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Stranger at the Gates
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
Telemachus strapped his rawhide sandals to his feet
and the young prince, the son of King Odysseus,
picked up the rugged spear that fit his grip
and striking out for the city, told his swineherd,
“I’m off to town, old friend, to present myself to mother.
She’ll never stop her bitter tears and mourning,
well I know, till she sees me face-to-face.
And for you I have some orders —
10 take this luckless stranger to town, so he can beg
his supper there, and whoever wants can give the man
some crumbs and a cup to drink. How can I put up with
every passerby? My mind’s weighed down with troubles.
If the stranger resents it, all the worse for him.
I like to tell the truth and tell it plainly.”
“My friend,
subtle Odysseus broke in, “I’ve no desire, myself,
to linger here. Better that beggars cadge their meals
in town than in the fields. Some willing soul
will see to my needs. I’m hardly fit, at my age,
20 to keep to a farm and jump to a foreman’s every order.
Go on then. This man will take me, as you’ve told him,
once I’m warm from the fire and the sun’s good and strong.
Look at the clothing on my back —all rags and tatters.
I’m afraid the frost at dawn could do me in,
and town, you say, is a long hard way from here.”
At that Telemachus strode down through the farm
in quick, firm strides, brooding death for the suitors.
And once he reached his well-constructed palace,
propping his spear against a sturdy pillar
30 and crossing the stone threshold, in he went.
His old nurse was the first to see him, Eurycleia,
just spreading fleeces over the carved, inlaid chairs.
Tears sprang to her eyes, she rushed straight to the prince
as the other maids of great Odysseus flocked around him,
hugged him warmly, kissed his head and shoulders.
Now down from her chamber came discreet Penelope,
looking for all the world like Artemis or golden Aphrodite —
bursting into tears as she flung her arms around her darling son
and kissed his face and kissed his shining eyes and sobbed,
40 “You’re home, Telemachus!” —words flew from her heart —
“sweet light of my eyes! I never thought I’d see you again,
once you shipped to Pylos —against my will, so secret,
out for news of your dear father. Quick tell me,
did you catch sight of the man —meet him —what?”
“Please, mother,” steady Telemachus replied,
“don’t move me to tears, don’t stir the heart inside me.
I’ve just escaped from death. Sudden death.
No. Bathe now, put on some fresh clothes,
go up to your own room with your serving-women,
50 pray, and promise the gods a generous sacrifice
to bring success, if Zeus will ever grant us
the hour of our revenge. I myself am off
to the meeting grounds to summon up a guest
who came with me from abroad when I sailed home.
I sent him on ahead with my trusted crew.
I told Piraeus to take him to his house,
treat him well, host him with all good will
till I could come myself.”
Words to the mark
that left his mother silent . . .
60 She bathed now, put on some fresh clothes,
prayed, and promised the gods a generous sacrifice
to bring success, if Zeus would ever grant
the hour of their revenge.
Spear in hand,
Telemachus strode on through the hall and out,
and a pair of sleek hounds went trotting at his heels.
And Athena lavished a marvelous splendor on the prince
so the people all gazed in wonder as he came forward.
The swaggering suitors clustered, milling round him,
welcome words on their lips, and murder in their hearts.
70 But he gave them a wide berth as they came crowding in
71 and there where Mentor sat, Antiphus, Halitherses too —
his father’s loyal friends from days gone by —
he took his seat as they pressed him with their questions.
And just then Piraeus the gallant spearman approached,
leading the stranger through the town and out onto
the meeting grounds. Telemachus, not hanging back,
went right up to greet Theoclymenus, his guest,
but Piraeus spoke out first: “Quickly now,
Telemachus, send some women to my house
80 to retrieve the gifts that Menelaus gave you.”
“Wait, Piraeus,” wary Telemachus cautioned,
“we’ve no idea how all of this will go.
If the brazen suitors cut me down in the palace —
off guard —and carve apart my father’s whole estate,
I’d rather you yourself, or one of his friends here,
keep those gifts and get some pleasure from them.
But if I can bring down slaughter on that crew,
you send the gifts to my house —we’ll share the joy.”
Their plans made, he led the wayworn stranger home
90 and once they reached the well-constructed palace,
spreading out their cloaks on a chair or bench,
into the burnished tubs they climbed and bathed.
When women had washed them, rubbed them down with oil
and drawn warm fleece and shirts around their shoulders,
out of the baths they stepped and sat on high-backed chairs.
A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher
and over a silver basin tipped it out
so they might rinse their hands,
then pulled a gleaming table to their side.
100 A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them,
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty.
Penelope sat across from her son, beside a pillar,
leaning back on a low chair and winding finespun yarn.
They reached out for the good things that lay at hand
and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink,
the queen, for all her composure, said at last,
“Telemachus, I’m going back to my room upstairs
and lie down on my bed . . .
that bed of pain my tears have streaked, year in,
110 year out, from the day Odysseus sailed away to Troy
with Atreus’ two sons.
But you, you never had the heart —
before those insolent suitors crowd back to the house —
to tell me clearly about your father’s journey home,
if you’ve heard any news.”
“Of course, mother,”
thoughtful Telemachus reassured her quickly,
“I will tell you the whole true story now.
We sailed to Pylos, to Nestor, the great king,
and he received me there in his lofty palace,
treated me well and warmly, yes, as a father treats
120 a long-lost son just home from voyaging, years abroad:
such care he showered on me, he and his noble sons.
But of strong, enduring Odysseus, dead or alive,
he’s heard no news, he said, from any man on earth.
He sent me on to the famous spearman Atrides Menelaus,
on with a team of horses drawing a bolted chariot.
And there I saw her, Helen of Argos —all for her
Achaeans and Trojans suffered so much hardship,
thanks to the gods’ decree . . .
The lord of the warcry, Menelaus, asked at once
130 what pressing need had brought me to lovely Lacedaemon,
and when I told him the whole story, first to last,
the king burst out, ‘How shameful! 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,
140 just what Odysseus will deal that mob —ghastly death.
Ah if only —Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo —
that man who years ago in the games at Lesbos
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.
150 Of all he told me —the Old Man of the Sea who never lies —
I’ll hide or hold back nothing, not a single word.
He said he’d seen Odysseus on an island,
ground down in misery, off in a goddess’ house,
the nymph Calypso, who 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
and send him scudding over the sea’s broad back.’
So Menelaus, the famous spearman, told me.
My mission accomplished, back I came at once,
160 and the gods sent me a stiff following wind
that sped me home to the native land I love.”
His reassurance stirred the queen to her depths
and the godlike seer Theoclymenus added firmly,
“Noble lady, wife of Laertes’ son, Odysseus,
Menelaus can have no perfect revelations;
mark my words —I will make you a prophecy,
quite precise, and I’ll hold nothing back.
I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods,
by this table of hospitality here, my host,
170 by Odysseus’ hearth where I have come for help —
I swear Odysseus is on native soil, here and now!
Poised or on the prowl, learning of these rank crimes
he’s sowing seeds of ruin for all your suitors.
So clear, so true, that bird-sign I saw
175 as I sat on the benched ship
and sounded out the future to the prince!”
“If only, my friend,” reserved Penelope exclaimed,
“everything you say would come to pass!
You’d soon know my affection, know my gifts.
180 Any man you meet would call you blest.”
And so the three confided in the halls
while all 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. When the dinner-hour approached
and sheep came home from pastures near and far,
driven in by familiar drovers,
Medon called them all, their favorite herald,
always present at their meals: “My young lords,
190 now you’ve played your games to your hearts’ content,
come back to the halls so we can fix your supper.
Nothing’s better than dining well on time!”
They came at his summons, rising from the games
and now, bustling into the well-constructed palace,
flinging down their cloaks on a chair or bench,
they butchered hulking sheep and fatted goats,
full-grown hogs and a young cow from the herd,
preparing for their feast.
At the same time
the king and his loyal swineherd geared to leave
200 the country for the town. Eumaeus, foreman of men,
set things in motion: “Friend, I know you’re keen
on going down to town today, just as my master bid,
though I’d rather you stay here to guard the farm.
But I prize the boy, I fear he’ll blame me later —
a dressing-down from your master’s hard to bear.
So off we go now. The shank of the day is past.
You’ll find it colder with nightfall coming on.”
“I know, I see your point,” the crafty man replied.
“There’s sense in this old head. So let’s be off.
210 And from now on, you lead me all the way.
Just give me a stick to lean on,
if you have one ready-cut. You say the road
is treacherous, full of slips and slides.”
With that
he flung his beggar’s sack across his shoulders —
torn and tattered, slung from a fraying rope.
Eumaeus gave him a staff that met his needs.
Then the two moved out, leaving behind them
dogs and herdsmen to stay and guard the farm.
And so the servant led his master toward the city,
220 looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar
hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags . . .
Down over the rugged road they went till hard by town
they reached the stone-rimmed fountain running clear
where the city people came and drew their water.
225 Ithacus built it once, with Neritus and Polyctor.
Round it a stand of poplar thrived on the dank soil,
all in a nestling ring, and down from a rock-ledge overhead
the cold water splashed, and crowning the fountain
rose an altar-stone erected to the nymphs,
230 where every traveler paused and left an offering.
231 Here Dolius’ son, Melanthius, crossed their path,
herding his goats with a pair of drovers’ help,
the pick of his flocks to make the suitors’ meal.
As soon as he saw them there he broke into a flood
of brutal, foul abuse that made Odysseus’ blood boil.
“Look!” —he sneered —“one scum nosing another scum along,
dirt finds dirt by the will of god —it never fails!
Wretched pig-boy, where do you take your filthy swine,
this sickening beggar who licks the pots at feasts?
240 Hanging round the doorposts, rubbing his back,
scavenging after scraps,
no hero’s swords and cauldrons, not for him.
Hand him over to me —I’ll teach him to work a farm,
muck out my stalls, pitch feed to the young goats;
whey to drink will put some muscle on his hams!
Oh no, he’s learned his lazy ways too well,
he’s got no itch to stick to good hard work,
he’d rather go scrounging round the countryside,
begging for crusts to stuff his greedy gut!
250 Let me tell you —so help me it’s the truth —
if he sets foot in King Odysseus’ royal palace,
salvos of footstools flung at his head by all the lords
will crack his ribs as he runs the line of fire through the house!”
Wild, reckless taunts —and just as he passed Odysseus
the idiot lurched out with a heel and kicked his hip
but he couldn’t knock the beggar off the path,
he stood his ground so staunchly. Odysseus was torn . . .
should he wheel with his staff and beat the scoundrel senseless? —
or hoist him by the midriff, split his skull on the rocks?
260 He steeled himself instead, his mind in full control.
But Eumaeus glared at the goatherd, cursed him to his face,
then lifted up his hands and prayed his heart out:
“O nymphs of the fountain, daughters of Zeus —
if Odysseus ever burned you the long thighs
of lambs or kids, covered with rich fat,
now bring my prayer to pass!
Let that man come back —some god guide him now!
He’d toss to the winds the flashy show you make,
Melanthius, so cocksure —always strutting round the town
270 while worthless fieldhands leave your flocks a shambles!”
“Listen to him!” the goatherd shouted back.
“All bark and no bite from the vicious mutt!
One fine day I’ll ship him out in a black lugger,
miles from Ithaca —sell him off for a good stiff price!
Just let Apollo shoot Telemachus down with his silver bow,
today in the halls, or the suitors snuff his life out —
as sure as I know the day of the king’s return
is blotted out, the king is worlds away!”
With his parting shot he left them trudging on
280 and went and reached the royal house in no time.
Slipping in, he took his seat among the suitors,
facing Eurymachus, who favored him the most.
The carvers set before him his plate of meat,
a staid housekeeper brought the man his bread.
And now at last the king and loyal swineherd,
drawing near the palace, halted just outside
as the lyre’s rippling music drifted round them —
Phemius, striking up a song for assembled guests —
and the master seized his servant’s hand, exclaiming,
290 “Friend, what a noble house! Odysseus’ house, it must be!
No mistaking it —you could tell it among a townful, look.
One building linked to the next, and the courtyard wall
is finished off with a fine coping, the double doors
are battle-proof —no man could break them down!
I can tell a crowd is feasting there in force —
smell the savor of roasts . . . the ringing lyre, listen,
the lyre that god has made the friend of feasts.”
“An easy guess,” you said, Eumaeus, swineherd,
“for a man as keen as you at every turn.
300 Put heads together. What do we do next?
Either you’re the first one into the palace —
mix with the suitors, leave me where I am.
Or if you like, stay put, and I’ll go first myself.
Don’t linger long. Someone might spot you here outside,
knock you down or pelt you. Mark my words. Take care.”
The man who’d borne long years abroad replied,
“Well I know. Remember? There’s sense in this old head.
You go in, you first, while I stay here behind.
Stones and blows and I are hardly strangers.
310 My heart is steeled by now,
I’ve had my share of pain in the waves and wars.
Add this to the total. Bring the trial on.
But there’s no way to hide the belly’s hungers —
what a curse, what mischief it brews in all our lives!
Just for hunger we rig and ride our long benched ships
on the barren salt sea, speeding death to enemies.”
Now, as they talked on, a dog that lay there
lifted up his muzzle, pricked his ears . . .
319 It was Argos, long-enduring Odysseus’ dog
320 he trained as a puppy once, but little joy he got
since all too soon he shipped to sacred Troy.
In the old days young hunters loved to set him
coursing after the wild goats and deer and hares.
But now with his master gone he lay there, castaway,
on piles of dung from mules and cattle, heaps collecting
out before the gates till Odysseus’ serving-men
could cart it off to manure the king’s estates.
Infested with ticks, half-dead from neglect,
here lay the hound, old Argos.
330 But the moment he sensed Odysseus standing by
he thumped his tail, nuzzling low, and his ears dropped,
though he had no strength to drag himself an inch
toward his master. Odysseus glanced to the side
and flicked away a tear, hiding it from Eumaeus,
diverting his friend in a hasty, offhand way:
“Strange, Eumaeus, look, a dog like this,
lying here on a dung-hill . . .
what handsome lines! But I can’t say for sure
if he had the running speed to match his looks
340 or he was only the sort that gentry spoil at table,
show-dogs masters pamper for their points.”
You told the stranger, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
“Here —it’s all too true —here’s the dog of a man
who died in foreign parts. But if he had now
the form and flair he had in his glory days —
as Odysseus left him, sailing off to Troy —
you’d be amazed to see such speed, such strength.
No quarry he chased in the deepest, darkest woods
could ever slip this hound. A champion tracker too!
350 Ah, but he’s run out of luck now, poor fellow . . .
his master’s dead and gone, so far from home,
and the heartless women tend him not at all. Slaves,
with their lords no longer there to crack the whip,
lose all zest to perform their duties well. Zeus,
the Old Thunderer, robs a man of half his virtue
the day the yoke clamps down around his neck.”
With that he entered the well-constructed palace,
strode through the halls and joined the proud suitors.
But the dark shadow of death closed down on Argos’ eyes
360 the instant he saw Odysseus, twenty years away.
Now Prince Telemachus, first by far to note
the swineherd coming down the hall, nodded briskly,
called and waved him on. Eumaeus, glancing about,
picked up a handy stool where the carver always sat,
slicing meat for the suitors feasting through the house.
He took and put it beside the prince’s table, facing him,
straddled it himself as a steward set a plate of meat
before the man and served him bread from trays.
Right behind him came Odysseus, into his own house,
370 looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar
hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags.
Just in the doorway, just at the ashwood threshold,
there he settled down . . .
leaning against the cypress post a master joiner
planed smooth and hung with a plumb line years ago.
Telemachus motioned the swineherd over now,
and choosing a whole loaf from a fine wicker tray
and as much meat as his outstretched hands could hold,
he said, “Now take these to the stranger, tell him too
380 to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all.
Bashfulness, for a man in need, is no great friend.”
And Eumaeus did his bidding, went straight up
to the guest and winged a greeting: “Here, stranger,
Prince Telemachus sends you these, and tells you too
to make the rounds of the suitors, beg from one and all.
Bashfulness for a beggar, he says, is no great friend.”
“Powerful Zeus!” the crafty king responded,
“grant that your prince be blest among mankind —
and all his heart’s desires come to pass!”
390 Taking the food in both hands, setting it down,
spread out on his filthy sack before his feet,
the beggar fell to his meal
as the singer raised a song throughout the house.
Once he’d supped and the stirring bard had closed,
the suitors broke into uproar down along the hall.
And now Athena came to the side of Laertes’ royal son
and urged him, “Go now, gather crusts from all the suitors,
test them, so we can tell the innocent from the guilty.”
But not even so would Athena save one man from death.
400 Still, off he went, begging from each in turn,
circling left to right, reaching out his hand
like a beggar from the day that he was born.
They pitied him, gave him scraps, were puzzled too,
asking each other, “Who is this?” “Where’s he from?”
Till the goatherd Melanthius shouted out in their midst,
“Listen to me, you lords who court our noble queen —
I’ll tell you about the stranger. I’ve seen him before.
I know for a fact the swineherd led him in,
though I have no idea who the fellow is
or where he thinks he comes from.”
410 At that
Antinous wheeled on Eumaeus, lashing out at him:
“Your highness, swineherd —why drag this to town?
Haven’t we got our share of vagabonds to deal with,
disgusting beggars who lick the feasters’ plates?
Isn’t it quite enough, these swarming crowds
consuming your master’s bounty —
must you invite this rascal in the bargain?”
“Antinous,
highborn as you are,” you told the man, Eumaeus,
“that was a mean low speech!
420 Now who’d go out, who on his own hook —
not I —and ask a stranger in from nowhere
unless he had some skills to serve the house?
A prophet, a healer who cures disease, a worker in wood
or even a god-inspired bard whose singing warms the heart —
they’re the ones asked in around the world. A beggar?
Who’d invite a beggar to bleed his household white?
You, you of all the suitors are always roughest
on the servants of our king, on me most of all.
Not that I care, no, so long as his queen,
430 his wise queen, is still alive in the palace,
Prince Telemachus too.”
“Stop, Eumaeus,”
poised Telemachus broke in quickly now,
“don’t waste so much breath on Antinous here.
It’s just his habit to bait a man with abuse
and spur the rest as well.”
He wheeled on the suitor,
letting loose: “How kind you are to me, Antinous,
kind as a father to his son! Encouraging me
to send this stranger packing from my house
with a harsh command! I’d never do it. God forbid.
440 Take and give to the beggar. I don’t grudge it —
I’d even urge you on. No scruples now,
never fear your gifts will upset my mother
or any servant in King Odysseus’ royal house.
But no such qualm could enter that head of yours,
bent on feeding your own face, not feeding strangers!”
Antinous countered the young prince in kind:
“So high and mighty, Telemachus —such unbridled rage!
If all the suitors gave him the sort of gift I’ll give,
the house would be rid of him for three whole months!”
450 With that, from under his table he seized the stool
that propped his smooth feet as he reveled on —
just lifting it into view . . .
But as for the rest,
all gave to the beggar, filled his sack with handouts,
bread and meat. And Odysseus seemed at the point
of getting back to his doorsill,
done with testing suitors, home free himself
when he stopped beside Antinous, begging face-to-face:
“Give me a morsel, friend. You’re hardly the worst
Achaean here, it seems. The noblest one, in fact.
460 You look like a king to me!
So you should give a bigger crust than the rest
and I will sing your praises all across the earth.
I too once lived in a lofty house that men admired;
rolling in wealth, I’d often give to a vagabond like myself,
whoever he was, whatever need had brought him to my door.
And crowds of servants I had, and lots of all it takes
to live the life of ease, to make men call you rich.
But Zeus ruined it all —god’s will, no doubt —
when he shipped me off with a roving band of pirates
470 bound for Egypt, a long hard sail, to wreck my life.
There in the Nile delta I moored our ships of war.
God knows I ordered my trusty crews to stand by,
just where they were, and guard the anchored fleet
and I sent a patrol to scout things out from higher ground.
But swept away by their own reckless fury, the crew went berserk —
they promptly began to plunder the lush Egyptian farms,
dragged off the women and children, killed the men.
Outcries reached the city in no time —stirred by shouts
the entire town came streaming down at the break of day,
480 filling the river plain with chariots, ranks of infantry
and the gleam of bronze. Zeus who loves the lightning
flung down murderous panic on all my men-at-arms —
no one dared to stand his ground and fight,
disaster ringed us round from every quarter.
Droves of my men they hacked down with swords,
led off the rest alive, to labor for them as slaves.
Myself? They passed me on to a stranger come their way,
488 to ship me to Cyprus —Iasus’ son Dmetor it was,
who ruled Cyprus then with an iron fist.
490 And from there I sailed to Ithaca,
just as you see me now, ground down by pain and sorrow —”
“Good god almighty!” Antinous cut the beggar short.
“What spirit brought this pest to plague our feast?
Back off! Into the open, clear of my table, or you,
you’ll soon land in an Egypt, Cyprus, to break your heart!
What a brazen, shameless beggar! Scrounging food
from each man in turn, and look at their handouts,
reckless, never a qualm, no holding back, not
when making free with the next man’s goods —
each one’s got plenty here.”
500 “Pity, pity,”
the wry Odysseus countered, drawing away.
“No sense in your head to match your handsome looks.
You’d grudge your servant a pinch of salt from your own larder,
you who lounge at the next man’s board but lack the heart
to tear a crust of bread and hand it on to me,
though there’s god’s plenty here.”
Boiling over
Antinous gave him a scathing look and let fly,
“Now you won’t get out of the hall unscarred, I swear,
not after such a filthy string of insults!”
With that
he seized the stool and hurled it —
510 Square in the back
it struck Odysseus, just under the right shoulder
but he stood up against it —steady as a rock,
unstaggered by Antinous’ blow —just shook his head,
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work.
Back he went to the doorsill, crouched, and setting down
his sack about to burst, he faced the suitors, saying,
“Hear me out, you lords who court the noble queen,
I must say what the heart inside me urges.
There’s nothing to groan about, no hurt, when a man
520 takes a blow as he fights to save his own possessions,
cattle or shining flocks. But Antinous struck me
all because of my good-for-nothing belly —that,
that curse that makes such pain for us poor men.
But if beggars have their gods and Furies too,
let Antinous meet his death before he meets his bride!”
“Enough, stranger!” Antinous volleyed back.
“Sit there and eat in peace —or go get lost! Or else,
for the way you talk, these young men will hale you
up and down the halls by your hands or feet
until you’re skinned alive!”
530 Naked threats —
but the rest were outraged, even those brash suitors.
One would say to another, “Look, Antinous,
that was a crime, to strike the luckless beggar!”
“Your fate is sealed if he’s some god from the blue.”
“And the gods do take on the look of strangers
dropping in from abroad —”
“Disguised in every way
as they roam and haunt our cities, watching over us —”
“All our foul play, all our fair play too!”
So they warned, but Antinous paid no heed.
540 And the anguish welled up in Telemachus’ breast
for the blow his father took, yet he let no tears
go rolling down his face —he just shook his head,
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work.
But then, when cautious Queen Penelope heard
how Antinous struck the stranger, there in the halls,
she cried out, with her serving-women round her,
“May Apollo the Archer strike you just as hard!”
548 And her housekeeper Eurynome added quickly,
“If only our prayers were granted —
550 then not one of the lot would live to see
Dawn climb her throne tomorrow!”
“Dear old woman,”
alert Penelope replied, “they’re all hateful,
plotting their vicious plots. But Antinous
is the worst of all —he’s black death itself.
Here’s this luckless stranger, wandering down
the halls and begging scraps —hard-pressed by need —
and the rest all give the man his fill of food
but that one gives him a footstool
hurled at his right shoulder, hits his back!”
560 While she exclaimed among her household women,
sitting there in her room, Odysseus bent to supper.
Penelope called the swineherd in and gave instructions:
“Go, good Eumaeus, tell the stranger to come at once.
I’d like to give him a warm welcome, ask the man
if he’s heard some news about my gallant husband
or seen him in the flesh . . .
He seems like one who’s roved around the world.”
“My queen,” you answered, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
“if only the lords would hold their peace a moment!
570 Such stories he tells —he’d charm you to your depths.
Three nights, three days I kept him in my shelter;
I was the first the fellow stumbled onto,
fleeing from some ship. But not even so
could he bring his tale of troubles to an end.
You know how you can stare at a bard in wonder —
trained by the gods to sing and hold men spellbound —
how you can long to sit there, listening, all your life
when the man begins to sing. So he charmed my heart,
I tell you, huddling there beside me at my fire.
580 He and Odysseus’ father go way back, he says,
sworn friends, and the stranger hails from Crete
where the stock of old King Minos still lives on,
and from Crete he made his way, racked by hardship,
tumbling on like a rolling stone until he turned up here.
He swears he’s heard of Odysseus —just in reach,
in rich Thesprotian country —still alive,
laden with treasure, heading home at last!”
“Go,”
the cautious queen responded, “call him here
so he can tell me his own tale face-to-face.
590 Our friends can sit at the gates or down the halls
and play their games, debauched to their hearts’ content.
Why not? Their own stores, their bread and seasoned wine,
lie intact at home; food for their serving-men alone.
But they, they infest our palace day and night,
they butcher our cattle, our sheep, our fat goats,
feasting themselves sick, swilling our glowing wine
as if there’s no tomorrow —all of it, squandered.
No, there is no man like Odysseus in command
to drive this curse from the house. Dear god,
600 if only Odysseus came back home to native soil now,
he and his son would avenge the outrage of these men —like that!”
602 At her last words Telemachus shook with a lusty sneeze
like a thunderclap resounding up and down the halls.
The queen was seized with laughter, calling out
to Eumaeus winged words: “Quickly, go!
Bring me this stranger now, face-to-face!
You hear how my son sealed all I said with a sneeze?
So let death come down with grim finality on these suitors —
one and all —not a single man escape his sudden doom!
610 And another thing. Mark my words, I tell you.
If I’m convinced that all he says is true,
I’ll dress him in shirt and cloak, in handsome clothes.”
Off the swineherd went, following her instructions,
made his way to the stranger’s side and winged a word:
“Old friend —our queen, wise Penelope, summons you,
the prince’s mother! The spirit moves her now,
heartsick as she is,
to ask a question or two about her husband.
And if she’s convinced that all you say is true,
620 she’ll dress you in shirt and cloak. That’s what you need,
that most of all now. Bread you can always beg
around the country, fill your belly well —
they’ll give you food, whoever has a mind to.”
“Gladly, Eumaeus,” the patient man replied,
“I’ll tell her the whole truth and nothing but,
Icarius’ daughter, your wise queen Penelope.
I know all about that man . . .
it’s been my lot to suffer what he’s suffered.
But I fear the mob’s abuse, those rough young bucks,
630 their pride and violence hit the iron skies!
Just now that scoundrel —as I went down the halls,
harming no one —up and dealt me a jolting blow,
and who would raise a hand to save me? Telemachus?
Anyone else? No one. So tell Penelope now,
anxious as she may be, to wait in the halls
until the sun goes down. Then she can ask me
all she likes about her husband’s journey home.
But let her give me a seat close by the fire.
The clothes on my back are tatters. Well you know —
640 you are the first I begged for care and shelter.”
Back the swineherd went, following his instructions.
Penelope, just as he crossed her threshold, broke out,
“Didn’t you bring him? What’s in the vagrant’s mind?
Fear of someone? Embarrassed by something else,
here in the house? Is the fellow bashful?
A bashful man will make a sorry beggar.”
You answered your queen, Eumaeus, loyal swineherd,
“He talks to the point —he thinks as the next man would
who wants to dodge their blows, that brutal crew.
650 He tells you to wait here till the sun goes down.
It’s better for you, my queen. Then you can talk
with the man in private, hear the stranger’s news.”
“Nobody’s fool, that stranger,” wise Penelope said,
“he sees how things could go. Surely no men on earth
can match that gang for reckless, deadly schemes.”
So she agreed, and now, mission accomplished,
back the loyal swineherd went to mix with the suitors.
Moving next to the prince, he whispered a parting word,
their heads close together so no one else could hear.
660 “Dear boy, I must be off, to see to the pigs
and the whole farm —your living, mine as well.
You’re the one to tend to all things here.
Look out for your own skin first,
do take care, you mustn’t come to grief.
Crowds of your own countrymen plot your death —
let Zeus wipe out the lot before they kill us all!”
“Right you are, old friend,” the canny prince replied.
“Now off you go, once you’ve had your supper.
But come back bright and early,
670 bring some good sound boars for slaughter. Yes,
I’ll tend to all things here, I and the deathless gods.”
And the swineherd sat down again on his polished stool
and once he’d supped and drunk to his heart’s content,
back he went to his pigs, leaving the royal precincts
still filled with feasters, all indulging now
in the joys of dance and song.
The day was over. Dusk was falling fast.