The suitors heard and grew pale. Fear gripped their hearts. Each looked about, silently wondering how he could escape from the hall. Eurymachus was the only one to gather his wits. He said: “If you are really Odysseus of Ithaca, you have every right to be angry with us, for both in the palace and on your farms much wrong has been done. But he who was most to blame is already dead. It was Antinous who was behind all these doings, and he was not even courting Penelope in earnest. All he wanted was to be king of Ithaca in your stead, and to this end he plotted the murder of your son. Now that he has received his just punishment, give up your anger against us! Spare your equals in rank! Every one of us shall bring you twenty bullocks in recompense for what we have eaten, and you shall have all the bronze and gold it will take to win back your favor.”
“No, Eurymachus,” said Odysseus, scowling at him. “Even if you offered me everything you have inherited from your fathers, I should not rest until all of you have atoned for your misdeeds with death. Do what you will, fight or flee—not one of you shall escape me!”
And now the suitors shook with uncontrollable terror. Once more Eurymachus spoke, but this time to his companions. “No one can stop this man,” he said. “Draw your swords and use the tables as shields against his arrows. Try to throw yourselves at him and thrust him from the threshold. Then let us go throughout the city to call on our friends for aid.” So saying, he whipped his sword from its sheath and leaped forward with a shout. But at the same instant an arrow pierced his liver. The sword slipped from his grasp, and cups and platters rolled down with him as he fell over a table and struck his head on the floor. He beat his head on the ground in agony, but a second later a tremor ran through him and he died. And now Amphinomus rushed against Odysseus to try to force a way out for himself with his sword. But Telemachus hurled his spear at him. It struck him in the back, between the shoulder blades, and he plunged forward on his face. Then Telemachus sprang free of the throng and stood on the threshold beside his father, to whom he brought a shield, two lances, and a helmet of bronze. Quickly he slipped out of the door to fetch more weapons. Four shields, eight spears, and four helmets with crests of horsehair he brought for himself and his friends. He and the two faithful herdsmen armed themselves; the fourth set of weapons he brought to Odysseus, and now the four stood shoulder to shoulder.
While the arrows lasted, Odysseus shot suitor after suitor, and one victim tumbled on top of another. Then he leaned his bow against the doorpost, slung the shield over his shoulder, set the helmet on his head, and took two great lances in hand. In the hall was a side door which opened into a passage leading to the back of the palace. But this door was so narrow that only one man at a time could pass through. Odysseus had told Eumaeus to watch there, but when the swineherd went to arm himself it was momentarily unguarded. One of the suitors, Agelaus, at once seized the advantage. “Why not flee through the side door,” he asked those near him, “and hasten to the city? There we can get help and soon put an end to this man!”
“Impossible!” said Melantheus, the goatherd, who sided with the suitors. “The door and the passage are so narrow that they admit only one man at a time. It will be better if I alone slip out quietly and fetch weapons for the rest of you.” And he immediately began to carry out his own suggestion. Time after time he went out and in, unobserved in the crowd, and brought back with him twelve shields and as many spears and helmets. Odysseus suddenly found himself confronted with armed foes, brandishing their lances. He was startled and said to Telemachus: “One of the faithless handmaids or the disloyal goatherd is responsible for this!”
“I am afraid it is my own fault,” answered Telemachus. “When I brought the weapons for us, I was in such a hurry that I did not fasten the door of our storeroom.”
Quickly Eumaeus hastened to repair his young master’s neglect. Through the open door he saw the goatherd taking more spears and shields. He came back to tell Odysseus. “Shall I take him alive or slay him?” he asked.
“Take the cowherd with you,” said Odysseus. “Fall on that scoundrel, bind his hands and feet behind his back, and let him hang from the central pillar by a stout rope. Then fasten the door and return.”
The two herdsmen did as he had bidden. They hurled themselves on the goatherd just as he was snatching more arms. They threw him to the floor, bound his arms and legs behind his back, looped a long rope about a hook in the ceiling, slung it around his body, and hoisted him up the tall pillar until he hung close to the rafters. “We have couched you in a comfortable position,” said Eumaeus. “Sleep sweetly!” They locked the door and returned to their posts near Odysseus.
A fifth ally unexpectedly joined the four friends. It was Athene in the shape of Mentor, and Odysseus joyfully recognized the goddess. When the suitors noticed the newcomer, Agelaus called to him angrily: “Mentor, I warn you not to let Odysseus persuade you to fight us suitors, for if you do, we shall kill you and all yours along with this father and son!”
These words made Athene seethe with rage. She spurred Odysseus to greater effort, saying: “You do not seem to me as brave as in those nine years you fought at Troy. It was your counsel that caused the fall of that city, but now, when it is a question of defending your own palace and property, you are hesitant and slow.” This she said to goad his courage, for she did not intend to take part in the actual fighting. Hardly had she finished speaking when she flew up in the form of a swallow and perched on the sooty rafters.
“Mentor has left!” Agelaus called to his friends. “The four are by themselves again. Now let us plan our attack. Do not all cast your spears at once. The six of you over there shall be first, and be sure that all of you aim only at Odysseus. Once he is down the rest will be easy to manage.” But Athene turned the course of those six lances: one stuck in the doorpost, another in the door, and the rest hit the wall.
Then Odysseus cried to his friends: “Aim carefully and cast well!” All four hurled their spears, and not one missed. Odysseus struck Demoptolemus, Telemachus Euryades, the swineherd hit Elatus, and the cowherd Pisander. When they saw their companions rolling in the dust, the other suitors fled to the farthest corners of the hall, but an instant later they advanced again, drew the spears from the corpses, and cast once more. Again the missiles went astray, all except the spear of Amphimedon, which grazed one of Telemachus’ wrists, and that of Ctesippus, which scratched the swineherd’s shoulder just above the shield. But neither of the wounded men was in the least disabled, and they repaid their would-be slayers with death. When Eumaeus cast his spear, he cried: “Take this for the hoof you threw at my master when he was a beggar in this hall!”
Odysseus had killed Eurydamas. Now he hurled his lance and killed Agelaus, son of Damastor, while Telemachus drove his spear through the belly of Leiocritus. Then Athene shook her aegis and filled the suitors with such panic that they fled through the hall like cattle stung by a gadfly, or like small birds trying to escape the talons of a hawk. Odysseus and his friends left the threshold and raged through the hall. And wherever they strode sounded the death rattle, and blood flowed in torrents.
Leiodes, throwing himself at Odysseus’ feet, clasped his knees and cried: “Have mercy on me! I never wronged you or yours! I tried to check the rest of the suitors, but they would not listen to me. All I did was to pour the libations. Must I die for that?”
“If you poured libations in their behalf,” Odysseus answered with a frown, “you prayed for them!” And he picked up the sword Agelaus had dropped as he fell and struck off Leiodes’ head while his lips were still pleading.
Near the side door stood Phemius, the singer, his lyre in his hands. He was badly frightened and wondered whether he should try to slip through the door and save himself by flight, or clasp the knees of Odysseus. He decided for the latter, laid his lyre down between the mixing bowl and a silver-studded chair, and threw himself on the ground before Odysseus. “Have pity on me!” he cried, clasping his knees. “You yourself would feel regret if you killed
a singer whose song delights gods and men. A god taught me my art, and like a god I shall celebrate you in song. Your son shall be my witness that I did not come here of my own free will, but that they forced me to sing for them.”
Odysseus raised his sword, but he hesitated. And then Telemachus ran toward him and cried: “Stop, father! Do not hurt him! He is guiltless! And if the herald Medon has not already been killed by you or the herdsmen, let him live too. He took such good care of me when I was a little boy, and always wished us well!” Medon, who had wrapped himself in an oxhide and lay hidden under a chair, when he heard this plea in his behalf unwound himself and clasped the knees of Telemachus. At that, even Odysseus had to smile. “You have nothing to fear, you two,” he said to the singer and the herald. “Telemachus has saved you. Leave the hall and tell the people outside that it pays to be loyal rather than faithless.” Phemius and Medon hurried away and sat down in the forecourt by the altar of Zeus, still trembling with terror.
THE SERVANTS ARE PUNISHED
Odysseus looked about him. Not one of his enemies was alive to confront him. They lay on the ground like fish which the fisherman has shaken from the net, and the bright sun takes their life. Then Odysseus sent Telemachus to fetch the old nurse. She found her master standing among the dead bodies like a lion who has torn oxen limb from limb, whose fierce eyes sparkle while the blood drips from his jaws over his breast. He was terrible and great to see, and Euryclea was ready to break into cries of joy. But Odysseus checked her. “Be glad,” he said gravely, “but do not rejoice aloud. It is not right for mortals to rejoice over the slain. It is not I alone who have killed these men; they have fallen because the gods willed it. But now give me the names of those women in the palace who have kept faith with me, and of those who have been false.”
“In the palace,” Euryclea replied, “are fifty servants whom we have taught to weave cloth, card wool, and to see to the house. Twelve of these were disloyal to you and refused to obey either Penelope or me. They were never called on to obey young Telemachus, for his mother did not give him authority over the handmaids. But now let me wake my sleeping mistress and tell her the joyful news!”
“Do not wake her just yet,” said Odysseus, “but send down to me those twelve faithless women.” Euryclea obeyed and brought the twelve before him. They were trembling from head to foot. Then Odysseus called Telemachus and the faithful herdsmen and said: “Carry out the corpses and let these women help you. After that they shall wipe the tables and chairs with sponges and clean the entire hall. When they have done this, take them out to the narrow space between the kitchen and the wall of the court and kill them with the sword to punish them for their arrogance and for doing the will of the suitors.” Screaming and weeping the women clung together, but Odysseus drove them to work and kept them at it until tables and chairs were clean, and the blood and filth scraped from the floor with hoes and thrown out of the door. Then the herdsmen crowded them into the space between kitchen and wall where there was no way to escape. And now Telemachus said: “These wretched women, who disgraced my mother and myself, shall not die an honorable death.” With these words he knotted a rope from post to post, the whole length of the kitchen, and soon the twelve hung side by side, strangled in the noose like thrushes in the net. They writhed a little while with their feet, but not for long.
Next Melantheus, the goatherd, was dragged into the forecourt and hacked to pieces. When Telemachus and the herdsmen had done this, the work of vengeance was complete, and they washed their hands and feet and returned to Odysseus.
He commanded Euryclea to bring him fire and sulphur to smoke out the stench of death and cleanse the hall. But before she did this, she brought her master a tunic and mantle. “My child,” she said, “you must not stand in this hall in your beggar’s rags. It does not befit you.” But Odysseus let lie the clothing she had fetched and told her to go about her work. When he had purified the hall, the house and the forecourt, Euryclea called the faithful servants. They clustered about their king with tears of joy and kissed his head and his hands. And Odysseus wept too, for now he saw how many had remained loyal to him.
ODYSSEUS AND PENELOPE
Euryclea hastened to Penelope’s chamber, her knees almost failing her. Tremblingly but happily she woke her sleeping mistress and said: “Penelope, now with your own eyes you shall see what you have been waiting for these many years! Odysseus has come! And he has killed the suitors who have harassed you and your son and who have laid waste your stores.”
Penelope shook the sleep from her eyes and said: “Euryclea, the gods must have stricken you with madness. Why do you wake me with false news from the sweetest slumber I have ever had? I have not slept so well since Odysseus left for Troy. Had anyone but you come to tell me such a story, I should have sent her off with worse than angry words. And even you I spare only because of your great age. But now leave me, and go down to the hall again.”
“There is no need for you to be angry,” said Euryclea. “The stranger, the beggar whom they all scoffed at—it is he who is your husband! Your son Telemachus has known it for a long time, but he was told to keep it secret until vengeance had been taken on the suitors.”
Then Penelope started up from her couch and clung to the old woman tearfully. “If this is really the truth,” she cried, “if Odysseus is really here in the palace, how could he alone cope with that mob of hostile men?”
“I myself neither heard nor saw,” Euryclea replied. “We women were herded into our quarters and locked in. But we caught the sound of groans, and when Telemachus finally called me, I saw your husband standing upright over a mass of corpses, a sight which, I think, would have gladdened your heart. But now all the bodies have been dragged out and are lying beyond the gates of the court, and the house has been purified with sulphur. You may go down without fear.”
“I cannot believe it,” Penelope repeated. “It must have been a god who slew the suitors. As for Odysseus—no, he is far from here, and he will never return.”
“You have a doubting heart,” said Euryclea, shaking her head. “Well then, I shall tell you of a sure sign. Do you recall that time you told me to wash the beggar’s feet? It was then I touched the scar you know of, and I wanted to cry out to you, but he caught me by the throat and would not let me speak.”
“Let us go down,” said Penelope, tremulous with hope and fear. And together they descended and crossed the threshold of the hall. Penelope uttered no word. Silently she seated herself opposite Odysseus, in the full light of the hearthfire. He sat near a tall pillar and fixed his eyes on the ground, waiting for her to speak. But wonder and doubt closed her lips. One moment she thought she recognized him, the next he seemed a stranger, and all she saw was a beggar clothed in rags. At last Telemachus went up to his mother and said almost angrily, yet with a smile: “How can you sit there so coldly, mother? Go to my father, question him! What other woman whose husband returned after twenty years of hardship would act as you do? Have you a stone in your breast instead of a heart?”
“Dear son,” said Penelope, “I am lost in wonder. I cannot speak, I cannot question him, I cannot even look into his eyes. And yet if it is really Odysseus come back to his house, we shall recognize each other beyond all doubt, for we have secret signs which no one else knows of.”
Then Odysseus smiled gently and turned to his son: “Let your mother try me in her own fashion,” he said. “She now scorns me because she sees me in these ugly rags, but I believe she can be convinced! But first we must think of other matters. If a man kills another man of his people, he flees from his house and country, even if his victim has only one or two avengers. But we have slain the noblest young men of Ithaca and of the islands nearby—what shall we do?”
“Father,” said Telemachus, “you must decide this alone, for all the world regards you as wisest in counsel.”
“Then I shall tell you what I consider best,” said Odysseus. “You and the herdsmen and everyone in the house shall bathe an
d put on your finest garments. The handmaids too shall adorn themselves. Then let Phemius pluck the lyre and play a tune for the dance. Whoever passes our house will think that feasting is still going on, and news of the suitors’ death will not spread through the city until we have reached our farms in the country. Then a god will tell us what to do next.”
Soon after the palace rang with music, singing, and merriment. The citizens gathered in the street and said to one another: “Penelope must have made her choice, and the wedding celebration is taking place. Fickle woman! Why did she not wait a little longer? Perhaps her husband Odysseus would have returned.” Toward evening the crowd dispersed. In the meantime Odysseus had bathed and anointed himself, and now again Athene shed beauty about him, and he rose from his bath like an immortal. When he had returned to the hall, he seated himself opposite his wife. “Strange woman!” he said. “The gods must have given you an unfeeling heart. No other wife would so obstinately refuse to recognize her husband who came back to her after twenty years of suffering. I must turn to you, Euryclea, to prepare a couch for me, for this woman has a heart of iron.”
Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece Page 80