The Prince Sets Sail for Home
Now south through the spacious dancing-rings of Lacedaemon
Athena went to remind the hero’s princely son
of his journey home and spur him on his way.
She found him there with Nestor’s gallant son,
bedded down in the porch of illustrious Menelaus —
Pisistratus, at least, overcome with deep sound sleep,
but not Telemachus. Welcome sleep could not hold him.
All through the godsent night he lay awake . . .
9 tossing with anxious thoughts about his father.
10 Hovering over him, eyes ablaze, Athena said,
“It’s wrong, Telemachus, wrong to rove so far,
so long from home, leaving your own holdings
unprotected —crowds in your palace so brazen
they’ll carve up all your wealth, devour it all,
and then your journey here will come to nothing.
Quickly, press Menelaus, lord of the warcry,
to speed you home at once, if you want to find
your irreproachable mother still inside your house.
Even now her father and brothers urge Penelope
20 to marry Eurymachus, who excels all other suitors
21 at giving gifts and drives the bride-price higher.
She must not carry anything off against your will!
23 You know how the heart of a woman always works:
she likes to build the wealth of her new groom —
of the sons she bore, of her dear, departed husband,
not a memory of the dead, no questions asked.
So sail for home, I say!
With your own hands turn over all your goods
to the one serving-woman you can trust the most,
30 till the gods bring to light your own noble bride.
And another thing. Take it to heart, I tell you.
Picked men of the suitors lie in ambush, grim-set
in the straits between Ithaca and rocky Same,
poised to kill you before you can reach home,
but I have my doubts they will. Sooner the earth
will swallow down a few of those young gallants
who eat you out of house and home these days!
Just give the channel islands a wide berth,
push on in your trim ship, sail night and day,
40 and the deathless god who guards and pulls you through
will send you a fresh fair wind from hard astern.
At your first landfall, Ithaca’s outer banks,
speed ship and shipmates round to the city side.
But you —you make your way to the swineherd first,
in charge of your pigs, and true to you as always.
Sleep the night there, send him to town at once
to tell the news to your mother, wise Penelope —
you’ve made it back from Pylos safe and sound.”
Mission accomplished, back she went to Olympus’ heights
50 as Telemachus woke Nestor’s son from his sweet sleep;
he dug a heel in his ribs and roused him briskly:
“Up, Pisistratus. Hitch the team to the chariot —
let’s head for home at once!”
“No, Telemachus,”
Nestor’s son objected, “much as we long to go,
we cannot drive a team in the dead of night.
Morning will soon be here. So wait, I say,
wait till he loads our chariot down with gifts —
the hero Atrides, Menelaus, the great spearman —
and gives us warm salutes and sees us off like princes.
60 That’s the man a guest will remember all his days:
the lavish host who showers him with kindness.”
At those words Dawn rose on her golden throne
and Menelaus, lord of the warcry, rising up from bed
by the side of Helen with her loose and lovely hair,
walked toward his guests. As soon as he saw him,
Telemachus rushed to pull a shimmering tunic on,
over his broad shoulders threw his flaring cape
and the young prince, son of King Odysseus,
strode out to meet his host: “Menelaus,
70 royal son of Atreus, captain of armies,
let me go back to my own country now.
The heart inside me longs for home at last.”
The lord of the warcry reassured the prince,
74 “I’d never detain you here too long, Telemachus,
not if your heart is set on going home.
I’d find fault with another host, I’m sure,
too warm to his guests, too pressing or too cold.
Balance is best in all things. It’s bad either way,
spurring the stranger home who wants to linger,
80 holding the one who longs to leave —you know,
‘Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest!’
But wait till I load your chariot down with gifts —
fine ones, too, you’ll see with your own eyes —
and tell the maids to serve a meal at hall.
We have god’s plenty here.
It’s honor and glory to us, a help to you as well
if you dine in style first, then leave to see the world.
And if you’re keen for the grand tour of all Hellas,
right to the depths of Argos, I’ll escort you myself,
90 harness the horses, guide you through the towns.
And no host will turn us away with empty hands,
each will give us at least one gift to prize —
a handsome tripod, cauldron forged in bronze,
a brace of mules or a solid golden cup.”
Firmly resolved, Telemachus replied,
“Menelaus, royal Atrides, captain of armies,
I must go back to my own home at once.
When I started out I left no one behind
to guard my own possessions. God forbid,
100 searching for my great father, I lose my life
or lose some priceless treasure from my house!”
As soon as the lord of the warcry heard that,
he told his wife and serving-women to lay out a meal
in the hall at once. They’d stores aplenty there.
Eteoneus, son of Boëthous, came to join them —
fresh from bed, he lived close by the palace.
The warlord Menelaus told him to build a fire
and broil some meat. He quickly did his bidding.
Down Atrides walked to a storeroom filled with scent,
110 and not alone: Helen and Megapenthes went along.
Reaching the spot where all the heirlooms lay,
Menelaus chose a generous two-handled cup;
he told his son Megapenthes to take a mixing-bowl,
solid silver, while Helen lingered beside the chests,
and there they were, brocaded, beautiful robes
her own hands had woven. Queenly Helen,
radiance of women, lifted one from the lot,
the largest, loveliest robe, and richly worked
and like a star it glistened, deep beneath the others.
120 Then all three went up and on through the halls until
they found Telemachus. The red-haired king spoke out:
“Oh my boy, may Zeus the Thunderer, Hera’s lord,
grant you the journey home your heart desires!
Of all the treasures lying heaped in my palace
you shall have the finest, most esteemed. Look,
I’ll give you this mixing-bowl, forged to perfection —
it’s solid silver finished off with a lip of gold.
Hephaestus made it himself. And a royal friend,
Phaedimus, king of Sidon, lavished it on me
130 when his palace welcomed me on passage home.
How pleased I’d be if you took it as a gift!”
And the warlord placed the two-eared cup
in his hands while stalwart Megapenthes carried in
the glittering silver bowl and set it down before him.
Helen, her cheeks flushed with beauty, moved beside him,
holding the robe in her arms, and offered, warmly,
“Here, dear boy, I too have a gift to give you,
a keepsake of Helen —I wove it with my hands —
for your own bride to wear
140 when the blissful day of marriage dawns . . .
Until then, let it rest in your mother’s room.
And may you return in joy —my parting wish —
to your own grand house, your native land at last.”
With that
she laid the robe in his arms, and he received it gladly.
Prince Pisistratus, taking the gifts, stowed them deep
in the chariot cradle, viewed them all with wonder.
The red-haired warlord led them back to his house
and the guests took seats on low and high-backed chairs.
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher
150 and over a silver basin tipped it out
so they might rinse their hands,
then pulled a gleaming table to their side.
A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them,
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty.
Ready Eteoneus carved and passed the meat,
the son of illustrious Menelaus poured their wine.
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand
and once they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Prince Telemachus and the gallant son of Nestor
160 yoked their team, mounted the blazoned car
and drove through the gates and echoing colonnade.
The red-haired King Menelaus followed both boys out,
his right hand holding a golden cup of honeyed wine
so the two might pour libations forth at parting.
Just in front of the straining team he strode,
lifting his cup and pledging both his guests:
“Farewell, my princes! Give my warm greetings
to Nestor, the great commander,
always kind to me as a father, long ago
170 when we young men of Achaea fought at Troy.”
And tactful Telemachus replied at once,
“Surely, my royal host, we’ll tell him all,
as soon as we reach old Nestor —all you say.
I wish I were just as sure I’d find Odysseus
waiting there at home when I reach Ithaca.
I’d tell him I come from you,
treated with so much kindness at your hands,
loaded down with all these priceless gifts!”
179 At his last words a bird flew past on the right,
180 an eagle clutching a huge white goose in its talons,
plucked from the household yards. And all rushed after,
shouting, men and women, and swooping toward the chariot now
the bird veered off to the right again before the horses.
All looked up, overjoyed —people’s spirits lifted.
Nestor’s son Pisistratus spoke out first:
“Look there! King Menelaus, captain of armies,
what, did the god send down that sign for you
or the two of us?”
The warlord fell to thinking —
how to read the omen rightly, how to reply? . . .
190 But long-robed Helen stepped in well before him:
“Listen to me and I will be your prophet,
sure as the gods have flashed it in my mind
and it will come to pass, I know it will.
Just as the eagle swooped down from the crags
where it was born and bred, just as it snatched
that goose fattened up for the kill inside the house,
just so, after many trials and roving long and hard,
Odysseus will descend on his house and take revenge —
unless he’s home already, sowing seeds of ruin
for that whole crowd of suitors!”
200 “Oh if only,”
pensive Telemachus burst out in thanks to Helen,
“Zeus the thundering lord of Hera makes it so —
even at home I’ll pray to you as a deathless goddess!”
He cracked the lash and the horses broke quickly,
careering through the city out into open country,
shaking the yoke across their shoulders all day long.
The sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark
as they reached Phera, pulling up to Diocles’ halls,
the son of Ortilochus, son of the Alpheus River.
210 He gave them a royal welcome; there they slept the night.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
they yoked their pair again, mounted the blazoned car
and out through the gates and echoing colonnade
they whipped the team to a run and on they flew,
holding nothing back, approaching Pylos soon,
the craggy citadel. That was when Telemachus
turned to Pisistratus, saying, “Son of Nestor,
won’t you do as I ask you, see it through?
We’re friends for all our days now, so we claim,
220 thanks to our fathers’ friendship. We’re the same age as well
and this tour of ours has made us more like brothers.
Prince, don’t drive me past my vessel, drop me there.
223 Your father’s old, in love with his hospitality;
I fear he’ll hold me, chafing in his palace —
I must hurry home!”
The son of Nestor pondered . . .
how to do it properly, see it through?
Pausing a moment, then this way seemed best.
Swerving his team, he drove down to the ship
tied up on shore and loaded into her stern
230 the splendid gifts, the robes and gold Menelaus gave,
and sped his friend with a flight of winging words:
“Climb aboard now —fast! Muster all your men
before I get home and break the news to father.
With that man’s overbearing spirit —I know it,
know it all too well —he’ll never let you go,
he’ll come down here and summon you himself.
He won’t return without you, believe me —
in any case he’ll fly into a rage.”
With that warning he whipped his sleek horses
240 back to Pylos city and reached his house in no time.
Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates:
“Stow our gear, my comrades, deep in the holds
and board at once —we must be on our way!”
His shipmates snapped to orders,
swung aboard and sat to the oars in ranks.
But just as Telemachus prepared to launch,
praying, sacrificing to Pallas by the stern,
a man from a far-off country came toward him now,
a fugitive out of Argos: he had killed a man . . .
250 He was a prophet, sprung of Melampus’ line of seers,
Melampus who lived in Pylos, mother of flocks, some years ago,
rich among his Pylians, at home in his great high house.
But then he was made to go abroad to foreign parts,
fleeing his native land and hot-blooded Neleus —
most imperious man alive —who’d commandeered
his vast estate and held it down by force
for one entire year. That year Melampus,
258 bound by cruel chains in the halls of Phylacus,
suffered agonies —all for Neleus’ daughter Pero,
260 that and the mad spell a Fury, murderous spirit,
cast upon his mind. But the seer worked free of death
and drove the lusty, bellowing cattle out of Phylace,
back to Pylos. There he avenged himself on Neleus
for the shameful thing the king had done to him,
and escorted Pero home as his brother’s bride.
But he himself went off to a distant country,
Argos, land of stallions —his destined home
where he would live and rule the Argive nation.
Here he married a wife and built a high-roofed house
270 and sired Antiphates and Mantius, two staunch sons.
271 Antiphates fathered Oicles, gallant heart,
272 Oicles fathered Amphiaraus, driver of armies,
whom storming Zeus and Apollo loved intensely,
showering him with every form of kindness.
But he never reached the threshold of old age,
276 he died at Thebes —undone by a bribe his wife accepted —
277 leaving behind his two sons, Alcmaeon and Amphilochus.
278 On his side Mantius sired Polyphides and Clitus both
but Dawn of the golden throne whisked Clitus away,
280 overwhelmed by his beauty,
so the boy would live among the deathless gods.
Yet Apollo made magnanimous Polyphides a prophet —
after Amphiaraus’ death —the greatest seer on earth.
284 But a feud with his father drove him off to Hyperesia
where he made his home and prophesied to the world . . .
286 This prophet’s son it was —Theoclymenus his name —
who approached Telemachus now and found him pouring
wine to a god and saying prayers beside his ship.
“Friend,” he said in a winging supplication,
290 “since I find you burning offerings here,
I beg you by these rites and the god you pray to,
then by your own life and the lives of all the men
who travel with you —tell me truly, don’t hold back,
who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?”
“Of course, stranger,” the forthright prince responded,
“I will tell you everything, clearly as I can.
Ithaca is my country. Odysseus is my father —
there was a man, or was he all a dream? . . .
but he’s surely died a wretched death by now.
300 Yet here I’ve come with my crew and black ship,
out for news of my father, lost and gone so long.”
And the godlike seer Theoclymenus replied,
“Just like you, I too have left my land —
I because I killed a man of my own tribe.
But he has many brothers and kin in Argos,
stallion-land, who rule the plains in force.
Fleeing death at their hands, a dismal fate,
I am a fugitive now,
doomed to wander across this mortal world.
310 So take me aboard, hear a fugitive’s prayer:
don’t let them kill me —they’re after me, well I know!”
“So desperate!” thoughtful Telemachus exclaimed.
“How could I drive you from my ship? Come sail with us,
we’ll tend you at home, with all we can provide.”
And he took the prophet’s honed bronze spear,
laid it down full-length on the rolling deck,
swung aboard the deep-sea craft himself,
assuming the pilot’s seat reserved astern
and put the seer beside him. Cables cast off,
320 Telemachus shouted out commands to all his shipmates:
“All lay hands to tackle!” They sprang to orders,
hoisting the pinewood mast, they stepped it firm
in its block amidships, lashed it fast with stays
and with braided rawhide halyards hauled the white sail high.
Now bright-eyed Athena sent them a stiff following wind
blustering out of a clear sky, gusting on so the ship
might run its course through the salt sea at top speed —
328 and past the Springs she raced and the Chalcis’ rushing stream
as the sun sank and the roads of the world grew dark and
330 on she pressed for Pheae, driven on by a wind from Zeus
and flew past lovely Elis, where Epeans rule in power,
332 and then Telemachus veered for the Jagged Islands,
wondering all the way —
would he sweep clear of death or be cut down?
The king and loyal swineherd, just that night,
were supping with other fieldhands in the lodge.
And once they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Odysseus spoke up, eager to test the swineherd,
see if he’d stretch out his warm welcome now,
340 invite him to stay on in the farmstead here
or send him off to town. “Listen, Eumaeus,
all you comrades here —at the crack of dawn
I mean to go to town and do my begging,
not be a drain on you and all your men.
But advise me well, give me a trusty guide
to see me there. And then I’m on my own
to roam the streets —I must, I have no choice —
hoping to find a handout, just a crust or cupful.
I’d really like to go to the house of King Odysseus
350 and give my news to his cautious queen, Penelope.
Why, I’d even mix with those overweening suitors —
would they spare me a plateful? Look at all they have!
I’d do good work for them, promptly, anything they want.
Let me tell you, listen closely, catch my drift . . .
Thanks to Hermes the guide, who gives all work
of our hands the grace and fame that it deserves,
no one alive can match me at household chores:
building a good fire, splitting kindling neatly,
carving, roasting meat and pouring rounds of wine . . .
360 anything menials do to serve their noble masters.”
“God’s sake, my friend!” you broke in now,
Eumaeus, loyal swineherd, deeply troubled.
“What’s got into your head, what crazy plan?
You must be hell-bent on destruction, on the spot,
if you’re keen to mingle with that mob of suitors —
their pride and violence hit the iron skies!
They’re a far cry from you,
the men who do their bidding. Young bucks,
all rigged out in their fine robes and shirts,
370 hair sleeked down with oil, faces always beaming,
the ones who slave for them! The tables polished,
sagging under the bread and meat and wine.
No, stay here. No one finds you a burden,
surely not I, nor any comrade here.
You wait till Odysseus’ dear son comes back —
that boy will deck you out in a cloak and shirt
and send you off, wherever your heart desires!”
“If only, Eumaeus,” the wayworn exile said,
“you were as dear to Father Zeus as you are to me!
380 You who stopped my pain, my endless, homesick roving.
Tramping about the world —there’s nothing worse for a man.
But the fact is that men put up with misery
to stuff their cursed bellies.
But seeing you hold me here, urging me now
to wait for him, the prince who’s on his way,
tell me about the mother of King Odysseus, please,
the father he left as well —on the threshold of old age —
when he sailed off to war. Are they still alive,
perhaps, still looking into the light of day?
Or dead by now, and down in Death’s long house?”
390 “Friend,”
the swineherd, foreman of men, assured his guest,
“I’ll tell you the whole story, point by point.
Laertes is still alive, but night and day
he prays to Zeus, waiting there in his house,
for the life breath to slip away and leave his body.
His heart’s so racked for his son, lost and gone these years,
for his wife so fine, so wise —her death is the worst blow
he’s had to suffer —it made him old before his time.
She died of grief for her boy, her glorious boy,
400 it wore her down, a wretched way to go.
I pray that no one I love dies such a death,
no island neighbor of mine who treats me kindly!
While she was still alive, heartsick as she was,
it always moved me to ask about her, learn the news.
She’d reared me herself, and right beside her daughter,
406 Ctimene, graceful girl with her long light gown,
the youngest one she’d borne . . .
Just the two of us, growing up together,
the woman tending me almost like her child,
410 till we both reached the lovely flush of youth
and then her parents gave her away in marriage, yes,
to a Samian man, and a haul of gifts they got.
But her mother decked me out in cloak and shirt,
good clothing she wrapped about me —gave me sandals,
sent me here, this farm. She loved me from the heart.
Oh how I miss her kindness now! The happy gods
speed the work that I labor at, that gives me
food and drink to spare for the ones I value.
But from Queen Penelope I never get a thing,
420 never a winning word, no friendly gesture,
not since this, this plague has hit the house —
these high and mighty suitors. Servants miss it,
terribly, gossiping back and forth with the mistress,
gathering scraps of news, a snack and a cup or two,
then taking home to the fields some little gift.
It never fails to cheer a servant’s heart.”
“Imagine that,” his canny master said,
“you must have been just a little fellow, Eumaeus,
when you were swept so far from home and parents.
430 Come, tell me the whole story, truly too.
Was your city sacked? —
some city filled with people and wide streets
where your father and your mother made their home?
Or were you all alone, herding your sheep and cattle,
when pirates kidnapped, shipped and sold you off
to this man’s house, who paid a healthy price?”
“My friend,” the swineherd answered, foreman of men,
“you really want my story? So many questions —well,
listen in quiet, then, and take your ease, sit back
440 and drink your wine. The nights are endless now.
We’ve plenty of time to sleep or savor a long tale.
No need, you know, to turn in before the hour.
Even too much sleep can be a bore.
But anyone else who feels the urge
can go to bed and then, at the crack of dawn,
break bread, turn out and tend our master’s pigs.
We two will keep to the shelter here, eat and drink
and take some joy in each other’s heartbreaking sorrows,
sharing each other’s memories. Over the years, you know,
450 a man finds solace even in old sorrows, true, a man
who’s weathered many blows and wandered many miles.
My own story? This will answer all your questions . . .
453 There’s an island, Syrie —you may have heard of it —
454 off above Ortygia, out where the sun wheels around.
Not so packed with people, still a good place, though,
fine for sheep and cattle, rich in wine and wheat.
Hunger never attacks the land, no sickness either,
that always stalks the lives of us poor men.
No, as each generation grows old on the island,
460 down Apollo comes with his silver bow, with Artemis,
and they shoot them all to death with gentle arrows.
Two cities there are, that split the land in half,
and over them both my father ruled in force —
464 Ormenus’ son Ctesius, a man like a deathless god.
One day
a band of Phoenicians landed there. The famous sea-dogs,
sharp bargainers too, the holds of their black ship
brimful with a hoard of flashy baubles. Now,
my father kept a Phoenician woman in his house,
beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things,
470 and her rascal countrymen lusted to seduce her, yes,
and lost no time —she was washing clothes when one of them
waylaid her beside their ship, in a long deep embrace
that can break a woman’s will, even the best alive.
And then he asked her questions . . .
her name, who was she, where did she come from?
She waved at once to my father’s high-roofed house —
‘But I’m proud to hail from Sidon paved in bronze,’ she said,
478 ‘and Arybas was my father, a man who rolled in wealth.
I was heading home from the fields when Taphian pirates
480 snatched me away, and they shipped and sold me here
to this man’s house. He paid a good stiff price!’
The sailor, her secret lover, lured her on:
‘Well then, why don’t you sail back home with us? —
see your own high house, your father and mother there.
They’re still alive, and people say they’re rich!’
‘Now there’s a tempting offer,’ she said in haste,
‘if only you sailors here would swear an oath
you’ll land me safe at home without a scratch.’
Those were her terms, and once they vowed to keep them,
490 swore their oaths they’d never do her harm,
the woman hatched a plan: ‘Now not a word!
Let none of your shipmates say a thing to me,
meeting me on the street or at the springs.
Someone might go running off to the house
and tell the old king —he’d think the worst,
clap me in cruel chains and find a way to kill you.
So keep it a secret, down deep, get on with buying
your home cargo, quickly. But once your holds
are loaded up with goods, then fast as you can
500 you send the word to me over there at the palace.
I’ll bring you all the gold I can lay my hands on
and something else I’ll give you in the bargain,
fare for passage home . . .
I’m nurse to my master’s son in the palace now —
such a precious toddler, scampering round outside,
always at my heels. I’ll bring him aboard as well.
Wherever you sell him off, whatever foreign parts,
he’ll fetch you quite a price!’
Bargain struck,
back the woman went to our lofty halls
510 and the rovers stayed on with us one whole year,
bartering, piling up big hoards in their hollow ship,
and once their holds were loaded full for sailing
they sent a messenger, fast, to alert the woman.
This crafty bandit came to my father’s house,
dangling a golden choker linked with amber beads,
and while the maids at hall and my noble mother
kept on fondling it —dazzled, feasting their eyes
and making bids —he gave a quiet nod to my nurse,
he gave her the nod and slunk back to his ship.
520 Grabbing my hand, she swept me through the house
and there in the porch she came on cups and tables
left by the latest feasters, father’s men of council
just gone off to the meeting grounds for full debate —
and quick as a flash she snatched up three goblets,
tucked them into her bosom, whisked them off
and I tagged along, lost in all my innocence!
The sun sank, the roads of the world grew dark
and both on the run, we reached the bay at once
where the swift Phoenician ship lay set to sail.
530 Handing us up on board, the crewmen launched out
on the foaming lanes and Zeus sent wind astern.
Six whole days we sailed, six nights, nonstop
and then, when the god brought on the seventh day,
Artemis showering arrows came and shot the woman —
headfirst into the bilge she splashed like a diving tern
and the crewmen heaved her body over, a nice treat
for the seals and fish, but left me all alone,
cowering, sick at heart . . .
Until, at last,
the wind and current bore us on to Ithaca,
540 here where Laertes bought me with his wealth.
And so I first laid eyes on this good land.”
And royal King Odysseus answered warmly,
“Eumaeus, so much misery! You’ve moved my heart,
deeply, with your long tale —such pain, such sorrow.
True, but look at the good fortune Zeus sends you,
hand-in-hand with the bad. After all your toil
you reached the house of a decent, kindly man
who gives you all you need in meat and drink —
he’s seen to that, I’d say —
550 it’s a fine life you lead! Better than mine . . .
I’ve been drifting through cities up and down the earth
and now I’ve landed here.”
So guest and host
confided through the night until they slept,
a little at least, not long.
Dawn soon rose and took her golden throne.
That hour
Telemachus and his shipmates raised the coasts of home,
they struck sail and lowered the mast, smartly,
rowed her into a mooring under oars.
Out went the bow-stones, cables fast astern,
560 the crew themselves swung out in the breaking surf,
they got a meal together and mixed some ruddy wine.
And once they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
clear-headed Telemachus gave the men commands:
“Pull our black ship round to the city now —
I’m off to my herdsmen and my farms. By nightfall,
once I’ve seen to my holdings, I’ll be down in town.
In the morning I’ll give you wages for the voyage,
a handsome feast of meat and hearty wine.”
The seer Theoclymenus broke in quickly,
570 “Where shall I go, dear boy? Of all the lords
in rocky Ithaca, whose house shall I head for now?
Or do I go straight to your mother’s house and yours?”
“Surely in better times,” discreet Telemachus replied,
“I would invite you home. Our hospitality never fails
but now, I fear, it could only serve you poorly.
I’ll be away, and mother would never see you.
She rarely appears these days,
what with those suitors milling in the hall;
she keeps to her upper story, weaving at her loom.
580 But I’ll mention someone else you might just visit:
Eurymachus, wise Polybus’ fine, upstanding son.
He’s the man of the hour! Our island people
look on him like a god —the prince of suitors,
hottest to wed my mother, seize my father’s powers.
But god knows —Zeus up there in his bright Olympus —
whether or not before that wedding day arrives
he’ll bring the day of death on all their heads!”
588 At his last words a bird flew past on the right,
a hawk, Apollo’s wind-swift herald —tight in his claws
590 a struggling dove, and he ripped its feathers out
and they drifted down to earth between the ship
and the young prince himself . . .
The prophet called him aside, clear of his men,
and grasped his hand, exclaiming, “Look, Telemachus,
the will of god just winged that bird on your right!
Why, the moment I saw it, here before my eyes,
I knew it was a sign. No line more kingly than yours
in all of Ithaca —yours will reign forever!”
“If only, friend,”
alert Telemachus answered, “all you say comes true!
600 You’d soon know my affection, know my gifts.
Any man you meet would call you blest.”
602 He turned to a trusted friend and said, “Piraeus,
603 son of Clytius, you are the one who’s done my bidding,
more than all other friends who sailed with me to Pylos.
Please, take this guest of mine to your own house,
treat him kindly, host him with all good will
till I can come myself.”
“Of course, Telemachus,”
Piraeus the gallant spearman offered warmly:
“Stay up-country just as long as you like.
610 I’ll tend the man, he’ll never lack a lodging.”
Piraeus boarded ship and told the crew
to embark at once and cast off cables quickly —
they swung aboard and sat to the oars in ranks.
Telemachus fastened rawhide sandals on his feet
and took from the decks his rugged bronze-tipped spear.
The men cast off, pushed out and pulled for town
as Telemachus ordered, King Odysseus’ son.
The prince strode out briskly,
legs speeding him on till he reached the farm
620 where his great droves of pigs crowded their pens
and the loyal swineherd often slept beside them,
always the man to serve his masters well.