors’ bodies, rutting on the sly!”
The women crowded in, huddling all together . . .
wailing convulsively, streaming live warm tears.
First they carried out the bodies of the dead
and propped them under the courtyard colonnade,
standing them one against another. Odysseus
shouted commands himself, moving things along
and they kept bearing out the bodies —they were forced.
Next they scrubbed down the elegant chairs and tables,
washed them with sopping sponges, rinsed them clean.
480 Then Telemachus and the herdsmen scraped smooth
the packed earth floor of the royal house with spades
as the women gathered up the filth and piled it outside.
And then, at last, once the entire house was put in order,
they marched the women out of the great hall —between
the roundhouse and the courtyard’s strong stockade —
crammed them into a dead end, no way out from there,
and stern Telemachus gave the men their orders:
488 “No clean death for the likes of them, by god!
Not from me —they showered abuse on my head,
my mother’s too!
490 You sluts —the suitors’ whores!”
With that, taking a cable used on a dark-prowed ship
he coiled it over the roundhouse, lashed it fast to a tall column,
hoisting it up so high no toes could touch the ground.
Then, as doves or thrushes beating their spread wings
against some snare rigged up in thickets —flying in
for a cozy nest but a grisly bed receives the
m —
so the women’s heads were trapped in a line,
nooses yanking their necks up, one by one
so all might die a pitiful, ghastly death . . .
they kicked up heels for a little —not for long.
500 Melanthius?
They hauled him out through the doorway, into the court,
lopped his nose and ears with a ruthless knife,
tore his genitals out for the dogs to eat raw
and in manic fury hacked off hands and feet.
Then,
once they’d washed their own hands and feet,
they went inside again to join Odysseus.
Their work was done with now.
But the king turned to devoted Eurycleia, saying,
“Bring sulfur, nurse, to scour all this pollution —
510 bring me fire too, so I can fumigate the house.
And call Penelope here with all her women —
tell all the maids to come back in at once.”
“Well said, my boy,” his old nurse replied,
“right to the point. But wait,
let me fetch you a shirt and cloak to wrap you.
No more dawdling round the palace, nothing but rags
to cover those broad shoulders —it’s a scandal!”
“Fire first,” the good soldier answered.
“Light me a fire to purify this house.”
520 The devoted nurse snapped to his command,
brought her master fire and brimstone. Odysseus
purged his palace, halls and court, with cleansing fumes.
Then back through the royal house the old nurse went
to tell the women the news and bring them in at once.
They came crowding out of their quarters, torch in hand,
flung their arms around Odysseus, hugged him, home at last,
and kissed his head and shoulders, seized his hands, and he,
overcome by a lovely longing, broke down and wept . . .
deep in his heart he knew them one and all.
BOOK TWENTY-THREE
The Great Rooted Bed
Up to the rooms the old nurse clambered, chuckling all the way,
to tell the queen her husband was here now, home at last.
Her knees bustling, feet shuffling over each other,
till hovering at her mistress’ head she spoke:
“Penelope —child —wake up and see for yourself,