#
The King and Queen of Sparta
At last they gained the ravines of Lacedaemon ringed by hills
and drove up to the halls of Menelaus in his glory.
They found the king inside his palace, celebrating
with throngs of kinsmen a double wedding-feast
for his son and lovely daughter. The princess
6 he was sending on to the son of great Achilles,
breaker of armies. Years ago Menelaus vowed,
he nodded assent at Troy and pledged her hand
and now the gods were sealing firm the marriage.
10 So he was sending her on her way with team and chariot,
north to the Myrmidons’ famous city governed by her groom.
12 From Sparta he brought Alector’s daughter as the bride
13 for his own full-grown son, the hardy Megapenthes,
14 born to him by a slave. To Helen the gods had granted
no more offspring once she had borne her first child,
16 the breathtaking Hermione,
17 a luminous beauty gold as Aphrodite.
So now
they feasted within the grand, high-roofed palace,
all the kin and clansmen of Menelaus in his glory,
20 reveling warmly here as in their midst
an inspired bard sang out and struck his lyre —
and through them a pair of tumblers dashed and sprang,
whirling in leaping handsprings, leading on the dance.
The travelers, Nestor’s shining son and Prince Telemachus,
had brought themselves and their horses to a standstill
26 just outside the court when good lord Eteoneus,
passing through the gates now, saw them there,
and the ready aide-in-arms of Menelaus
took the message through his sovereign’s halls
30 and stepping close to his master broke the news:
“Strangers have just arrived, your majesty, Menelaus.
Two men, but they look like kin of mighty Zeus himself.
Tell me, should we unhitch their team for them
or send them to someone free to host them well?”
The red-haired king took great offense at that:
36 “Never a fool before, Eteoneus, son of Boëthous,
now I see you’re babbling like a child!
Just think of all the hospitality we enjoyed
at the hands of other men before we made it home,
40 and god save us from such hard treks in years to come.
Quick, unhitch their team. And bring them in,
strangers, guests, to share our flowing feast.”
Back through the halls he hurried, calling out
to other brisk attendants to follow quickly.
They loosed the sweating team from under the yoke,
tethered them fast by reins inside the horse-stalls,
tossing feed at their hoofs, white barley mixed with wheat,
and canted the chariot up against the polished walls,
shimmering in the sun, then ushered in their guests,
50 into that magnificent place. Both struck by the sight,
they marveled up and down the house of the warlord dear to Zeus —
a radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding
through the high-roofed halls of illustrious Menelaus.
Once they’d feasted their eyes with gazing at it all,
into the burnished tubs they climbed and bathed.
56 When women had washed them, rubbed them down with oil
and drawn warm fleece and shirts around their shoulders,
they took up seats of honor next to Atrides Menelaus.
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher
60 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.
As a carver lifted platters of meat toward them,
meats of every sort, and set before them golden cups,
the red-haired king Menelaus greeted both guests warmly:
“Help yourselves to food, and welcome! Once you’ve dined
we’ll ask you who you are. But your parents’ blood
70 is hardly lost in you. You must be born of kings,
bred by the gods to wield the royal scepter.
No mean men could sire sons like you.”
With those words
he passed them a fat rich loin with his own hands,
the choicest part, that he’d been served himself.
They reached for the good things that lay outspread
and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
Telemachus, leaning his head close to Nestor’s son,
spoke low to the prince so no one else could hear:
“Look, Pisistratus —joy of my heart, my friend —
80 the sheen of bronze, the blaze of gold and amber,
silver, ivory too, through all this echoing mansion!
Surely Zeus’s court on Olympus must be just like this,
the boundless glory of all this wealth inside!
My eyes dazzle . . . I am struck with wonder.”
But the red-haired warlord overheard his guest
and cut in quickly with winged words for both:
“No man alive could rival Zeus, dear boys,
with his everlasting palace and possessions.
But among men, I must say, few if any
90 could rival me in riches. Believe me,
much I suffered, many a mile I roved to haul
such treasures home in my ships. Eight years out,
93 wandering off as far as Cyprus, Phoenicia, even Egypt,
94 I reached the Ethiopians, Sidonians, Erembians —Libya too,
where lambs no sooner spring from the womb than they grow horns.
96 Three times in the circling year the ewes give birth.
So no one, neither king nor shepherd could want
for cheese or mutton, or sweet milk either,
udders swell for the sucklings round the year.
100 But while I roamed those lands, amassing a fortune,
a stranger killed my brother, blind to the danger, duped blind —
thanks to the cunning of his cursed, murderous queen!
So I rule all this wealth with no great joy.
You must have heard my story from your fathers,
whoever they are —what hardships I endured,
106 how I lost this handsome palace built for the ages,
filled to its depths with hoards of gorgeous things.
Well, would to god I’d stayed right here in my own house
with a third of all that wealth and they were still alive,
110 all who died on the wide plain of Troy those years ago,
far from the stallion-land of Argos.
And still,
much as I weep for all my men, grieving sorely,
time and again, sitting here in the royal halls,
now indulging myself in tears, now brushing tears away —
the grief that numbs the spirit gluts us quickly —
for none of all those comrades, pained as I am,
do I grieve as much for one . . .
that man who makes sleep hateful, even food,
119 as I pore over his memory. No one, no Achaean
120 labored hard as Odysseus labored or achieved so much.
And how did his struggles end? In suffering for that man;
for me, in relentless, heartbreaking grief for him,
lost and gone so long now —dead or alive, who knows?
How they must mourn him too, Laertes, the old man,
and self-possessed Penelope. Telemachus as well,
the boy he left a babe in arms at home.”
Such memories
stirred in the young prince a deep desire to grieve
for Odysseus. Tears streamed down his cheeks
and wet the ground when he heard his father’s name,
130 both hands clutching his purple robe before his eyes.
Menelaus recognized him at once but pondered
whether to let him state his father’s name
or probe him first and prompt him step by step.
While he debated all this now within himself,
Helen emerged from her scented, lofty chamber —
136 striking as Artemis with her golden shafts —
and a train of women followed . . .
138 Adreste drew up her carved reclining-chair,
139 Alcippe brought a carpet of soft-piled fleece,
140 Phylo carried her silver basket given by Alcandre,
141 King Polybus’ wife, who made his home in Egyptian Thebes
where the houses overflow with the greatest troves of treasure.
The king gave Menelaus a pair of bathing-tubs in silver,
144 two tripods, ten bars of gold, and apart from these
his wife presented Helen her own precious gifts:
a golden spindle, a basket that ran on casters,
solid silver polished off with rims of gold.
Now Phylo her servant rolled it in beside her,
heaped to the brim with yarn prepared for weaving;
150 the spindle swathed in violet wool lay tipped across it.
Helen leaned back in her chair, a stool beneath her feet,
and pressed her husband at once for each detail:
“Do we know, my lord Menelaus, who our visitors
claim to be, our welcome new arrivals?
Right or wrong, what can I say? My heart tells me
to come right out and say I’ve never seen such a likeness,
neither in man nor woman —I’m amazed at the sight.
To the life he’s like the son of great Odysseus,
surely he’s Telemachus! The boy that hero left
160 a babe in arms at home when all you Achaeans
fought at Troy, launching your headlong battles
just for my sake, shameless whore that I was.”
“My dear, my dear,” the red-haired king assured her,
“now that you mention it, I see the likeness too . . .
165 Odysseus’ feet were like the boy’s, his hands as well,
his glancing eyes, his head, and the fine shock of hair.
Yes, and just now, as I was talking about Odysseus,
remembering how he struggled, suffered, all for me,
a flood of tears came streaming down his face
170 and he clutched his purple robe before his eyes.”
“Right you are” —Pisistratus stepped in quickly —
172 “son of Atreus, King Menelaus, captain of armies:
here is the son of that great hero, as you say.
But the man is modest, he would be ashamed
to make a show of himself, his first time here,
and interrupt you. We delight in your voice
as if some god were speaking!
The noble horseman Nestor sent me along
to be his escort. Telemachus yearned to see you,
180 so you could give him some advice or urge some action.
When a father’s gone, his son takes much abuse
in a house where no one comes to his defense.
So with Telemachus now. His father’s gone.
No men at home will shield him from the worst.”
“Wonderful!” the red-haired king cried out.
“The son of my dearest friend, here in my own house!
That man who performed a hundred feats of arms for me.
And I swore that when he came I’d give him a hero’s welcome,
him above all my comrades —if only Olympian Zeus,
190 farseeing Zeus, had granted us both safe passage
home across the sea in our swift trim ships.
Why, I’d have settled a city in Argos for him,
built him a palace, shipped him over from Ithaca,
him and all his wealth, his son, his people too —
emptied one of the cities nestling round about us,
one I rule myself. Both fellow-countrymen then,
197 how often we’d have mingled side-by-side!
Nothing could have parted us,
bound by love for each other, mutual delight . . .
200 till death’s dark cloud came shrouding round us both.
But god himself, jealous of all this, no doubt,
robbed that unlucky man, him and him alone,
of the day of his return.”
So Menelaus mused
and stirred in them all a deep desire to grieve.
Helen of Argos, daughter of Zeus, dissolved in tears,
Telemachus wept too, and so did Atreus’ son Menelaus.
Nor could Nestor’s son Pisistratus stay dry-eyed,
remembering now his gallant brother Antilochus,
209 cut down by Memnon, splendid son of the Morning.
210 Thinking of him, the young prince broke out:
“Old Nestor always spoke of you, son of Atreus,
as the wisest man of all the men he knew,
whenever we talked about you there at home,
questioning back and forth. So now, please,
if it isn’t out of place, indulge me, won’t you?
Myself, I take no joy in weeping over supper.
Morning will soon bring time enough for that.
Not that I’d grudge a tear
for any man gone down to meet his fate.
220 What other tribute can we pay to wretched men
than to cut a lock, let tears roll down our cheeks?
And I have a brother of my own among the dead,
and hardly the poorest soldier in our ranks.
You probably knew him. I never met him, never
saw him myself. But they say he outdid our best,
Antilochus —lightning on his feet and every inch a fighter!”
“Well said, my friend,” the red-haired king replied.
“Not even an older man could speak and do as well.
Your father’s son you are —your words have all his wisdom.
230 It’s easy to spot the breed of a man whom Zeus
has marked for joy in birth and marriage both.
Take great King Nestor now:
Zeus has blessed him, all his livelong days,
growing rich and sleek in his old age at home,
his sons expert with spears and full of sense.
Well, so much for the tears that caught us just now;
let’s think again of supper. Come, rinse our hands.
Tomorrow, at dawn, will offer me and Telemachus
time to talk and trade our thoughts in full.”
240 Asphalion quickly rinsed their hands with water,
another of King Menelaus’ ready aides-in-arms.
Again they reached for the good things set before them.
Then Zeus’s daughter Helen thought of something else.
Into the mixing-bowl from which they drank their wine
she slipped a drug, heart’s-ease, dissolving anger,
magic to make us all forget our pains . . .
No one who drank it deeply, mulled in wine,
could let a tear roll down his cheeks that day,
not even if his mother should die, his father die,
250 not even if right before his eyes some enemy brought down
a brother or darling son with a sharp bronze blade.
So cunning the drugs that Zeus’s daughter plied,
253 potent gifts from Polydamna the wife of Thon,
a woman of Egypt, land where the teeming soil
bears the richest yield of herbs in all the world:
many health itself when mixed in the wine,
and many deadly poison.
Every man is a healer there, more skilled
than any other men on earth —Egyptians born
260 of the healing god himself. So now Helen, once
she had drugged the wine and ordered winecups filled,
resuming the conversation, entertained the group:
“My royal king Menelaus —welcome guests here,
sons of the great as well! Zeus can present us
times of joy and times of grief in turn:
all lies within his power.
So come, let’s sit back in the palace now,
dine and warm our hearts with the old stories.
I will tell something perfect for the occasion.
270 Surely I can’t describe or even list them all,
the exploits crowding fearless Odysseus’ record,
but what a feat that hero dared and carried off
in the land of Troy where you Achaeans suffered!
Scarring his own body with mortifying strokes,
throwing filthy rags on his back like any slave,
he slipped into the enemy’s city, roamed its streets —
all disguised, a totally different man, a beggar,
hardly the figure he cut among Achaea’s ships.
That’s how Odysseus infiltrated Troy,
280 and no one knew him at all . . .
I alone, I spotted him for the man he was,
kept questioning him —the crafty one kept dodging.
But after I’d bathed him, rubbed him down with oil,
given him clothes to wear and sworn a binding oath
not to reveal him as Odysseus to the Trojans, not
till he was back at his swift ships and shelters,
then at last he revealed to me, step by step,
the whole Achaean strategy. And once he’d cut
a troop of Trojans down with his long bronze sword,
290 back he went to his comrades, filled with information.
The rest of the Trojan women shrilled their grief. Not I:
292 my heart leapt up —
my heart had changed by now —
I yearned
to sail back home again! I grieved too late for the madness
Aphrodite sent me, luring me there, far from my dear land,
forsaking my own child, my bridal bed, my husband too,
a man who lacked for neither brains nor beauty.”
And the red-haired Menelaus answered Helen:
“There was a tale, my lady. So well told.
Now then, I have studied, in my time,
300 the plans and minds of great ones by the score.
And I have traveled over a good part of the world
but never once have I laid eyes on a man like him —
what a heart that fearless Odysseus had inside him!
304 What a piece of work the hero dared and carried off
in the wooden horse where all our best encamped,
our champions armed with bloody death for Troy . . .
when along you came, Helen —roused, no doubt,
by a dark power bent on giving Troy some glory,
309 and dashing Prince Deiphobus squired your every step.
310 Three times you sauntered round our hollow ambush,
feeling, stroking its flanks,
challenging all our fighters, calling each by name —
yours was the voice of all our long-lost wives!
And Diomedes and I, crouched tight in the midst
with great Odysseus, hearing you singing out,
were both keen to spring up and sally forth
or give you a sudden answer from inside,
but Odysseus damped our ardor, reined us back.
Then all the rest of the troops kept stock-still,
320 all but Anticlus. He was hot to salute you now
but Odysseus clamped his great hands on the man’s mouth
and shut it, brutally —yes, he saved us all,
holding on grim-set till Pallas Athena
lured you off at last.”
But clear-sighted Telemachus ventured,
“Son of Atreus, King Menelaus, captain of armies,
so much the worse, for not one bit of that
saved him from grisly death . . .
not even a heart of iron could have helped.
330 But come, send us off to bed. It’s time to rest,
time to enjoy the sweet relief of sleep.”
And Helen briskly told her serving-women
to make beds in the porch’s shelter, lay down
some heavy purple throws for the beds themselves,
and over them spread some blankets, thick woolly robes,
a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand,
they left the hall and made up beds at once.
The herald led the two guests on and so they slept
outside the palace under the forecourt’s colonnade,
340 young Prince Telemachus and Nestor’s shining son.
Menelaus retired to chambers deep in his lofty house
with Helen the pearl of women loosely gowned beside him.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
the lord of the warcry climbed from bed and dressed,
over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword,
fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet,
stepped from his bedroom, handsome as a god,
and sat beside Telemachus, asking, kindly,
“Now, my young prince, tell me what brings you here
350 to sunny Lacedaemon, sailing over the sea’s broad back.
A public matter or private? Tell me the truth now.”
And with all the poise he had, Telemachus replied,
“Son of Atreus, King Menelaus, captain of armies,
I came in the hope that you can tell me now
some news about my father.
My house is being devoured, my rich farms destroyed,
my palace crammed with enemies, slaughtering on and on
my droves of sheep and shambling longhorn cattle.
Suitors plague my mother —the insolent, overweening . . .
360 That’s why I’ve come to plead before you now,
if you can tell me about his cruel death:
perhaps you saw him die with your own eyes
or heard the wanderer’s end from someone else.
364 More than all other men, that man was born for pain.
Don’t soften a thing, from pity, respect for me —
tell me, clearly, all your eyes have witnessed.
I beg you —if ever my father, lord Odysseus,
pledged you his word and made it good in action
once on the fields of Troy where you Achaeans suffered,
remember his story now, tell me the truth.”
370 “How shameful!”
the red-haired king burst out in anger. “That’s the bed
of a brave man of war they’d like to crawl inside,
those spineless, craven cowards!
Weak as the doe that beds down her fawns
in a mighty lion’s den —her newborn sucklings —
then trails off to the mountain spurs and grassy bends
to graze her fill, but back the lion comes to his own lair
and the master deals both fawns a ghastly bloody death,
just what Odysseus will deal that mob —ghastly death.
380 Ah if only —Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo —
that man who years ago in the games at Lesbos
382 rose to Philomelides’ challenge, wrestled him,
pinned him down with one tremendous throw
and the Argives roared with joy . . .
if only that Odysseus sported with those suitors,
a blood wedding, a quick death would take the lot!
But about the things you’ve asked me, so intently,
I’ll skew and sidestep nothing, not deceive you, ever.
Of all he told me —the Old Man of the Sea who never lies —
390 I’ll hide or hold back nothing, not a single word.
It was in Egypt, where the gods still marooned me,
eager as I was to voyage home . . . I’d failed,
you see, to render them full, flawless victims,
and gods are always keen to see their rules obeyed.
Now, there’s an island out in the ocean’s heavy surge,
396 well off the Egyptian coast —they call it Pharos —
far as a deep-sea ship can go in one day’s sail
with a whistling wind astern to drive her on.
There’s a snug harbor there, good landing beach
400 where crews pull in, draw water up from the dark wells
then push their vessels off for passage out.
But here the gods becalmed me twenty days . . .
not a breath of the breezes ruffling out to sea
that speed a ship across the ocean’s broad back.
Now our rations would all have been consumed,
our crews’ stamina too, if one of the gods
had not felt sorry for me, shown me mercy,
408 Eidothea, a daughter of Proteus,
that great power, the Old Man of the Sea.
410 My troubles must have moved her to the heart
when she met me trudging by myself without my men.
They kept roaming around the beach, day in, day out,
fishing with twisted hooks, their bellies racked by hunger.
Well, she came right up to me, filled with questions:
‘Are you a fool, stranger —soft in the head and lazy too?
Or do you let things slide because you like your pain?
Here you are, cooped up on an island far too long,
with no way out of it, none that you can find,
while all your shipmates’ spirit ebbs away.’
420 So she prodded and I replied at once,
‘Let me tell you, goddess —whoever you are —
I’m hardly landlocked here of my own free will.
So I must have angered one of the deathless gods
who rule the skies up there. But you tell me —
you immortals know it all —which one of you
blocks my way here, keeps me from my voyage?
How can I cross the swarming sea and reach home at last?’
And the glistening goddess reassured me warmly,
‘Of course, my friend, I’ll answer all your questions.
430 Who haunts these parts? Proteus of Egypt does,
the immortal Old Man of the Sea who never lies,
who sounds the deep in all its depths, Poseidon’s servant.
He’s my father, they say, he gave me life. And he,
if only you ambush him somehow and pin him down,
will tell you the way to go, the stages of your voyage,
how you can cross the swarming sea and reach home at last.
And he can tell you too, if you want to press him —
you are a king, it seems —
all that’s occurred within your palace, good and bad,
440 while you’ve been gone your long and painful way.’
‘Then you are the one’ —I quickly took her up.
‘Show me the trick to trap this ancient power,
or he’ll see or sense me first and slip away.
It’s hard for a mortal man to force a god.’
‘True, my friend,’ the glistening one agreed,
‘and again I’ll tell you all you need to know.
When the sun stands striding at high noon,
then up from the waves he comes —
the Old Man of the Sea who never lies —
450 under a West Wind’s gust that shrouds him round
in shuddering dark swells, and once he’s out on land
he heads for his bed of rest in deep hollow caves
and around him droves of seals —sleek pups bred
454 by his lovely ocean-lady —bed down too
in a huddle, flopping up from the gray surf,
giving off the sour reek of the salty ocean depths.
I’ll lead you there myself at the break of day
and couch you all for attack, side-by-side.
Choose three men from your crew, choose well,
460 the best you’ve got aboard the good decked hulls.
Now I will tell you all the old wizard’s tricks . . .
First he will make his rounds and count the seals
and once he’s checked their number, reviewed them all,
down in their midst he’ll lie, like a shepherd with his flock.
That’s your moment. Soon as you see him bedded down,
muster your heart and strength and hold him fast,
wildly as he writhes and fights you to escape.
He’ll try all kinds of escape —twist and turn
into every beast that moves across the earth,
470 transforming himself into water, superhuman fire,
but you hold on for dear life, hug him all the harder!
And when, at last, he begins to ask you questions —
back in the shape you saw him sleep at first —
relax your grip and set the old god free
and ask him outright, hero,
which of the gods is up in arms against you?
How can you cross the swarming sea and reach home at last?’
So she urged and under the breaking surf she dove
as I went back to our squadron beached in sand,
480 my heart a heaving storm at every step . . .
Once I reached my ship hauled up on shore
we made our meal and the godsent night came down
and then we slept at the sea’s smooth shelving edge.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
I set out down the coast of the wide-ranging sea,
praying hard to the gods for all their help,
taking with me the three men I trusted most
on every kind of mission.
Eidothea, now,
had slipped beneath the sea’s engulfing folds
490 but back from the waves she came with four sealskins,
all freshly stripped, to deceive her father blind.
She scooped out lurking-places deep in the sand
and sat there waiting as we approached her post,
then couching us side-by-side she flung a sealskin
over each man’s back. Now there was an ambush
that would have overpowered us all —overpowering,
true, the awful reek of all those sea-fed brutes!
Who’d dream of bedding down with a monster of the deep?
But the goddess sped to our rescue, found the cure
500 with ambrosia, daubing it under each man’s nose —
that lovely scent, it drowned the creatures’ stench.
So all morning we lay there waiting, spirits steeled,
while seals came crowding, jostling out of the sea
and flopped down in rows, basking along the surf.
At high noon the old man emerged from the waves
and found his fat-fed seals and made his rounds,
counting them off, counting us the first four,
but he had no inkling of all the fraud afoot.
Then down he lay and slept, but we with a battle-cry,
510 we rushed him, flung our arms around him —he’d lost nothing,
the old rascal, none of his cunning quick techniques!
First he shifted into a great bearded lion
and then a serpent —
a panther —
a ramping wild boar —
a torrent of water —
a tree with soaring branchtops —
but we held on for dear life, braving it out
until, at last, that quick-change artist,
the old wizard, began to weary of all this
and burst out into rapid-fire questions:
‘Which god, Menelaus, conspired with you
520 to trap me in ambush? seize me against my will?
What on earth do you want?’
‘You know, old man,’
I countered now. ‘Why put me off with questions?
Here I am, cooped up on an island far too long,
with no way out of it, none that I can find,
while my spirit ebbs away. But you tell me —
you immortals know it all —which one of you
blocks my way here, keeps me from my voyage?
How can I cross the swarming sea and reach home at last?’
‘How wrong you were!’ the seer shot back at once.
530 ‘You should have offered Zeus and the other gods
a handsome sacrifice, then embarked, if you ever hoped
for a rapid journey home across the wine-dark sea.
It’s not your destiny yet to see your loved ones,
reach your own grand house, your native land at last,
not till you sail back through Egyptian waters —
536 the great Nile swelled by the rains of Zeus —
and make a splendid rite to the deathless gods
who rule the vaulting skies. Then, only then
will the gods grant you the voyage you desire.’
540 So he urged, and broke the heart inside me,
having to double back on the mist-bound seas,
back to Egypt, that, that long and painful way . . .
Nevertheless I caught my breath and answered,
‘That I will do, old man, as you command.
But tell me this as well, and leave out nothing:
Did all the Achaeans reach home in the ships unharmed,
all we left behind, Nestor and I, en route from Troy?
Or did any die some cruel death by shipwreck
or die in the arms of loved ones,
550 once they’d wound down the long coil of war?’
And he lost no time in saying, ‘Son of Atreus,
why do you ask me that? Why do you need to know?
Why probe my mind? You won’t stay dry-eyed long,
I warn you, once you have heard the whole story.
Many of them were killed, many survived as well,
but only two who captained your bronze-armored units
died on the way home —you know who died in the fighting,
you were there yourself.
And one is still alive,
held captive, somewhere, off in the endless seas . . .
560 Ajax, now, went down with his long-oared fleet.
561 First Poseidon drove him onto the cliffs of Gyrae,
looming cliffs, then saved him from the breakers —
he’d have escaped his doom, too, despite Athena’s hate,
if he hadn’t flung that brazen boast, the mad blind fool.
“In the teeth of the gods,” he bragged, “I have escaped
the ocean’s sheer abyss!” Poseidon heard that frantic vaunt
and the god grasped his trident in both his massive hands
and struck the Gyraean headland, hacked the rock in two,
and the giant stump stood fast but the jagged spur
570 where Ajax perched at first, the raving madman —
toppling into the sea, it plunged him down, down
in the vast, seething depths. And so he died,
573 having drunk his fill of brine.
Your brother?
574 He somehow escaped that fate; Agamemnon got away
575 in his beaked ships. Queen Hera pulled him through.
But just as he came abreast of Malea’s beetling cape
a hurricane snatched him up and swept him way off course —
groaning, desperate —driving him over the fish-infested sea
579 to the wild borderland where Thyestes made his home
580 in the days of old and his son Aegisthus lived now.
But even from there a safe return seemed likely,
yes, the immortals swung the wind around to fair
and the victors sailed home. How he rejoiced,
Atrides setting foot on his fatherland once more —
he took that native earth in his hands and kissed it,
hot tears flooding his eyes, so thrilled to see his land!
But a watchman saw him too —from a lookout high above —
a spy that cunning Aegisthus stationed there,
luring the man with two gold bars in payment.
590 One whole year he’d watched . . .
so the great king would not get past unseen,
his fighting power intact for self-defense.
The spy ran the news to his master’s halls
and Aegisthus quickly set his stealthy trap.
Picking the twenty best recruits from town
he packed them in ambush at one end of the house,
at the other he ordered a banquet dressed and spread
and went to welcome the conquering hero, Agamemnon,
went with team and chariot, and a mind aswarm with evil.
600 Up from the shore he led the king, he ushered him in —
suspecting nothing of all his doom —he feasted him well
then cut him down as a man cuts down some ox at the trough!
Not one of your brother’s men-at-arms was left alive,
none of Aegisthus’ either. All, killed in the palace.’
So Proteus said, and his story crushed my heart.
I knelt down in the sand and wept. I’d no desire
to go on living and see the rising light of day.
But once I’d had my fill of tears and writhing there,
the Old Man of the Sea who never lies continued,
610 ‘No more now, Menelaus. How long must you weep?
Withering tears, what good can come of tears?
None I know of. Strive instead to return
to your native country —hurry home at once!
Either you’ll find the murderer still alive
or Orestes will have beaten you to the kill.
You’ll be in time to share the funeral feast.’
So he pressed, and I felt my heart, my old pride,
for all my grieving, glow once more in my chest
and I asked the seer in a rush of winging words,
620 ‘Those two I know now. Tell me the third man’s name.
Who is still alive, held captive off in the endless seas?
Unless he’s dead by now. I want to know the truth
though it grieves me all the more.’
‘Odysseus’ —
the old prophet named the third at once —
‘Laertes’ son, who makes his home in Ithaca . . .
I saw him once on an island, weeping live warm tears
in the nymph Calypso’s house —she holds him there by force.
He has no way to voyage home to his own native land,
no trim ships in reach, no crew to ply the oars
630 and send him scudding over the sea’s broad back.
But about your own destiny, Menelaus,
632 dear to Zeus, it’s not for you to die
and meet your fate in the stallion-land of Argos,
no, the deathless ones will sweep you off to the world’s end,
635 the Elysian Fields, where gold-haired Rhadamanthys waits,
where life glides on in immortal ease for mortal man;
no snow, no winter onslaught, never a downpour there
638 but night and day the Ocean River sends up breezes,
singing winds of the West refreshing all mankind.
640 All this because you are Helen’s husband now —
the gods count you the son-in-law of Zeus.’
So he divined and down the breaking surf he dove
as I went back to the ships with my brave men,
my heart a rising tide at every step.
Once I reached my craft hauled up on shore
we made our meal and the godsent night came down
and then we slept at the sea’s smooth shelving edge.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
we hauled the vessels down to the sunlit breakers first
650 then stepped the masts amidships, canvas brailed —
the crews swung aboard, they sat to the oars in ranks
and in rhythm churned the water white with stroke on stroke.
Back we went to the Nile swelled by the rains of Zeus,
I moored the ships and sacrificed in a splendid rite,
and once I’d slaked the wrath of the everlasting gods
I raised a mound for Agamemnon, his undying glory.
All this done, I set sail and the gods sent me
a stiff following wind that sped me home,
home to the native land I love.
But come,
660 my boy, stay on in my palace now with me,
at least till ten or a dozen days have passed.
Then I’ll give you a princely send-off —shining gifts,
663 three stallions and a chariot burnished bright —
and I’ll add a gorgeous cup so you can pour
libations out to the deathless gods on high
and remember Menelaus all your days.”
Telemachus,
summoning up his newfound tact, replied,
“Please, Menelaus, don’t keep me quite so long.
True, I’d gladly sit beside you one whole year
670 without a twinge of longing for home or parents.
It’s wonderful how you tell your stories, all you say —
I delight to listen! Yes, but now, I’m afraid,
my comrades must be restless in sacred Pylos,
and here you’d hold me just a little longer.
As for the gift you give me, let it be a keepsake.
676 Those horses I really cannot take to Ithaca;
better to leave them here to be your glory.
You rule a wide level plain
where the fields of clover roll and galingale
680 and wheat and oats and glistening full-grain barley.
No running-room for mares in Ithaca, though, no meadows.
Goat, not stallion, land, yet it means the world to me.
None of the rugged islands slanting down to sea
is good for pasture or good for bridle paths,
but Ithaca, best of islands, crowns them all!”
So he declared. The lord of the warcry smiled,
patted him with his hand and praised his guest, concluding,
688 “Good blood runs in you, dear boy, your words are proof.
Certainly I’ll exchange the gifts. The power’s mine.
690 Of all the treasures lying heaped in my palace
you shall have the finest, most esteemed. Why,
I’ll give you a mixing-bowl, forged to perfection —
it’s solid silver finished off with a lip of gold.
694 Hephaestus made it himself. And a royal friend,
695 Phaedimus, king of Sidon, lavished it on me
when his palace welcomed me on passage home.
How pleased I’d be if you took it as a gift!”
And now as the two confided in each other,
banqueters arrived at the great king’s palace,
700 leading their own sheep, bearing their hearty wine,
and their wives in lovely headbands sent along the food.
And so they bustled about the halls preparing dinner . . .
But all the while the suitors, before Odysseus’ palace,
amused themselves with discus and long throwing spears,
out on the leveled grounds, free and easy as always,
full of swagger. But lord Antinous sat apart,
dashing Eurymachus beside him, ringleaders,
head and shoulders the strongest of the lot.
Phronius’ son Noëmon approached them now,
710 quick to press Antinous with a question:
“Antinous, have we any notion or not
when Telemachus will return from sandy Pylos?
He sailed in a ship of mine and now I need her back
714 to cross over to Elis Plain where I keep a dozen horses,
brood-mares suckling some heavy-duty mules, unbroken.
I’d like to drive one home and break him in.”
That dumbfounded them both. They never dreamed
the prince had gone to Pylos, Neleus’ city —
certain the boy was still nearby somewhere,
720 out on his farm with flocks or with the swineherd.
“Tell me the truth!” Antinous wheeled on Noëmon.
“When did he go? And what young crew went with him?
Ithaca’s best? Or his own slaves and servants?
Surely he has enough to man a ship.
Tell me this —be clear —I’ve got to know:
did he commandeer your ship against your will
or did you volunteer it once he’d won you over?”
“I volunteered it, of course,” Noëmon said.
“What else could anyone do, when such a man,
730 a prince weighed down with troubles,
asked a favor? Hard to deny him anything.
And the young crew that formed his escort? Well,
they’re the finest men on the island, next to us.
And Mentor took command —I saw him climb aboard —
or a god who looked like Mentor head to foot,
and that’s what I find strange. I saw good Mentor
yesterday, just at sunup, here. But clearly
738 he boarded ship for Pylos days ago.”
With that he headed back to his father’s house,
740 leaving the two lords stiff with indignation.
They made the suitors sit down in a group
and stop their games at once. Eupithes’ son
Antinous rose up in their midst to speak,
his dark heart filled with fury,
blazing with anger —eyes like searing fire:
“By god, what a fine piece of work he’s carried off!
Telemachus —what insolence —and we thought his little jaunt
would come to grief. But in spite of us all, look,
the young cub slips away, just like that —
750 picks the best crew in the land and off he sails.
And this is just the start of the trouble he can make.
Zeus kill that brazen boy before he hits his prime!
Quick, fetch me a swift ship and twenty men —
I’ll waylay him from ambush, board him coming back
in the straits between Ithaca and rocky Same.
This gallant voyage of his to find his father
will find him wrecked at last!”
They all roared approval, urged him on,
rose at once and retired to Odysseus’ palace.
760 But not for long was Penelope unaware
of the grim plots her suitors planned in secret.
762 The herald Medon told her. He’d overheard their schemes,
listening in outside the court while they wove on within.
He rushed the news through the halls to tell the queen
who greeted him as he crossed her chamber’s threshold:
“Herald, why have the young blades sent you now?
To order King Odysseus’ serving-women
to stop their work and slave to fix their feast?
I hate their courting, their running riot here —
770 would to god that this meal, here and now,
were their last meal on earth!
Day after day,
all of you swarming, draining our life’s blood,
my wary son’s estate. What, didn’t you listen
to your fathers —when you were children, years ago —
telling you how Odysseus treated them, your parents?
Never an unfair word, never an unfair action
among his people here, though that’s the way
of our god-appointed kings,
hating one man, loving the next, with luck.
780 Not Odysseus. Never an outrage done to any man alive.
But you, you and your ugly outbursts, shameful acts,
they’re plain to see. Look at the thanks he gets
for all past acts of kindness!”
Medon replied,
sure of his own discretion, “Ah my queen,
if only that were the worst of all you face.
Now your suitors are plotting something worse,
harsher, crueler. God forbid they bring it off!
They’re poised to cut Telemachus down with bronze swords
on his way back home. He’s sailed off, you see . . .
790 for news of his father —to sacred Pylos first,
then out to the sunny hills of Lacedaemon.”
Her knees gave way on the spot, her heart too.
She stood there speechless a while, struck dumb,
tears filling her eyes, her warm voice choked.
At last she found some words to make reply:
“Oh herald, why has my child gone and left me?
No need in the world for him to board the ships,
those chariots of the sea that sweep men on,
driving across the ocean’s endless wastes . . .
800 Does he want his very name wiped off the earth?”
Medon, the soul of thoughtfulness, responded,
“I don’t know if a god inspired your son
or the boy’s own impulse led him down to Pylos,
but he went to learn of his father’s journey home,
or whatever fate he’s met.”
Back through King Odysseus’ house he went
but a cloud of heartbreak overwhelmed the queen.
She could bear no longer sitting on a chair
though her room had chairs aplenty.
810 Down she sank on her well-built chamber’s floor,
weeping, pitifully, as the women whimpered round her,
all the women, young and old, who served her house.
Penelope, sobbing uncontrollably, cried out to them,
“Hear me, dear ones! Zeus has given me torment —
me above all the others born and bred in my day.
My lionhearted husband, lost, long years ago,
who excelled the Argives all in every strength —
that great man whose fame resounds through Hellas
right to the depths of Argos!
But now my son,
820 my darling boy —the whirlwinds have ripped him
out of the halls without a trace! I never heard
he’d gone —not even from you, you hard, heartless . . .
not one of you even thought to rouse me from my bed,
though well you knew when he boarded that black ship.
Oh if only I had learned he was planning such a journey,
he would have stayed, by god, keen as he was to sail —
or left me dead right here within our palace.
828 Go, someone, quickly! Call old Dolius now,
the servant my father gave me when I came,
830 the man who tends my orchard green with trees,
so he can run to Laertes, sit beside him,
tell him the whole story, point by point.
Perhaps —who knows? —he’ll weave some plan,
he’ll come out of hiding, plead with all these people
mad to destroy his line, his son’s line of kings!”
“Oh dear girl,” Eurycleia the fond old nurse replied,
“kill me then with a bronze knife —no mercy —or let me live,
here in the palace —I’ll hide nothing from you now!
I knew it all, I gave him all he asked for,
840 bread and mellow wine, but he made me take
a binding oath that I, I wouldn’t tell you,
no, not till ten or a dozen days had passed
or you missed the lad yourself and learned he’d gone,
so tears would never mar your lovely face . . .
Come, bathe now, put on some fresh clothes,
climb to the upper rooms with all your women
and pray to Pallas, daughter of storming Zeus —
she may save Telemachus yet, even at death’s door.
Don’t worry an old man, worried enough by now.
850 I can’t believe the blessed gods so hate
851 the heirs of King Arcesius, through and through.
One will still live on —I know it —born to rule
this lofty house and the green fields far and wide.”
With that
she lulled Penelope’s grief and dried her eyes of tears.
And the queen bathed and put fresh clothing on,
climbed to the upper rooms with all her women
857 and sifting barley into a basket, prayed to Pallas,
“Hear me, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder —
tireless one, Athena! If ever, here in his halls,
860 resourceful King Odysseus
burned rich thighs of sheep or oxen in your honor,
oh remember it now for my sake, save my darling son,
defend him from these outrageous, overbearing suitors!”
She shrilled a high cry and the goddess heard her prayer
as the suitors burst into uproar through the shadowed halls
and one of the lusty young men began to brag, “Listen,
our long-courted queen’s preparing us all a marriage —
with no glimmer at all
how the murder of her son has been decreed.”
Boasting so,
870 with no glimmer at all of what had been decreed.
But Antinous took the floor and issued orders:
“Stupid fools! Muzzle your bragging now —
before someone slips inside and reports us.
Up now, not a sound, drive home our plan —
it suits us well, we approved it one and all.”
With that he picked out twenty first-rate men
and down they went to the swift ship at the sea’s edge.
First they hauled the craft into deeper water,
stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed,
880 made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps
while zealous aides-in-arms brought weapons on.
They moored her well out in the channel, disembarked
and took their meal on shore, waiting for dusk to fall.
But there in her upper rooms she lay, Penelope
lost in thought, fasting, shunning food and drink,
brooding now . . . would her fine son escape his death
or go down at her overweening suitors’ hands?
Her mind in torment, wheeling
like some lion at bay, dreading gangs of hunters
890 closing their cunning ring around him for the finish.
Harried so she was, when a deep kind sleep overcame her,
back she sank and slept, her limbs fell limp and still.
And again the bright-eyed goddess Pallas thought
of one more way to help. She made a phantom now,
895 its build like a woman’s build, Iphthime’s, yes,
another daughter of generous Lord Icarius,
897 Eumelus’ bride, who made her home in Pherae.
Athena sped her on to King Odysseus’ house
to spare Penelope, worn with pain and sobbing,
900 further spells of grief and storms of tears.
The phantom entered her bedroom,
passing quickly in through the doorbolt slit
and hovering at her head she rose and spoke now:
“Sleeping, Penelope, your heart so wrung with sorrow?
No need, I tell you, no, the gods who live at ease
can’t bear to let you weep and rack your spirit.
Your son will still come home —it is decreed.
He’s never wronged the gods in any way.”
And Penelope murmured back, still cautious,
910 drifting softly now at the gate of dreams,
“Why have you come, my sister?
Your visits all too rare in the past,
for you make your home so very far away.
You tell me to lay to rest the grief and tears
that overwhelm me now, torment me, heart and soul?
With my lionhearted husband lost long years ago,
who excelled the Argives all in every strength?
That great man whose fame resounds through Hellas
right to the depths of Argos . . .
And now my darling boy,
920 he’s off and gone in a hollow ship! Just a youngster,
still untrained for war or stiff debate.
Him I mourn even more than I do my husband —
I quake in terror for all that he might suffer
either on open sea or shores he goes to visit.
Hordes of enemies scheme against him now,
keen to kill him off
before he can reach his native land again.”
“Courage!” the shadowy phantom reassured her.
“Don’t be overwhelmed by all your direst fears.
930 He travels with such an escort, one that others
would pray to stand beside them. She has power —
Pallas Athena. She pities you in your tears.
She wings me here to tell you all these things.”
But the circumspect Penelope replied,
“If you are a god and have heard a god’s own voice,
come, tell me about that luckless man as well.
Is he still alive? does he see the light of day?
Or is he dead already, lost in the House of Death?”
“About that man,” the shadowy phantom answered,
940 “I cannot tell you the story start to finish,
whether he’s dead or alive.
It’s wrong to lead you on with idle words.”
At that
she glided off by the doorpost past the bolt —
gone on a lifting breeze. Icarius’ daughter
started up from sleep, her spirit warmed now
that a dream so clear had come to her in darkest night.
But the suitors boarded now and sailed the sea-lanes,
plotting in their hearts Telemachus’ plunge to death.
Off in the middle channel lies a rocky island,
950 just between Ithaca and Same’s rugged cliffs —
951 Asteris —not large, but it has a cove,
a harbor with two mouths where ships can hide.
Here the Achaeans lurked in ambush for the prince.