Peace
1 Now Cyllenian Hermes called away the suitors’ ghosts,
holding firm in his hand the wand of fine pure gold
that enchants the eyes of men whenever Hermes wants
or wakes us up from sleep.
With a wave of this he stirred and led them on
6 and the ghosts trailed after with high thin cries
as bats cry in the depths of a dark haunted cavern,
shrilling, flittering, wild when one drops from the chain —
slipped from the rock face, while the rest cling tight . . .
10 So with their high thin cries the ghosts flocked now
and Hermes the Healer led them on, and down the dank
moldering paths and past the Ocean’s streams they went
and past the White Rock and the Sun’s Western Gates and past
the Land of Dreams, and they soon reached the fields of asphodel
where the dead, the burnt-out wraiths of mortals, make their home.
There they found the ghosts of Peleus’ son Achilles,
Patroclus, fearless Antilochus —and Great Ajax too,
the first in stature, first in build and bearing
of all the Argives after Peleus’ matchless son.
20 They had grouped around Achilles’ ghost, and now
the shade of Atreus’ son Agamemnon marched toward them —
fraught with grief and flanked by all his comrades,
troops of his men-at-arms who died beside him,
who met their fate in lord Aegisthus’ halls.
Achilles’ ghost was first to greet him: “Agamemnon,
you were the one, we thought, of all our fighting princes
Zeus who loves the lightning favored most, all your days,
because you commanded such a powerful host of men
on the fields of Troy where we Achaeans suffered.
30 But you were doomed to encounter fate so early,
you too, yet no one born escapes its deadly force.
If only you had died your death in the full flush
of the glory you had mastered —died on Trojan soil!
Then all united Achaea would have raised your tomb
and you’d have won your son great fame for years to come.
Not so. You were fated to die a wretched death.”
And the ghost of Atrides Agamemnon answered,
“Son of Peleus, great godlike Achilles! Happy man,
you died on the fields of Troy, a world away from home,
40 and the best of Trojan and Argive champions died around you,
fighting for your corpse. And you . . . there you lay
in the whirling dust, overpowered in all your power
and wiped from memory all your horseman’s skills.
That whole day we fought, we’d never have stopped
if Zeus had not stopped us with sudden gales.
Then we bore you out of the fighting, onto the ships,
we laid you down on a litter, cleansed your handsome flesh
with warm water and soothing oils, and round your body
49 troops of Danaans wept hot tears and cut their locks.
50 Hearing the news, your mother, Thetis, rose from the sea,
immortal sea-nymphs in her wake, and a strange unearthly cry
came throbbing over the ocean. Terror gripped Achaea’s armies,
they would have leapt in panic, boarded the long hollow ships
if one man, deep in his age-old wisdom, had not checked them:
Nestor —from the first his counsel always seemed the best,
and now, concerned for the ranks, he rose and shouted,
‘Hold fast, Argives! Sons of Achaea, don’t run now!
This is Achilles’ mother rising from the sea
with all her immortal sea-nymphs —
60 she longs to join her son who died in battle!’
That stopped our panicked forces in their tracks
as the Old Man of the Sea’s daughters gathered round you —
wailing, heartsick —dressed you in ambrosial, deathless robes
and the Muses, nine in all, voice-to-voice in choirs,
their vibrant music rising, raised your dirge.
Not one soldier would you have seen dry-eyed,
the Muses’ song so pierced us to the heart.
For seventeen days unbroken, days and nights
we mourned you —immortal gods and mortal men.
70 At the eighteenth dawn we gave you to the flames
and slaughtered around your body droves of fat sheep
and shambling longhorn cattle, and you were burned
in the garments of the gods and laved with soothing oils
and honey running sweet, and a long cortege of Argive heroes
paraded in review, in battle armor round your blazing pyre,
men in chariots, men on foot —a resounding roar went up.
And once the god of fire had burned your corpse to ash,
at first light we gathered your white bones, Achilles,
cured them in strong neat wine and seasoned oils.
80 Your mother gave us a gold two-handled urn,
a gift from Dionysus, she said,
a masterwork of the famous Smith, the god of fire.
Your white bones rest in that, my brilliant Achilles,
84 mixed with the bones of dead Patroclus, Menoetius’ son,
apart from those of Antilochus, whom you treasured
more than all other comrades once Patroclus died.
Over your bones we reared a grand, noble tomb —
devoted veterans all, Achaea’s combat forces —
89 high on its jutting headland over the Hellespont’s
90 broad reach, a landmark glimpsed from far out at sea
by men of our own day and men of days to come.
And then
your mother, begging the gods for priceless trophies,
set them out in the ring for all our champions.
You in your day have witnessed funeral games
for many heroes, games to honor the death of kings,
when young men cinch their belts, tense to win some prize —
but if you’d laid eyes on these it would have thrilled your heart,
magnificent trophies the goddess, glistening-footed Thetis,
held out in your honor. You were dear to the gods,
100 so even in death your name will never die . . .
Great glory is yours, Achilles,
for all time, in the eyes of all mankind!
But I?
What joy for me when the coil of war had wound down?
For my return Zeus hatched a pitiful death
at the hands of Aegisthus —and my accursed wife.”
As they exchanged the stories of their fates,
Hermes the guide and giant-killer drew up close to both,
leading down the ghosts of the suitors King Odysseus killed.
Struck by the sight, the two went up to them right away
110 and the ghost of Atreus’ son Agamemnon recognized
111 the noted prince Amphimedon, Melaneus’ dear son
who received him once in Ithaca, at his home,
and Atrides’ ghost called out to his old friend now,
“Amphimedon, what disaster brings you down to the dark world?
All of you, good picked men, and all in your prime —
no captain out to recruit the best in any city
could have chosen better. What laid you low?
Wrecked in the ships when lord Poseidon roused
some punishing blast of gales and heavy breakers?
120 Or did ranks of enemies mow you down on land
as you tried to raid and cut off herds and flocks
or fought to win their city, take their women?
Answer me, tell me. I was once your guest.
Don’t you recall the day I came to visit
your house in Ithaca —King Menelaus came too —
126 to urge Odysseus to sail with us in the ships
on our campaign to Troy? And the long slow voyage,
crossing wastes of ocean, cost us one whole month.
That’s how hard it was to bring him round,
Odysseus, raider of cities.”
130 “Famous Atrides!”
Amphimedon’s ghost called back. “Lord of men, Agamemnon,
I remember it all, your majesty, as you say,
and I will tell you, start to finish now,
the story of our death,
the brutal end contrived to take us off.
We were courting the wife of Odysseus, gone so long.
She neither spurned nor embraced a marriage she despised,
no, she simply planned our death, our black doom!
This was her latest masterpiece of guile:
140 she set up a great loom in the royal halls
and she began to weave, and the weaving finespun,
the yarns endless, and she would lead us on: ‘Young men,
my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more,
go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until
I can finish off this web . . .
so my weaving won’t all fray and come to nothing.
This is a shroud for old lord Laertes, for that day
when the deadly fate that lays us out at last will take him down.
I dread the shame my countrywomen would heap upon me,
150 yes, if a man of such wealth should lie in state
without a shroud for cover.’
Her very words,
and despite our pride and passion we believed her.
So by day she’d weave at her great and growing web —
by night, by the light of torches set beside her,
she would unravel all she’d done. Three whole years
she deceived us blind, seduced us with this scheme . . .
Then, when the wheeling seasons brought the fourth year on
and the months waned and the long days came round once more,
one of her women, in on the queen’s secret, told the truth
160 and we caught her in the act —unweaving her gorgeous web.
So she finished it off. Against her will. We forced her.
But just as she bound off that great shroud and washed it,
spread it out —glistening like the sunlight or the moon —
just then some wicked spirit brought Odysseus back,
from god knows where, to the edge of his estate
where the swineherd kept his pigs. And back too,
to the same place, came Odysseus’ own dear son,
scudding home in his black ship from sandy Pylos.
The pair of them schemed our doom, our deathtrap,
170 then lit out for town —
Telemachus first in fact, Odysseus followed,
later, led by the swineherd, and clad in tatters,
looking for all the world like an old and broken beggar
hunched on a stick, his body wrapped in shameful rags.
Disguised so none of us, not even the older ones,
could spot that tramp for the man he really was,
bursting in on us there, out of the blue. No,
we attacked him, blows and insults flying fast,
and he took it all for a time, in his own house,
180 all the taunts and blows —he had a heart of iron.
But once the will of thundering Zeus had roused his blood,
he and Telemachus bore the burnished weapons off
and stowed them deep in a storeroom, shot the bolts
184 and he —the soul of cunning —told his wife to set
the great bow and the gleaming iron axes out
before the suitors —all of us doomed now —
to test our skill and bring our slaughter on . . .
Not one of us had the strength to string that powerful weapon,
all of us fell far short of what it took. But then,
190 when the bow was coming round to Odysseus’ hands,
we raised a hue and cry —he must not have it,
no matter how he begged! Only Telemachus
urged him to take it up, and once he got it
in his clutches, long-suffering great Odysseus
strung his bow with ease and shot through all the axes,
then, vaulting onto the threshold, stood there poised, and pouring
his flashing arrows out before him, glaring for the kill,
he cut Antinous down, then shot his painful arrows
into the rest of us, aiming straight and true,
200 and down we went, corpse on corpse in droves.
Clearly a god was driving him and all his henchmen,
routing us headlong in their fury down the hall,
wheeling into the slaughter, slashing left and right
and grisly screams broke from skulls cracked open —
the whole floor awash with blood.
So we died,
Agamemnon . . . our bodies lie untended even now,
strewn in Odysseus’ palace. They know nothing yet,
the kin in our houses who might wash our wounds
of clotted gore and lay us out and mourn us.
These are the solemn honors owed the dead.”
210 “Happy Odysseus!”
Agamemnon’s ghost cried out. “Son of old Laertes —
mastermind —what a fine, faithful wife you won!
What good sense resided in your Penelope —
how well Icarius’ daughter remembered you,
Odysseus, the man she married once!
The fame of her great virtue will never die.
The immortal gods will lift a song for all mankind,
a glorious song in praise of self-possessed Penelope.
A far cry from the daughter of Tyndareus, Clytemnestra —
220 what outrage she committed, killing the man she married once! —
yes, and the song men sing of her will ring with loathing.
She brands with a foul name the breed of womankind,
even the honest ones to come!”
So they traded stories,
the two ghosts standing there in the House of Death,
far in the hidden depths below the earth.
Odysseus and his men had stridden down from town
and quickly reached Laertes’ large, well-tended farm
that the old king himself had wrested from the wilds,
years ago, laboring long and hard. His lodge was here
230 and around it stretched a row of sheds where fieldhands,
bondsmen who did his bidding, sat and ate and slept.
And an old Sicilian woman was in charge,
who faithfully looked after her aged master
out on his good estate remote from town.
Odysseus told his servants and his son,
“Into the timbered lodge now, go, quickly,
kill us the fattest porker, fix our meal.
And I will put my father to the test,
see if the old man knows me now, on sight,
240 or fails to, after twenty years apart.”
With that he passed his armor to his men
and in they went at once, his son as well. Odysseus
wandered off, approaching the thriving vineyard, searching,
picking his way down to the great orchard, searching,
but found neither Dolius nor his sons nor any hand.
They’d just gone off, old Dolius in the lead,
to gather stones for a dry retaining wall
to shore the vineyard up. But he did find
his father, alone, on that well-worked plot,
250 spading round a sapling —clad in filthy rags,
in a patched, unseemly shirt, and round his shins
he had some oxhide leggings strapped, patched too,
to keep from getting scraped, and gloves on his hands
to fight against the thorns, and on his head
he wore a goatskin skullcap
to cultivate his misery that much more . . .
Long-enduring Odysseus, catching sight of him now —
258 a man worn down with years, his heart racked with sorrow —
259 halted under a branching pear-tree, paused and wept.
260 Debating, head and heart, what should he do now?
Kiss and embrace his father, pour out the long tale —
how he had made the journey home to native land —
or probe him first and test him every way?
Torn, mulling it over, this seemed better:
test the old man first,
reproach him with words that cut him to the core.
Convinced, Odysseus went right up to his father.
Laertes was digging round the sapling, head bent low
as his famous offspring hovered over him and began,
270 “You want no skill, old man, at tending a garden.
All’s well-kept here; not one thing in the plot,
no plant, no fig, no pear, no olive, no vine,
not a vegetable, lacks your tender, loving care.
But I must say —and don’t be offended now —
your plants are doing better than yourself.
Enough to be stooped with age
but look how squalid you are, those shabby rags.
Surely it’s not for sloth your master lets you go to seed.
There’s nothing of slave about your build or bearing.
280 I have eyes: you look like a king to me. The sort
entitled to bathe, sup well, then sleep in a soft bed.
That’s the right and pride of you old-timers.
Come now, tell me —in no uncertain terms —
284 whose slave are you? whose orchard are you tending?
And tell me this —I must be absolutely sure —
this place I’ve reached, is it truly Ithaca?
Just as that fellow told me, just now . . .
I fell in with him on the road here. Clumsy,
none too friendly, couldn’t trouble himself
290 to hear me out or give me a decent answer
when I asked about a long-lost friend of mine,
whether he’s still alive, somewhere in Ithaca,
or dead and gone already, lost in the House of Death.
Do you want to hear his story? Listen. Catch my drift.
I once played host to a man in my own country;
he’d come to my door, the most welcome guest
from foreign parts I ever entertained.
He claimed he came of good Ithacan stock,
said his father was Arcesius’ son, Laertes.
300 So I took the new arrival under my own roof,
I gave him a hero’s welcome, treated him in style —
stores in our palace made for princely entertainment.
And I gave my friend some gifts to fit his station,
handed him seven bars of well-wrought gold,
a mixing-bowl of solid silver, etched with flowers,
a dozen cloaks, unlined and light, a dozen rugs
and as many full-cut capes and shirts as well,
and to top it off, four women, perfect beauties
skilled in crafts —he could pick them out himself.”
310 “Stranger,” his father answered, weeping softly,
“the land you’ve reached is the very one you’re after,
true, but it’s in the grip of reckless, lawless men.
And as for the gifts you showered on your guest,
you gave them all for nothing.
315 But if you’d found him alive, here in Ithaca,
he would have replied in kind, with gift for gift,
and entertained you warmly before he sent you off.
That’s the old custom, when one has led the way.
But tell me, please —in no uncertain terms —
320 how many years ago did you host the man,
that unfortunate guest of yours, my son . . .
there was a son, or was he all a dream?
That most unlucky man, whom now, I fear,
far from his own soil and those he loves,
the fish have swallowed down on the high seas
or birds and beasts on land have made their meal.
Nor could the ones who bore him —mother, father —
wrap his corpse in a shroud and mourn him deeply.
Nor could his warm, generous wife, so self-possessed,
330 Penelope, ever keen for her husband on his deathbed,
the fit and proper way, or close his eyes at last.
These are the solemn honors owed the dead.
But tell me your own story —that I’d like to know:
Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents?
Where does the ship lie moored that brought you here,
your hardy shipmates too? Or did you arrive
as a passenger aboard some stranger’s craft
and men who put you ashore have pulled away?”
“The whole tale,”
his crafty son replied, “I’ll tell you start to finish.
340 I come from Roamer-Town, my home’s a famous place,
341 my father’s Unsparing, son of old King Pain,
and my name’s Man of Strife . . .
343 I sailed from Sicily, aye, but some ill wind
blew me here, off course —much against my will —
and my ship lies moored off farmlands far from town.
As for Odysseus, well, five years have passed
since he left my house and put my land behind him,
348 luckless man! But the birds were good as he launched out,
all on the right, and I rejoiced as I sent him off
350 and he rejoiced in sailing. We had high hopes
we’d meet again as guests, as old friends,
and trade some shining gifts.”
At those words
a black cloud of grief came shrouding over Laertes.
Both hands clawing the ground for dirt and grime,
he poured it over his grizzled head, sobbing, in spasms.
Odysseus’ heart shuddered, a sudden twinge went shooting up
through his nostrils, watching his dear father struggle . . .
He sprang toward him, kissed him, hugged him, crying,
“Father —I am your son —myself, the man you’re seeking,
360 home after twenty years, on native ground at last!
Hold back your tears, your grief.
Let me tell you the news, but we must hurry —
I’ve cut the suitors down in our own house,
I’ve paid them back their outrage, vicious crimes!”
“Odysseus . . .”
Laertes, catching his breath, found words to answer.
“You —you’re truly my son, Odysseus, home at last?
Give me a sign, some proof —I must be sure.”
“This scar first,”
quick to the mark, his son said, “look at this —
the wound I took from the boar’s white tusk
370 on Mount Parnassus. There you’d sent me, you
and mother, to see her fond old father, Autolycus,
and collect the gifts he vowed to give me, once,
when he came to see us here.
Or these, these trees —
let me tell you the trees you gave me years ago,
here on this well-worked plot . . .
I begged you for everything I saw, a little boy
trailing you through the orchard, picking our way
among these trees, and you named them one by one.
379 You gave me thirteen pear, ten apple trees
380 and forty figs —and promised to give me, look,
fifty vinerows, bearing hard on each other’s heels,
clusters of grapes year-round at every grade of ripeness,
mellowed as Zeus’s seasons weigh them down.”
Living proof —
and Laertes’ knees went slack, his heart surrendered,
recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered.
He threw his arms around his own dear son, fainting
as hardy great Odysseus hugged him to his heart
until he regained his breath, came back to life
and cried out, “Father Zeus —
390 you gods of Olympus, you still rule on high
if those suitors have truly paid in blood
for all their reckless outrage! Oh, but now
my heart quakes with fear that all the Ithacans
will come down on us in a pack, at any time,
and rush the alarm through every island town!”
“There’s nothing to fear,” his canny son replied,
“put it from your mind. Let’s make for your lodge
beside the orchard here. I sent Telemachus on ahead,
the cowherd, swineherd too, to fix a hasty meal.”
400 So the two went home, confiding all the way
and arriving at the ample, timbered lodge,
they found Telemachus with the two herdsmen
carving sides of meat and mixing ruddy wine.
Before they ate, the Sicilian serving-woman
bathed her master, Laertes —his spirits high
in his own room —and rubbed him down with oil
and round his shoulders drew a fresh new cloak.
And Athena stood beside him, fleshing out the limbs
of the old commander, made him taller to all eyes,
410 his build more massive, stepping from his bath,
so his own son gazed at him, wonderstruck —
face-to-face he seemed a deathless god . . .
“Father” —Odysseus’ words had wings —“surely
one of the everlasting gods has made you
taller, stronger, shining in my eyes!”
Facing his son, the wise old man returned,
“If only —Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo —
I were the man I was, king of the Cephallenians
419 when I sacked the city of Nericus, sturdy fortress
420 out on its jutting cape! If I’d been young in arms
last night in our house with harness on my back,
standing beside you, fighting off the suitors,
how many I would have cut the knees from under —
the heart inside you would have leapt for joy!”
So father and son confirmed each other’s spirits.
And then, with the roasting done, the meal set out,
the others took their seats on chairs and stools,
were just putting their hands to bread and meat
when old Dolius trudged in with his sons,
430 worn out from the fieldwork.
The old Sicilian had gone and fetched them home,
the mother who reared the boys and tended Dolius well,
now that the years had ground the old man down . . .
When they saw Odysseus —knew him in their bones —
they stopped in their tracks, staring, struck dumb,
but the king waved them on with a warm and easy air:
“Sit down to your food, old friend. Snap out of your wonder.
We’ve been cooling our heels here long enough,
eager to get our hands on all this pork,
440 hoping you’d all troop in at any moment.”
Spreading his arms, Dolius rushed up to him,
clutched Odysseus by the wrist and kissed his hand,
greeting his king now with a burst of winging words:
“Dear master, you’re back —the answer to our prayers!
We’d lost all hope but the gods have brought you home!
Welcome —health! The skies rain blessings on you!
But tell me the truth now —this I’d like to know —
shrewd Penelope, has she heard you’re home?
Or should we send a messenger?”
“She knows by now,
450 old man,” his wily master answered brusquely.
“Why busy yourself with that?”
So Dolius went back to his sanded stool.
His sons too, pressing around the famous king,
greeted Odysseus warmly, grasped him by the hand
then took their seats in order by their father.
But now, as they fell to supper in the lodge,
457 Rumor the herald sped like wildfire through the city,
crying out the news of the suitors’ bloody death and doom,
and massing from every quarter as they listened, kinsmen milled
460 with wails and moans of grief before Odysseus’ palace.
And then they carried out the bodies, every family
buried their own, and the dead from other towns
they loaded onto the rapid ships for crews
to ferry back again, each to his own home . . .
Then in a long, mourning file they moved to assembly
where, once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds,
old lord Eupithes rose in their midst to speak out.
Unforgettable sorrow wrung his heart for his son,
Antinous, the first that great Odysseus killed.
470 In tears for the one he lost, he stood and cried,
“My friends, what a mortal blow this man has dealt
to all our island people! Those fighters, many and brave,
he led away in his curved ships —he lost the ships
and he lost the men and back he comes again
to kill the best of our Cephallenian princes.
Quick, after him! Before he flees to Pylos
or holy Elis, where Epeans rule in power —
up, attack! Or we’ll hang our heads forever,
all disgraced, even by generations down the years,
480 if we don’t punish the murderers of our brothers and our sons!
Why, life would lose its relish —for me, at least —
I’d rather die at once and go among the dead.
Attack! —before the assassins cross the sea
and leave us in their wake.”
He closed in tears
and compassion ran through every Achaean there.
Suddenly Medon and the inspired bard approached them,
fresh from Odysseus’ house, where they had just awakened.
They strode into the crowds; amazement took each man
but the herald Medon spoke in all his wisdom:
490 “Hear me, men of Ithaca. Not without the hand
of the deathless gods did Odysseus do these things!
Myself, I saw an immortal fighting at his side —
like Mentor to the life. I saw the same god,
now in front of Odysseus, spurring him on,
now stampeding the suitors through the hall,
crazed with fear, and down they went in droves!”
Terror gripped them all, their faces ashen white.
At last the old warrior Halitherses, Mastor’s son —
who alone could see the days behind and days ahead —
500 rose up and spoke, distraught for each man there:
“Hear me, men of Ithaca. Hear what I have to say.
Thanks to your own craven hearts these things were done!
You never listened to me or the good commander Mentor,
you never put a stop to your sons’ senseless folly.
What fine work they did, so blind, so reckless,
carving away the wealth, affronting the wife
of a great and famous man, telling themselves
that he’d return no more! So let things rest now.
Listen to me for once —I say don’t attack!
Else some will draw the lightning on their necks.”
510 So he urged
and some held fast to their seats, but more than half
sprang up with warcries now. They had no taste
for the prophet’s sane plan —winning Eupithes
quickly won them over. They ran for armor
and once they’d harnessed up in burnished bronze
they grouped in ranks before the terraced city.
Eupithes led them on in their foolish, mad campaign,
certain he would avenge the slaughter of his son
but the father was not destined to return —
520 he’d meet his death in battle then and there.
Athena at this point made appeals to Zeus:
“Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king,
now let me ask you a question . . .
tell me the secrets hidden in your mind.
Will you prolong the pain, the cruel fighting here
or hand down pacts of peace between both sides?”
“My child,” Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,
“why do you pry and probe me so intently? Come now,
wasn’t the plan your own? You conceived it yourself:
530 Odysseus should return and pay the traitors back.
Do as your heart desires —
but let me tell you how it should be done.
Now that royal Odysseus has taken his revenge,
let both sides seal their pacts that he shall reign for life,
and let us purge their memories of the bloody slaughter
of their brothers and their sons. Let them be friends,
devoted as in the old days. Let peace and wealth
come cresting through the land.”
So Zeus decreed
and launched Athena already poised for action —
540 down she swept from Olympus’ craggy peaks.
By then Odysseus’ men had had their fill
of hearty fare, and the seasoned captain said,
“One of you go outside —see if they’re closing in.”
A son of Dolius snapped to his command,
ran to the door and saw them all too close
and shouted back to Odysseus,
“They’re on top of us! To arms —and fast!”
Up they sprang and strapped themselves in armor,
the three men with Odysseus, Dolius’ six sons
550 and Dolius and Laertes clapped on armor too,
gray as they were, but they would fight if forced.
Once they had all harnessed up in burnished bronze
they opened the doors and strode out, Odysseus in the lead.
And now, taking the build and voice of Mentor,
Zeus’s daughter Athena marched right in.
The good soldier Odysseus thrilled to see her,
turned to his son and said in haste, “Telemachus,
you’ll learn soon enough —as you move up to fight
where champions strive to prove themselves the best —
560 not to disgrace your father’s line a moment.
In battle prowess we’ve excelled for ages
all across the world.”
Telemachus reassured him,
“Now you’ll see, if you care to watch, father,
now I’m fired up. Disgrace, you say?
I won’t disgrace your line!”
Laertes called out in deep delight,
567 “What a day for me, dear gods! What joy —
my son and my grandson vying over courage!”
“Laertes!”
Goddess Athena rushed beside him, eyes ablaze:
570 “Son of Arcesius, dearest of all my comrades,
say a prayer to the bright-eyed girl and Father Zeus,
then brandish your long spear and wing it fast!”
Athena breathed enormous strength in the old man.
He lifted a prayer to mighty Zeus’s daughter,
brandished his spear a moment, winged it fast
and hit Eupithes, pierced his bronze-sided helmet
that failed to block the bronze point tearing through —
down Eupithes crashed, his armor clanging against his chest.
Odysseus and his gallant son charged straight at the front lines,
580 slashing away with swords, with two-edged spears and now
581 they would have killed them all, cut them off from home
if Athena, daughter of storming Zeus, had not cried out
in a piercing voice that stopped all fighters cold,
“Hold back, you men of Ithaca, back from brutal war!
Break off —shed no more blood —make peace at once!”
So Athena commanded. Terror blanched their faces,
they went limp with fear, weapons slipped from their hands
and strewed the ground at the goddess’ ringing voice.
They spun in flight to the city, wild to save their lives,
590 but loosing a savage cry, the long-enduring great Odysseus,
gathering all his force, swooped like a soaring eagle —
just as the son of Cronus hurled a reeking bolt
that fell at her feet, the mighty Father’s daughter,
and blazing-eyed Athena wheeled on Odysseus, crying,
“Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, master of exploits,
hold back now! Call a halt to the great leveler, War —
don’t court the rage of Zeus who rules the world!”
So she commanded. He obeyed her, glad at heart.
And Athena handed down her pacts of peace
600 between both sides for all the years to come —
the daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder,
yes, but the goddess still kept Mentor’s build and voice.