My rags are sorry cover; you know that;
I showed my sad condition first to you.”
The woodsman heard him out, and then returned;
but the queen met him on her threshold, crying:
“Have you not brought him? Why? What is he thinking?
Has he some fear of overstepping? Shy
about these inner rooms? A hangdog beggar?”
To this you answered, friend Eumaios:
“No:
he reasons as another might, and well,
not to tempt any swordplay from these drunkards.
Be patient, wait—he says—till darkness falls.
And, O my queen, for you too that is better:
better to be alone with him, and question him,
and hear him out.”
Penelope replied:
“He is no fool; he sees how it could be.
Never were mortal men like these
for bullying and brainless arrogance!”
Thus she accepted what had been proposed,
so he went back into the crowd. He joined
Telémakhos, and said at once in whispers—
his head bent, so that no one else might hear:
“Dear prince, I must go home to keep good watch
on hut and swine, and look to my own affairs.
Everything here is in your hands. Consider
your own safety before the rest; take care
not to get hurt. Many are dangerous here.
May Zeus destroy them first, before we suffer!”
Telémakhos said:
“Your wish is mine, Uncle.
Go when your meal is finished. Then come back
at dawn, and bring good victims for a slaughter.
Everything here is in my hands indeed—
and in the disposition of the gods.”
Taking his seat on the smooth bench again,
Eumaios ate and drank his fill, then rose
to climb the mountain trail back to his swine,
leaving the mégaron and court behind him
crowded with banqueters.
These had their joy
of dance and song, as day waned into evening.
BOOK XVIII
BLOWS AND A QUEEN’S BEAUTY
Now a true scavenger came in—a public tramp
who begged around the town of Ithaka,
a by-word for his insatiable swag-belly,
feeding and drinking, dawn to dark. No pith
was in him, and no nerve, huge as he looked.
Arnaios, as his gentle mother called him,
he had been nicknamed “Iros” by the young
for being ready to take messages.
This fellow
thought he would rout Odysseus from his doorway,
growling at him:
“Clear out, grandfather,
or else be hauled out by the ankle bone.
See them all giving me the wink? That means,
‘Go on and drag him out!’ I hate to do it.
Up with you! Or would you like a fist fight?”
Odysseus only frowned and looked him over,
taking account of everything, then said:
“Master, I am no trouble to you here.
I offer no remarks. I grudge you nothing.
Take all you get, and welcome. Here is room
for two on this doorslab—or do you own it?
You are a tramp, I think, like me. Patience:
a windfall from the gods will come. But drop
that talk of using fists; it could annoy me.
Old as I am, I might just crack a rib
or split a lip for you. My life would go
even more peacefully, after tomorrow,
looking for no more visits here from you.”
Iros the tramp grew red and hooted:
“Ho,
listen to him! The swine can talk your arm off,
like an old oven woman! With two punches
I’d knock him snoring, if I had a mind to—
and not a tooth left in his head, the same
as an old sow caught in the corn! Belt up!
And let this company see the way I do it
when we square off. Can you fight a fresher man?”
Under the lofty doorway, on the door sill
of wide smooth ash, they held this rough exchange.
And the tall full-blooded suitor, Antínoös,
overhearing, broke into happy laughter.
Then he said to the others:
“Oh, my friends,
no luck like this ever turned up before!
What a farce heaven has brought this house!
The stranger
and Iros have had words, they brag of boxing!
Into the ring they go, and no more talk!”
All the young men got on their feet now, laughing,
to crowd around the ragged pair. Antínoös
called out:
“Gentlemen, quiet! One more thing:
here are goat stomachs ready on the fire
to stuff with blood and fat, good supper pudding.
The man who wins this gallant bout
may step up here and take the one he likes.
And let him feast with us from this day on:
no other beggar will be admitted here
when we are at our wine.”
This pleased them all.
But now that wily man, Odysseus, muttered:
“An old man, an old hulk, has no business
fighting a young man, but my belly nags me;
nothing will do but I must take a beating.
Well, then, let every man here swear an oath
not to step in for Iros. No one throw
a punch for luck. I could be whipped that way.”
So much the suitors were content to swear,
but after they reeled off their oaths, Telémakhos
put in a word to clinch it, saying:
“Friend,
if you will stand and fight, as pride requires,
don’t worry about a foul blow from behind.
Whoever hits you will take on the crowd.
You have my word as host; you have the word
of these two kings, Antínoös and Eurýmakhos—
a pair of thinking men.”
All shouted, “Aye!”
So now Odysseus made his shirt a belt
and roped his rags around his loins, baring
his hurdler’s thighs and boxer’s breadth of shoulder,
the dense rib-sheath and upper arms. Athena
stood nearby to give him bulk and power,
while the young suitors watched with narrowed eyes—
and comments went around:
“By god, old Iros now retiros.”
“Aye,
he asked for it, he’ll get it—bloody, too.”
“The build this fellow had, under his rags!”
Panic made Iros’ heart jump, but the yard-boys
hustled and got him belted by main force,
though all his blubber quivered now with dread.
Antínoös’ angry voice rang in his ears:
“You sack of guts, you might as well be dead,
might as well never have seen the light of day,
if this man makes you tremble! Chicken-heart,
afraid of an old wreck, far gone in misery!
Well, here is what I say—and what I’ll do.
If this ragpicker can outfight you, whip you,
I’ll ship you out to that king in Epeiros,
Ékhetos—he skins everyone alive.
Let him just cut your nose off and your ears
and pull your privy parts out by the roots
to feed raw to his hunting dogs!”
Poor Iros
felt a new fit of shaking take his knees.
But the yard-boys pushed him out. Now both contenders
put their hands up. Royal Odysseus
pondered if he should hit him with all he had
and drop the man dead on the spot, or only
spar, with force enough to knock him down.
Better that way, he thought—a gentle blow,
else he might give himself away.
The two
were at close quarters now, and Iros lunged
hitting the shoulder. Then Odysseus hooked him
under the ear and shattered his jaw bone,
so bright red blood came bubbling from his mouth,
as down he pitched into the dust, bleating,
kicking against the ground, his teeth stove in.
The suitors whooped and swung their arms, half dead
with pangs of laughter.
Then, by the ankle bone,
Odysseus hauled the fallen one outside,
crossing the courtyard to the gate, and piled him
against the wall. In his right hand he stuck
his begging staff, and said:
“Here, take your post.
Sit here to keep the dogs and pigs away.
You can give up your habit of command
over poor waifs and beggarmen—you swab.
Another time you may not know what hit you.”
When he had slung his rucksack by the string
over his shoulder, like a wad of rags,
he sat down on the broad door sill again,
as laughing suitors came to flock inside;
and each young buck in passing gave him greeting,
saying, maybe,
“Zeus fill your pouch for this!
May the gods grant your heart’s desire!”
“Well done
to put that walking famine out of business.”
“We’ll ship him out to that king in Epeiros,
Ékhetos—he skins everyone alive.”
Odysseus found grim cheer in their good wishes—
his work had started well.
Now from the fire
his fat blood pudding came, deposited
before him by Antínoös—then, to boot,
two brown loaves from the basket, and some wine
in a fine cup of gold. These gifts Amphinomos
gave him. Then he said:
“Here’s luck, grandfather;
a new day; may the worst be over now.”
Odysseus answered, and his mind ranged far:
“Amphínomos, your head is clear, I’d say;
so was your father’s—or at least I’ve heard
good things of Nisos the Doulikhion,
whose son you are, they tell me—an easy man.
And you seem gently bred.
In view of that,
I have a word to say to you, so listen.
Of mortal creatures, all that breathe and move,
earth bears none frailer than mankind. What man
believes in woe to come, so long as valor
and tough knees are supplied him by the gods?
But when the gods in bliss bring miseries on,
then willy-nilly, blindly, he endures.
Our minds are as the days are, dark or bright,
blown over by the father of gods and men.
So I, too, in my time thought to be happy;
but far and rash I ventured, counting on
my own right arm, my father, and my kin;
behold me now.
No man should flout the law,
but keep in peace what gifts the gods may give.
I see you young blades living dangerously,
a household eaten up, a wife dishonored—
and yet the master will return, I tell you,
to his own place, and soon; for he is near.
So may some power take you out of this,
homeward, and softly, not to face that man
the hour he sets foot on his native ground.
Between him and the suitors I foretell
no quittance, no way out, unless by blood,
once he shall stand beneath his own roof-beam.”
Gravely, when he had done, he made libation
and took a sip of honey-hearted wine,
giving the cup, then, back into the hands
of the young nobleman. Amphinomos, for his part,
shaking his head, with chill and burdened breast,
turned in the great hall.
Now his heart foreknew
the wrath to come, but he could not take flight,
being by Athena bound there.
Death would have him
broken by a spear thrown by Telémakhos.
So he sat down where he had sat before.
And now heart-prompting from the grey-eyed goddess
came to the quiet queen, Penélopê:
a wish to show herself before the suitors;
for thus by fanning their desire again
Athena meant to set her beauty high
before her husband’s eyes, before her son.
Knowing no reason, laughing confusedly,
she said:
“Eurýnomê, I have a craving
I never had at all—I would be seen
among those ruffians, hateful as they are.
I might well say a word, then, to my son,
for his own good—tell him to shun that crowd;
for all their gay talk, they are bent on evil.”
Mistress Eurynome replied:
“Well said, child,
now is the time. Go down, and make it clear,
hold nothing back from him.
But you must bathe
and put a shine upon your cheeks—not this way,
streaked under your eyes and stained with tears.
You make it worse, being forever sad,
and now your boy’s a bearded man! Remember
you prayed the gods to let you see him so.”
Penelope replied:
“Eurýnomê,
it is a kind thought, but I will not hear it—
to bathe and sleek with perfumed oil. No, no,
the gods forever took my sheen away
when my lord sailed for Troy in the decked ships.
Only tell my Autonoë to come,
and Hippodameia; they should be attending me
in hall, if I appear there. I could not
enter alone into that crowd of men.”
At this the good old woman left the chamber
to tell the maids her bidding. But now too
the grey-eyed goddess had her own designs.
Upon the quiet daughter of Ikarios
she let clear drops of slumber fall, until
the queen lay back asleep, her limbs unstrung,
in her long chair. And while she slept the goddess
endowed her with immortal grace to hold
the eyes of the Akhaians. With ambrosia
she bathed her cheeks and throat and smoothed her brow—
ambrosia, used by flower-crowned Kythereia
when she would join the rose-lipped Graces dancing.
Grandeur she gave her, too, in height and form,
and made her whiter than carved ivory.
Touching her so, the perfect one was gone.
Now came the maids, bare-armed and lovely, voices
breaking into the room. The queen awoke
and as she rubbed her cheek she sighed:
“Ah, soft
that drowse I lay embraced in, pain forgot!
If only Artemis the Pure would give me
death as mild, and soon! No heart-ache more,
no wearing out my lifetime with desire
and sorrow, mindful of my lord, good man
in all ways that he was, best of the Akhaians!”
She rose and left her glowing upper room,
and down the stairs, with her two maids in train,
this beautiful lady went before the suitors.
Then by a pillar of the solid roof
she paused,
her shining veil across her cheek,
the two girls close to her and still;
and in that instant weakness took those men
in the knee joints, their hearts grew faint with lust;
not one but swore to god to lie beside her.
But speaking for her dear son’s ears alone
she said:
“Telémakhos, what has come over you?
Lightminded you were not, in all your boyhood.
Now you are full grown, come of age; a man
from foreign parts might take you for the son
of royalty, to go by your good looks;
and have you no more thoughtfulness or manners?
How could it happen in our hall that you
permit the stranger to be so abused?
Here, in our house, a guest, can any man
suffer indignity, come by such injury?
What can this be for you but public shame?”
Telémakhos looked in her eyes and answered,
with his clear head and his discretion:
The Odyssey: The Fitzgerald Translation Page 32