The <I>Odyssey</I>
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altar of great Zeus of the Household—plenty of cattle
thighs had been burned by Laertes there and Odysseus;
or run up close and beg at the knees of Odysseus.
Sorting everything out, it seemed to him better
to clasp the knees of Odysseus, son of Laertes.
He set the hollow lyre down on the earthen
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floor between a bowl and chair studded with silver,
then he bounded forward and clasped the knees of Odysseus,
making his plea—the words had a feathery swiftness—
♦ “I’m clasping your knees, Odysseus, respect me, have pity.
You’ll surely suffer yourself in time if you murder
a bard who only sings for the Gods and his people.
I taught myself though a God sowed in my spirit
every kind of song. It’s right that I sing to you also,
as though to a God; so don’t be anxious to cut my
throat. Let your own dear son Telemakhos tell you:
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I never wanted to sing in your hall for the suitors.
I joined these men against my will as they dined here—
a crowd far stronger than I am led me and forced me.”
The Bard and the Herald Saved
He stopped as Telemakhos—now his power was holy—
heard him and spoke up quickly, close to his father,
“Hold off. Don’t pierce this blameless man with a weapon.
Let’s save the herald too: Medon has always
cared for me here in our home since I was a small boy—
unless Philoitios killed him now or the swineherd—
or maybe he crossed your path as you raged in the great hall.”
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He stopped and Medon had heard him. Clever and cautious,
he’d cowered under a chair, hiding his own skin
with newly stripped-off ox-hide, avoiding a dark end.
Quickly he rose from the chair, doffing the ox-hide,
coming and clasping Telemakhos’s knees in a hurry
to make his plea and his words had a feathery swiftness,
“Friend, I am here, hold off and appeal to your father
not to kill me with sharp bronze in the rush of his power,
maddened by all these men. The suitors were wasting
your great hall’s riches. The fools never esteemed you.”
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Full of designs, Odysseus smiled and told him,
“Take heart. My son has clearly guarded and saved you.
Now you know in your heart, tell it to others:
working for good is far better than working for evil.
Go out of the hall, sit outside in the courtyard
away from death—you and our story-full singer—
until I’ve done whatever I must in the household.”
Fish Dying on a Beach
After he’d spoken the two men walked from the great hall.
They both sat down close to the altar of high Zeus,
peering about. They still felt close to a death-blow.
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Odysseus looked through his house to see if a suitor
was still alive and skulking, hiding from black doom.
No, he found them all in squalor and blood there,
sprawled like so many fish pulled from the hoary
sea to a curving shore by men who’ve been working
nets with their close meshes. Dozens of fish there
long for swells of the sea, they’re piled on the beach-sand,
the glaring Sun-God draining life from their bodies.
The suitors looked that way, piled on each other.
The Lion’s Slaver
Then Odysseus, full of designs, turned to his own son.
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“Telemakhos, go and call our nurse Eurukleia.
I’d like to say a word to her, close to my own heart.”
Soon as he’d spoken Telemakhos, heeding the father
he loved, pushed at the door and told the nurse Eurukleia,
“Rise and come now, old woman. You tended
all our maids, those who’ve worked in the great hall.
My Father’s called, come on, he has something to tell you.”
He spoke that way and because her answer was wingless
she opened the doors of the hall where people had lived well.
They walked inside, Telemakhos going before her.
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She found Odysseus then, circled by dead men.
Spattered with blood and grime, he looked like a lion
who’s just fed on a bull in a stock-pen for cattle,
all his chest and cheeks a smearing on either
side with blood, the beast revolting to look at:
so were the feet and hands of Odysseus filthy.
No Great Joy over the Dead
After she saw that mass of bloodshed and dead men,
she started to wail for joy at the sight of the huge task.
Odysseus stopped her though for all of her longing.
He told her plainly, the words with a feathery swiftness,
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“Be glad in your heart, old woman, not with a loud wail.
♦ Rejoicing over men who are killed is unholy.
The Gods’ own doom leveled this mob for their cruel
acts and honoring no one man on the broad earth,
good or bad, whoever came to them humbly.
They went to a shameful end because of their brashness.
What about the Women?
“But tell me about the women now in the great hall,
those with no esteem and those who are blameless.”
The well-loved nurse Eurukleia answered by saying,
“Well then, child, I’ll tell you myself what the truth is.
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Fifty women in all have worked in the great hall,
maids we have always taught to stay with their own work,
to card the wool and bear up well in their slaves’ lives.
Of those twelve in all went on to be shameless,
lacking regard for me and Penelopeia.
Telemakhos, newly grown, was stopped by his mother
from taking charge of the female slaves in the household.
“Ah but allow me to go upstairs to her shining
bedroom and tell your wife! Some God put her to sleep there.”
An answer came from Odysseus, full of the best plans:
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“No, don’t wake her yet. You just order the women
to come here—those whose plots or acts were disgraceful.”
He spoke that way and the old one went from the great hall,
taking his word to the women. She told them to join him.
Death Sentence
Odysseus turned to Telemakhos now and the pigherd
and cowherd saying—his words had a feathery swiftness—
“Start with the job of hauling the dead out, and order
women to help you. Then wash the chairs and beautiful tables
using plenty of water and hole-dotted sponges.
After you’ve put the whole household in order,
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take those women away from my hall with its hard base.
Between the roundhouse and handsome wall of the courtyard
hack them with sharp swords until you have wrested
all their souls. Make them forget Aphrodite—
their lust while privily lying under the suitors.”
He stopped as the women came, all in a huddle
and shedding the biggest tears, frightfully wailing.
They carried the men out first, those who were cut down,
laying them under the porch of the well-worked courtyard,
propped on each other. Odysseus hurried them all on
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himself with commands. They wor
ked because they were forced to.
Then they washed the chairs and beautiful tables,
using plenty of water and hole-dotted sponges.
Meanwhile Telemakhos joined the cowherd and swineherd,
cleaning the floor of the strong-made house with their scrapers.
The women took the scrapings and settled them outdoors.
A Crueler Death for the Women
So after they put the whole household in order,
they took the women away from the well-founded palace.
Between the roundhouse and handsome wall of the courtyard
they jammed them all in a space lacking a way out.
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Then shrewd Telemakhos spoke to the others:
“I want no simple death taking these women’s
lives. They poured disgrace on the head of my Mother,
on my own head, and they often slept with the suitors.”
He spoke that way and knotted a line from a dark-prowed
ship to a high column, circling the roundhouse
and stretched up high: no woman’s foot would be touching
♦ ground. Then like broad-winged thrushes or pigeons
flying in nets well laid out in the bushes,
looking to roost but hating the bed that ensnares them,
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the women’s heads were lined up, necks were encircled
each with its noose that made for the wretchedest dying:
the women’s feet might jerk a little but not long.
Maiming and Murder
They brought Melanthios now through the door and the courtyard.
They cut off his nose and ears: their bronze had no mercy.
They tore out his scrotum, threw it to dogs to be gulped raw,
then hacked off his feet and hands in a frenzy of anger.
Soon they washed their hands and feet to reenter
the house of Odysseus. All the war-work was over.
Harder Cleaning
Odysseus told the well-loved nurse Eurukleia,
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“My old one, get some sulphur, a cure for this trouble.
Bring me some fire to purge the hall. And Penelopeia?
Ask the lady to come here soon with her handmaids.
Encourage the rest of our women to enter the great hall.”
The well-loved nurse Eurukleia answered by saying,
“Surely, my child, you’re saying everything right now.
But let me bring you a mantle and tunic to put on:
don’t stand this way with your broad shoulders in tatters,
not in your own house. Some would blame and resent you.”
Full of his own plans, Odysseus answered by saying,
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“Let there be fire first, right now in the great hall.”
The well-loved nurse Eurukleia did not disobey him.
She brought him sulphur and fire, helping Odysseus
thoroughly purge the hall, the household and forecourt.
A Joyful Reunion
The nurse went back through the handsome house of Odysseus
with news for the loyal women: she told them to join her.
Torches in hand, the maids came out of their own room
and gathered around Odysseus. All of them welcomed
the man and hugged him, kissing his forehead and shoulders,
clasping his hands. The sweetest longing reclaimed him,
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he wanted to moan and cry, knowing them all well.
BOOK 23 Husband and Wife at Last
Unbelievable News
The older woman went upstairs with a chortle
to tell the lady her own dear husband was downstairs.
The woman’s knees would hurry; her feet kept stumbling.
Standing now by her head she spoke to her softly.
“Wake up, Penelopeia: see with your own eyes,
dear child, what you’ve pined for all of your days here.
Odysseus came, he’s home, for all of his lateness!
He’s killed the prideful suitors, men who were swaying
your son and devouring his wealth, troubling the whole house.”
Mind-full Penelopeia answered by saying,
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“Dear aunt, the Gods have made you mad! They can do that,
making a man look foolish—even a wise man.
They also can make a thoughtless man understanding.
They’ve dazed you now; before, your mind was a sound one.
♦ Why do you fool me? My heart has plenty of sorrow
already. Why this talk? You woke me from sweet sleep
which held me fast and closed my eyes for a good while.
I haven’t slept that way since the hour Odysseus
left for Troy—that Evil no one should mention.
Come on now, go back down, be off to the great hall.
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Because if another woman, one of my own maids,
approached me with news like yours and broke up a good sleep,
I’d pack her off myself in a nasty and hurried