The Greek Myths

by Robin Waterfield

  Eumaeus arrived back at the hut before the sun sank in the west. The king was disguised again, back in his beggar’s rags, so that the swineherd still had no idea who he was. The three shared a meal together and lay down for sleep. Prince Telemachus was up with the first glow of dawn and ready to make his way to the palace. He told Eumaeus to escort the stranger to the town later in the day, where he could beg from people as he saw fit.

  In the Palace

  The prince arrived at the palace to a heartfelt welcome from the household. His dear mother flew to his side, tears of joy streaking her cheeks. She gently upbraided him for leaving her in the dark about his journey, but rejoiced at his safe return. She ordered delicacies and sweet wine be served. Telemachus took a polished chair and sat down beside Penelope while she questioned him about his journey.

  Later in the morning, the swineherd Eumaeus and Odysseus set out for town. The king, still in his pathetic rags, carried a worn staff loaned to him by his faithful servant, who still had no idea who this beggar really was. They came to the public fountain just outside the city, where another of Odysseus’ herdsmen, Melanthius, passed them on his way to the palace with fatted livestock for the suitors’ midday feast. He heaped abuse upon their heads, and even landed a kick on the beggar’s backside. Proud Odysseus remained passive, but took note of his servant’s disloyalty.

  The companions walked on toward town. As they passed the dung heaps piled on either side of the road near the gates, Odysseus heard a whimper. In the ordure lay an old hunting dog, covered in flies. The decrepit hound raised his head in recognition of their voices, and Odysseus saw that the dog was his favorite, Argus, who had shown such promise twenty long years before. At the sight and scent of his master, valiant Argus struggled to lift himself out of the filth in which he lay. But the effort overwhelmed him and he fell back, breathing his last. The hound’s loyalty touched the king deeply, and he weighed it in his heart against Melanthius’ treachery, and the insolence of his enemies.

  Within the palace, preparations for the banquet had begun. The smell of roasting meat hung in the air. A lyre twanged as it was tuned. Eumaeus arrived at the door of the palace with his charge, and went inside to find Telemachus. Meanwhile the king-as-vagrant seated himself on the threshold of his own palace, where he was given a morsel of meat and a heel of bread. Later he went around the long table in the wide hall and begged from each of the suitors, sizing them up as he passed.

  Disloyal Melanthius sat among the suitors and continued his verbal abuse. The mood in the hall became tense. Antinous, one of the ringleaders, went so far as to lob a footstool at the beggar, which struck him in the shoulder. But patient Odysseus did nothing and kept his humble place near the threshold. He knew his enemies’ fate was sealed, and that he himself was the agent of its fulfillment.

  The feast was nearly over when the bard took up his lyre and the banqueters turned to drinking and dancing. Another vagrant arrived at the door of the palace. It was despicable Arnaeus. He made a career of begging, and resented any weary travelers taking his place in the town. He accosted Odysseus, in his disguise near the threshold. Odysseus’ long-held anger needed venting, and it was the misfortune of Arnaeus that he arrived on the scene when he did.

  The two beggars bandied insults, circling like wrestlers in a bout. The suitors were amused to see the tramps going at it. They even offered a prize to the victor of the comical contest. Cowardly Arnaeus tried to escape, but the suitors tossed him back into the ring. The fool soon exposed himself. Odysseus punched him hard under the ear and sent him sprawling. Justice was at hand in the palace of Odysseus.

  Arnaeus’s ill-treatment of the disguised Odysseus earned him nothing but blood and pain.[89]

  The news of the fracas spread through the palace and at last reached the good queen. Penelope called Eumaeus to her chamber to question him about the new beggar in their midst. She asked to see the stranger later in the evening, when they could converse in peace. Then Penelope went down to the hall, and the gray-eyed goddess enhanced her already prodigious beauty. With her maids she descended to the hall. The queen covered her face with a sheer veil as she entered the room, but her loveliness was as impossible to ignore as the sunrise.

  First she gently chided her beloved Telemachus for allowing such rough behavior within the palace halls. But the ringleaders, Eurymachus and Antinous, spoke boldly to the queen, extolling her beauty. She responded curtly that her beauty had long since dimmed from years of longing for her beloved husband. But now, she declared, the time of waiting was finished. Every man who sought her hand was to cease wasting the wealth of Odysseus and bring her from his own house proper bride-gifts. Eagerly the suitors sent squires for the best their estates could offer, but they made it clear that, until she had made her choice, they would remain feasting in the palace, eating and drinking all they wanted. Penelope retired in dismay to her chamber.

  Penelope Meets the Beggar

  Braziers were lit in the palace, for day was quickly fading. Odysseus remained in the hall to suffer the abuses heaped upon him by the disreputable suitors. Thus his ire was stoked even as he tended the fires of his own palace hall. Finally, when they had had enough of debauchery, each of the suitors left for his own home to sleep it off.

  Telemachus and his father were alone at last, and finalized their plans for vengeance. Odysseus told his son to collect all the weapons and armor and lock them safely away from the suitors. Meanwhile, still disguised, Odysseus returned to the hall to face his interview with the queen, his own beloved Penelope.

  The long-suffering queen entered the hall preceded by her maids, and a chair was brought up for the vagrant to sit by her side. They talked long into the night. Though he was reluctant to tell more lies to his wife, she pressed him to explain himself, and in response he began to spin yet another yarn. He said that he was a son of the royal Cretan house. When Idomeneus departed for Troy, he had stayed behind as regent, and in that time he had met Odysseus, who with his ships and men had been blown off course by a gale and made land at Crete. He claimed to have entertained her husband for many days before and Odysseus sailed on to Troy.

  Lonely Penelope guilelessly opened her heart to the strange beggar with the noble demeanor. In her grief and longing she begged him to describe for her what Odysseus’ bearing was like, what clothes he wore, all those years ago when he had been driven onto Cretan shores. Proud Odysseus thought to brighten her memory of him by painting himself in the most flattering light. She gasped at his description of a beautiful purple cloak attached at the shoulder by a large brooch wrought of gold. In tears, she recounted how she had herself packed these things among Odysseus’ belongings before he left so many years ago.

  The stranger then made a prediction for the weeping queen: that her resourceful husband was, at that very moment, on his way back to home and family, with great wealth gained abroad. At the stranger’s earnest words, grieving Penelope smiled through her shining tears, and prayed that his words might come to pass. Then she called Eurycleia to come and wash the feet of their humble guest, as he would allow none of the younger women to touch him and prepare him for bed.

  The old nursemaid Eurycleia knelt at the beggar’s feet and began bathing them in the copper basin of warm water. She was already surprised by how much the stranger reminded her of her long-lost master—and then on his left knee she spied a scar that the young Odysseus had earned hunting boar on Mount Parnassus years earlier. She glanced up at the old beggar, pain and joy passing through her heart and over her features. “But … you … you are Odysseus!,” she murmured, and tears started in her kind old eyes. But Odysseus urged her to silence until he gave the signal, and she agreed to keep the secret.

  Athena had distracted Penelope from hearing their exchange, but in a moment the queen returned to her humble guest. She related to him a dream about an eagle destroying a flock of gaggling geese. He interpreted the dream for her. It was obvious, he said. The gods had revealed to her that Odysseus’ ret
urn was imminent, as was the destruction of the suitors by his hand.

  She prayed again that the beggar’s words might come true. But in the morning, she told him, she would summon the suitors for a test founded upon the prodigious skills of Odysseus himself. Twelve ax-heads were to be lined up in a row on a table, and the archer who shot an arrow through all twelve—through the holes where the handles would go—would win her hand in marriage. Only Odysseus had been able to perform the feat in the past. What’s more, they were to use the king’s bow, left behind when he sailed from Ithaca’s shores.

  When bright Dawn appeared on her golden throne, quick-witted Odysseus was up and preparing for the fateful day that lay ahead. It was a festival day sacred to Apollo the far-shooter, and the palace bustled with activity. Servants scrubbed and polished floors and tables, or ground grain for bread. The herdsmen came driving beasts before them—Eumaeus with choice pigs, Melanthius with fine goats, and finally Philoetius, the master cowherd, with the pick of the royal cattle. This good man took notice of the beggar in his rags standing by the gate. He strode over with his hand outstretched in greeting, despite the vitriolic words that Melanthius spat in their direction. Wily Odysseus took note that the cowherd could be valuable in a fight.

  Noble Telemachus returned from the assembly and sacrifices in honor of Apollo. All the suitors had arrived earlier, seeing no reason to stay for the full rite as pious men do. They hurried back to Odysseus’ palace to renew their debauchery. Just as the prince passed the threshold a cow’s hoof, hurled by one of the despicable suitors, whizzed past him. It struck the wall near the poor beggar, who merely turned his head slightly to avoid the missile. A look full of the promise of doom for the suitors passed between father and son.

  Vengeance

  The goddess with the flashing eyes, Athena, inspired courage in clever Penelope, who called her maids to attend her. Together they went to the storeroom where her husband’s most precious belongings were stowed under lock and key. She drew forth his awesome bow in its case and the quiver of swift arrows. The maids picked up the bronze ax-heads, and followed their mistress back through the dark corridor to the light-filled hall.

  The lady Penelope veiled her lovely cheeks and confronted the men. They told her that they had brought their bride-gifts, and reminded her, insolently, that today she was to choose one of them to be her lord. In return, she challenged them to emulate the feat of mighty Odysseus—to string the great bow and shoot an arrow through the twelve gleaming ax-heads. The winner would gain her as his wife.

  At the sight of the king’s wonderful bow and the gleaming axes the herdsmen Eumaeus and Philoetius grieved for their long-lost king. But Telemachus gestured at the suitors to step forward, and he himself was the first to attempt to string the bow. Three times he tried and failed. On the last attempt the bow was nearly strung, but Odysseus, still in his place by the entrance, caught his son’s eye and signaled him to desist. With a dramatic groan the prince gave up and set down the bow. One by one the men took their turn, and each suffered sarcastic abuse from the others as he failed. Disgusted by the sight of such unsuitable men handling their king’s favorite bow, Eumaeus and Philoetius left the hall. Quick-witted Odysseus dashed after them and, to their joy and amazement, revealed himself to them. Like Eurycleia, they recognized him by the scar on his knee. He quickly enlisted them in his plan for revenge.

  Finally the bow came around to Eurymachus, one of the ringleaders of the gang. Try as he might, he could not string it. Pouting, he thrust the bow aside with a scowl. The revelers rationalized that on the festival day of Apollo, it was improper to string a bow anyway. Tomorrow would be better, they decided, after they had sacrificed a goat and burned the fat and thigh bones as an offering to the archer god. With that the suitors returned to their cups.

  Then the beggar offered to entertain them by trying himself to string the magnificent bow. The rude suitors mocked, threatened, and heaped insults upon him. But queenly Penelope stepped forward and overrode the men, offering the vagrant new clothes and passage abroad if he should manage the feat. Telemachus concurred, and then suggested to his dear mother that she go about her household duties in the women’s quarters. He knew that things would soon get ugly. Meanwhile Eumaeus went to warn Eurycleia to lock the maidservants’ rooms, which she did at once.

  Odysseus took up his bow and examined it, looking for signs of woodworm or aging over the past twenty years. The suitors cried out in mockery: “Ha! So now this beggar is an expert bowman, is he?” But to their amazement and shame, the beggar bent the bow and strung it, with no sign of effort. He plucked the taut string, and it responded with a twang. His lip curled with satisfaction at the balance of the weapon in his hand. The suitors sat stupefied. The beggar picked up the arrow at his feet, leveled the shaft, and notched it. He pulled back, took aim, and let fly. The arrow passed cleanly through all twelve of the ax-heads. A thunderclap burst overhead, and the king knew he had the blessing of Father Zeus.

  The beggar picked up the arrow at his feet, leveled the shaft, and notched it.[90]

  With a shout brave Odysseus revealed himself to the suitors. Telemachus sprang to his side. Odysseus took swift, sure aim and an arrow pierced the throat of foolhardy Antinous. The rest scattered about the hall, seeking cover. No weapon or piece of armor was to be found anywhere, and they had to defend themselves with stools and tables. Haughty Eurymachus offered restitution, believing he could escape death with honeyed words. His speech fell on deaf ears, and in the end he drew his sword and leapt toward Odysseus. Another arrow flew from Odysseus’ bow, and Eurymachus fell dead in a pool of blood.

  The avengers too were short on weapons and armor, so Telemachus ran to fetch them, while Odysseus continued to pick off the suitors one by one with his swift arrows. Just as the quiver’s load was spent, Telemachus returned with spears, swords, and shields. They quickly armed themselves, and stood back to back, father and son, ready for the foe.

  But Melanthius suspected where the arms were concealed. He ran to the storeroom and brought out various pieces of equipment for the remaining suitors. Odysseus called on Eumaeus and Philoetius to capture the traitor and bind him strongly. The two faithful servants complied, and then took their places at the side of Odysseus and his noble son. Athena joined them, disguised as an old friend. Missiles rained down on the heroes, but the goddess made sure that none of the suitors hit their mark, while every shot or thrust by the avengers was successful. For the cowherd there was a satisfying moment when his spear pierced the breast of the lout who had earlier lobbed a hoof at the king. He stepped forward and braced himself on the dead man’s body, jerking his weapon free. Before long, bodies were heaped one upon another and the hall ran with their blood.

  Reunion

  Justice had been dealt to the impious suitors. Odysseus ordered Eurycleia to fetch those of the household maids who had betrayed their master with the unscrupulous suitors, and they and the herdsmen were given the job of clearing the hall of bodies and washing away the gore.

  Then the disloyal maids were herded to the back of the palace, where Telemachus strung them up by their necks with a rope. Their dangling feet jerked briefly, and then they breathed their last. Finally Melanthius paid for his treachery. His nose and ears were cut off, and after that his genitals. Then he was dragged beyond the palace walls and his hands and feet were hacked off as well. It took him some time to die.

  Stalwart Odysseus called his old nurse to attend him. Sulfur and fire were needed for a purification of the hall. When this was done, the king sent for his faithful queen, who had slept a god-induced sleep throughout. Now all the household servants came forward to the king, many weeping with joy at the sight of their long-lost lord. It was almost too much for the weary wanderer to bear. He had steeled his emotions for so long. He wanted to weep with them, and rejoice. But there was still the most important task to complete.

  Penelope woke to the old nurse Eurycleia hovering over her, shaking her gently and calling her
name.

  “What’s the matter, Eurycleia, my dear? Why the fuss?” long-suffering Penelope groaned as she woke. “Oh, what a dream I had! I saw Odysseus, and he was on his way home to us, as I’ve dreamt so many times before. It all seemed so real! He and his men were shipwrecked, and my suffering husband floated on, alone and half drowned. He came to the island of Calypso, who held him captive for years. Then he endured the sea alone on a sturdy raft, but mighty Poseidon was angry with him and caused him trouble. I dreamt that he was rescued by the sea-going Phaeacians, who bore him back to Ithaca’s shores and left him near a sacred cave with a hoard of fine gifts. How a lonely woman’s mind turns to fancy! I swear that I could almost hear him planning with Telemachus the revenge he sought against the unwelcome suitors! Oh, pity me! I think my mind is turning! The long years of waiting and hoping have taken their toll.”

  The old woman was falling over herself in her haste find her mistress a suitable gown and veil from the strong cypress chest in which she stored her best clothes. “It’s no dream, my dearest lady! No dream this time!” exclaimed Eurycleia, her face beaming, the wrinkles around her eyes creased by her grin. “It’s all come to pass! The king—he’s here, in the palace at last! And he’s calling for you now! You must make haste, my lady!”

  “Penelope woke to the old nurse Eurycleia hovering over her, shaking her gently and calling her name.”[91]