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Portents Gather
Off in the entrance-hall the great king made his bed,
spreading out on the ground the raw hide of an ox,
heaping over it fleece from sheep the suitors
butchered day and night, then Eurynome threw
a blanket over him, once he’d nestled down.
And there Odysseus lay . . .
plotting within himself the suitors’ death —
awake, alert, as the women slipped from the house,
the maids who whored in the suitors’ beds each night,
10 tittering, linking arms and frisking as before.
The master’s anger rose inside his chest,
torn in thought, debating, head and heart —
should he up and rush them, kill them one and all
or let them rut with their lovers one last time?
The heart inside him growled low with rage,
as a bitch mounting over her weak, defenseless puppies
growls, facing a stranger, bristling for a showdown —
so he growled from his depths, hackles rising at their outrage.
But he struck his chest and curbed his fighting heart:
20 “Bear up, old heart! You’ve borne worse, far worse,
that day when the Cyclops, man-mountain, bolted
your hardy comrades down. But you held fast —
23 Nobody but your cunning pulled you through
the monster’s cave you thought would be your death.”
So he forced his spirit into submission,
the rage in his breast reined back —unswerving,
all endurance. But he himself kept tossing, turning,
intent as a cook before some white-hot blazing fire
who rolls his sizzling sausage back and forth,
30 packed with fat and blood —keen to broil it quickly,
tossing, turning it, this way, that way —so he cast about:
how could he get these shameless suitors in his clutches,
one man facing a mob? . . . when close to his side she came,
Athena sweeping down from the sky in a woman’s build
and hovering at his head, the goddess spoke:
“Why still awake? The unluckiest man alive!
Here is your house, your wife at home, your son,
as fine a boy as one could hope to have.”
“True,”
the wily fighter replied, “how right you are, goddess,
40 but still this worry haunts me, heart and soul —
how can I get these shameless suitors in my clutches?
Single-handed, braving an army always camped inside.
43 There’s another worry, that haunts me even more.
What if I kill them —thanks to you and Zeus —
how do I run from under their avengers?
Show me the way, I ask you.”
“Impossible man!”
Athena bantered, the goddess’ eyes ablaze.
“Others are quick to trust a weaker comrade,
some poor mortal, far less cunning than I.
50 But I am a goddess, look, the very one who
guards you in all your trials to the last.
I tell you this straight out:
even if fifty bands of mortal fighters
closed around us, hot to kill us off in battle,
still you could drive away their herds and sleek flocks!
So, surrender to sleep at last. What a misery,
keeping watch through the night, wide awake —
you’ll soon come up from under all your troubles.”
With that she showered sleep across his eyes
60 and back to Olympus went the lustrous goddess.
As soon as sleep came on him, loosing his limbs,
slipping the toils of anguish from his mind,
his devoted wife awoke and,
sitting up in her soft bed, returned to tears.
When the queen had wept to her heart’s content
she prayed to the Huntress, Artemis, first of all:
“Artemis —goddess, noble daughter of Zeus, if only
you’d whip an arrow through my breast and tear my life out,
now, at once! Or let some whirlwind pluck me up
70 and sweep me away along those murky paths and
fling me down where the Ocean River running
round the world rolls back upon itself!
Quick
73 as the whirlwinds swept away Pandareus’ daughters —
years ago, when the gods destroyed their parents,
leaving the young girls orphans in their house.
But radiant Aphrodite nursed them well
on cheese and luscious honey and heady wine,
and Hera gave them beauty and sound good sense,
more than all other women —virgin Artemis made them tall
80 and Athena honed their skills to fashion lovely work.
But then, when Aphrodite approached Olympus’ peaks
to ask for the girls their crowning day as brides
from Zeus who loves the lightning —Zeus who knows all,
all that’s fated, all not fated, for mortal man —
then the storm spirits snatched them away
and passed them on to the hateful Furies,
yes, for all their loving care.
Just so
may the gods who rule Olympus blot me out!
Artemis with your glossy braids, come shoot me dead —
90 so I can plunge beneath this loathsome earth
with the image of Odysseus vivid in my mind.
92 Never let me warm the heart of a weaker man!
Even grief is bearable, true, when someone weeps
through the days, sobbing, heart convulsed with pain
yet embraced by sleep all night —sweet oblivion, sleep
dissolving all, the good and the bad, once it seals our eyes —
but even my dreams torment me, sent by wicked spirits.
Again —just this night —someone lay beside me . . .
like Odysseus to the life, when he embarked
100 with his men-at-arms. My heart raced with joy.
No dream, I thought, the waking truth at last!”
At those words
Dawn rose on her golden throne in a sudden gleam of light.
And great Odysseus caught the sound of his wife’s cry
and began to daydream —deep in his heart it seemed
she stood beside him, knew him, now, at last . . .
Gathering up the fleece and blankets where he’d slept,
he laid them on a chair in the hall, he took the oxhide out
and spread it down, lifted his hands and prayed to Zeus:
“Father Zeus, if you really willed it so —to bring me
110 home over land and sea-lanes, home to native ground
after all the pain you brought me —show me a sign,
a good omen voiced by someone awake indoors,
another sign, outside, from Zeus himself!”
And Zeus in all his wisdom heard that prayer.
He thundered at once, out of his clear blue heavens
high above the clouds, and Odysseus’ spirit lifted.
Then from within the halls a woman grinding grain
let fly a lucky word. Close at hand she was,
where the good commander set the handmills once
120 and now twelve women in all performed their tasks,
grinding the wheat and barley, marrow of men’s bones.
The rest were abed by now —they’d milled their stint —
this one alone, the frailest of all, kept working on.
Stopping her mill, she spoke an omen for her master:
“Zeus, Father! King of gods and men, now there
was a crack of thunder out of the starry sky —
and not a cloud in sight!
Sure it’s a sign you’re showing someone now.
So, poor as I am, grant me my prayer as well:
130 let this day be the last, the last these suitors
bolt their groaning feasts in King Odysseus’ house!
These brutes who break my knees —heart-wrenching labor,
grinding their grain —now let them eat their last!”
A lucky omen, linked with Zeus’s thunder.
Odysseus’ heart leapt up, the man convinced
he’d grind the scoundrels’ lives out in revenge.
By now
the other maids were gathering in Odysseus’ royal palace,
raking up on the hearth the fire still going strong.
Telemachus climbed from bed and dressed at once,
140 brisk as a young god —
over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword,
he fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet,
he seized his tough spear tipped with a bronze point
and took his stand at the threshold, calling Eurycleia:
145 “Dear nurse, how did you treat the stranger in our house?
With bed and board? Or leave him to lie untended?
That would be mother’s way —sensible as she is —
all impulse, doting over some worthless stranger,
turning a good man out to face the worst.”
150 “Please, child,” his calm old nurse replied,
“don’t blame her —your mother’s blameless this time.
He sat and drank his wine till he’d had his fill.
Food? He’d lost his hunger. But she asked him.
And when it was time to think of turning in,
she told the maids to spread a decent bed, but he —
so down-and-out, poor soul, so dogged by fate —
said no to snuggling into a bed, between covers.
No sir, the man lay down in the entrance-hall,
on the raw hide of an ox and sheep’s fleece,
and we threw a blanket over him, so we did.”
160 Hearing that,
Telemachus strode out through the palace, spear in hand,
and a pair of sleek hounds went trotting at his heels.
He made for the meeting grounds to join the island lords
while Eurycleia the daughter of Ops, Pisenor’s son,
that best of women, gave the maids their orders:
“Quick now, look alive, sweep out the house,
wet down the floors!
You, those purple coverlets,
fling them over the fancy chairs!
All those tables,
sponge them down —scour the winebowls, burnished cups!
170 The rest —now off you go to the spring and fetch some water,
fast as your legs can run!
Our young gallants won’t be long from the palace,
they’ll be bright and early —today’s a public feast.”
They hung on her words and ran to do her bidding.
Full twenty scurried off to the spring’s dark water,
others bent to the housework, all good hands.
Then in they trooped, the strutting serving-men,
who split the firewood cleanly now as the women
bustled in from the spring, the swineherd at their heels,
180 driving three fat porkers, the best of all his herds.
And leaving them to root in the broad courtyard,
up he went to Odysseus, hailed him warmly:
“Friend, do the suitors show you more respect
or treat you like the dregs of the earth as always?”
“Good Eumaeus,” the crafty man replied,
“if only the gods would pay back their outrage!
Wild and reckless young cubs, conniving here
in another’s house. They’ve got no sense of shame.”
And now as the two confided in each other,
190 the goatherd Melanthius sauntered toward them,
herding his goats with a pair of drovers’ help,
the pick of his flocks to make the suitors’ meal.
Under the echoing porch he tethered these, then turned
on Odysseus once again with cutting insults: “Still alive?
Still hounding your betters, begging round the house?
Why don’t you cart yourself away? Get out!
We’ll never part, I swear,
till we taste each other’s fists. Riffraff,
you and your begging make us sick! Get out —
200 we’re hardly the only banquet on the island.”
No reply. The wily one just shook his head,
silent, his mind churning with thoughts of bloody work . . .
203 Third to arrive was Philoetius, that good cowherd,
prodding in for the crowd a heifer and fat goats.
Boatmen had brought them over from the mainland,
crews who ferry across all travelers too,
whoever comes for passage.
Under the echoing porch he tethered all heads well
and then approached the swineherd, full of questions:
210 “Who’s this stranger, Eumaeus, just come to the house?
What roots does the man claim —who are his people?
Where are his blood kin? his father’s fields?
Poor beggar. But what a build —a royal king’s!
Ah, once the gods weave trouble into our lives
they drive us across the earth, they drown us all in pain,
even kings of the realm.”
And with that thought
he walked up to Odysseus, gave him his right hand
and winged a greeting: “Cheers, old friend, old father,
here’s to your luck, great days from this day on —
220 saddled now as you are with so much trouble.
Father Zeus, no god’s more deadly than you!
No mercy for men, you give them life yourself
then plunge them into misery, brutal hardship.
I broke into sweat, my friend, when I first saw you —
see, my eyes still brim with tears, remembering him,
Odysseus . . . He must wear such rags, I know it,
knocking about, drifting through the world
if he’s still alive and sees the light of day.
If he’s dead already, lost in the House of Death,
230 my heart aches for Odysseus, my great lord and master.
231 He set me in charge of his herds, in Cephallenian country,
when I was just a youngster. How they’ve grown by now,
past counting! No mortal on earth could breed
a finer stock of oxen —broad in the brow,
they thrive like ears of corn. But just look,
these interlopers tell me to drive them in
for their own private feasts. Not a thought
for the young prince in the house, they never flinch —
no regard for the gods’ wrath —in their mad rush
240 to carve up his goods, my master gone so long!
I’m tossed from horn to horn in my own mind . . .
What a traitor I’d be, with the prince still alive,
if I’d run off to some other country, herds and all,
to a new set of strangers. Ah, but isn’t it worse
to hold out here, tending the herds for upstarts,
not their owners —suffering all the pains of hell?
I could have fled, ages ago, to some great king
who’d give me shelter. It’s unbearable here.
True, but I still dream of my old master,
250 unlucky man —if only he’d drop in from the blue
and drive these suitors all in a rout throughout the halls!”
“Cowherd,” the cool tactician Odysseus answered,
“you’re no coward, and nobody’s fool, I’d say.
Even I can see there’s sense in that old head.
So I tell you this on my solemn, binding oath:
I swear by Zeus, the first of all the gods —
by the table of hospitality waiting for us,
by Odysseus’ hearth where I have come for help,
Odysseus will come home while you’re still here.
260 You’ll see with your own eyes, if you have the heart,
these suitors who lord it here cut down in blood.”
“Stranger, if only,” the cowherd cried aloud,
“if only Zeus would make that oath come true —
you’d see my power, my fighting arms in action!”
Eumaeus echoed his prayer to all the gods
that their wise king would soon come home again.
Now as they spoke and urged each other on,
and once more the suitors were plotting certain doom
269 for the young prince —suddenly, banking high on the left
270 an omen flew past, an eagle clutching a trembling dove.
And Amphinomus rose in haste to warn them all,
“My friends, we’ll never carry off this plot
to kill the prince. Let’s concentrate on feasting.”
His timely invitation pleased them all.
The suitors ambled into Odysseus’ royal house
and 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.
They roasted all the innards, served them round
280 and filled the bowls with wine and mixed it well.
Eumaeus passed out cups; Philoetius, trusty herdsman,
brought on loaves of bread in ample wicker trays;
Melanthius poured the wine. The whole company
reached out for the good things that lay at hand.
Telemachus, maneuvering shrewdly, sat his father down
on the stone threshold, just inside the timbered hall,
and set a rickety stool and cramped table there.
He gave him a share of innards, poured his wine
in a golden cup and added a bracing invitation:
290 “Now sit right there. Drink your wine with the crowd.
I’ll defend you from all their taunts and blows,
these young bucks. This is no public place,
this is Odysseus’ house —
my father won it for me, so it’s mine.
You suitors, control yourselves. No insults now,
no brawling, no, or it’s war between us all.”
So he declared. And they all bit their lips,
amazed the prince could speak with so much daring.
Only Eupithes’ son Antinous ventured,
300 “Fighting words, but do let’s knuckle under —
to our prince. Such abuse, such naked threats!
But clearly Zeus has foiled us. Or long before
we would have shut his mouth for him in the halls,
fluent and flowing as he is.”
So he mocked.
Telemachus paid no heed.
And now through the streets
the heralds passed, leading the beasts marked out
307 for sacrifice on Apollo’s grand festal day,
and the islanders with their long hair were filing
into the god’s shady grove —the distant deadly Archer.
310 Those in the palace, once they’d roasted the prime cuts,
pulled them off the spits and, sharing out the portions,
fell to the royal feast . . .
The men who served them gave Odysseus his share,
as fair as the helping they received themselves.
So Telemachus ordered, the king’s own son.
But Athena had no mind to let the brazen suitors
hold back now from their heart-rending insults —
she meant to make the anguish cut still deeper
into the core of Laertes’ son Odysseus.
320 There was one among them, a lawless boor —
321 Ctesippus was his name, he made his home in Same,
a fellow so impressed with his own astounding wealth
he courted the wife of Odysseus, gone for years.
Now the man harangued his swaggering comrades:
“Listen to me, my fine friends, here’s what I say!
From the start our guest has had his fair share —
it’s only right, you know.
How impolite it would be, how wrong to scant
whatever guest Telemachus welcomes to his house.
330 Look here, I’ll give him a proper guest-gift too,
a prize he can hand the crone who bathes his feet
or a tip for another slave who haunts the halls
of our great king Odysseus!”
On that note,
grabbing an oxhoof out of a basket where it lay,
with a brawny hand he flung it straight at the king —
but Odysseus ducked his head a little, dodging the blow,
and seething just as the oxhoof hit the solid wall
he clenched his teeth in a wry sardonic grin.
Telemachus dressed Ctesippus down at once:
340 “Ctesippus, you can thank your lucky stars
you missed our guest —he ducked your blow, by god!
Else I would have planted my sharp spear in your bowels —
your father would have been busy with your funeral,
not your wedding here. Enough.
Don’t let me see more offenses in my house,
not from anyone! I’m alive to it all, now,
the good and the bad —the boy you knew is gone.
But I still must bear with this, this lovely sight . . .
sheepflocks butchered, wine swilled, food squandered —
350 how can a man fight off so many single-handed?
But no more of your crimes against me, please!
Unless you’re bent on cutting me down, now,
and I’d rather die, yes, better that by far
than have to look on at your outrage day by day:
guests treated to blows, men dragging the serving-women
through our noble house, exploiting them all, no shame!”
Dead quiet. The suitors all fell silent, hushed.
358 At last Damastor’s son Agelaus rose and said,
“Fair enough, my friends; when a man speaks well
360 we have no grounds for wrangling, no cause for abuse.
Hands off this stranger! Or any other servant
in King Odysseus’ palace. But now a word
of friendly advice for Telemachus and his mother —
here’s hoping it proves congenial to them both.
So long as your hearts still kept a spark alive
that Odysseus would return —that great, deep man —
who could blame you, playing the waiting game at home
and holding off the suitors? The better course, it’s true.
What if Odysseus had returned, had made it home at last?
370 But now it’s clear as day —the man will come no more.
So go, Telemachus, sit with your mother, coax her
to wed the best man here, the one who offers most,
so you can have and hold your father’s estate,
eating and drinking here, your mind at peace
while mother plays the wife in another’s house.”
The young prince, keeping his poise, replied,
“I swear by Zeus, Agelaus, by all my father suffered —
dead, no doubt, or wandering far from Ithaca these days —
I don’t delay my mother’s marriage, not a moment,
380 I press her to wed the man who takes her heart.
I’ll shower her myself with boundless gifts.
But I shrink from driving mother from our house,
issuing harsh commands against her will.
God forbid it ever comes to that!”
So he vowed
and Athena set off uncontrollable laughter in the suitors,
crazed them out of their minds —mad, hysterical laughter
seemed to break from the jaws of strangers, not their own,
and the meat they were eating oozed red with blood —
tears flooded their eyes, hearts possessed by grief.
390 The inspired seer Theoclymenus wailed out in their midst,
“Poor men, what terror is this that overwhelms you so?
Night shrouds your heads, your faces, down to your knees —
cries of mourning are bursting into fire —cheeks rivering tears —
the walls and the handsome crossbeams dripping dank with blood!
395 Ghosts, look, thronging the entrance, thronging the court,
go trooping down to the world of death and darkness!
The sun is blotted out of the sky —look there —
a lethal mist spreads all across the earth!”
At that
they all broke into peals of laughter aimed at the seer —
400 Polybus’ son Eurymachus braying first and foremost,
“Our guest just in from abroad, the man is raving!
Quick, my boys, hustle him out of the house,
into the meeting grounds, the light of day —
everything here he thinks is dark as night!”
“Eurymachus,” the inspired prophet countered,
“when I want your escort, I’ll ask for it myself.
I have eyes and ears, and both my feet, still,
and a head that’s fairly sound,
nothing to be ashamed of. These will do
to take me past those doors . . .
410 Oh I can see it now —
the disaster closing on you all! There’s no escaping it,
no way out —not for a single one of you suitors,
wild reckless fools, plotting outrage here,
the halls of Odysseus, great and strong as a god!”
With that he marched out of the sturdy house
and went home to Piraeus, the host who warmed him in.
Now all the suitors, trading their snide glances, started
heckling Telemachus, made a mockery of his guests.
One or another brash young gallant scoffed,
420 “Telemachus, no one’s more unlucky with his guests!”
“Look what your man dragged in —this mangy tramp
scraping for bread and wine!”
“Not fit for good hard work,
the bag of bones —”
“A useless dead weight on the land!”
“And then this charlatan up and apes the prophet.”
“Take it from me —you’ll be better off by far —
toss your friends in a slave-ship —”
“Pack them off
427 to Sicily, fast —they’ll fetch you one sweet price!”
So they jeered, but the prince paid no attention . . .
silent, eyes riveted on his father, always waiting
430 the moment he’d lay hands on that outrageous mob.
And all the while Icarius’ daughter, wise Penelope,
had placed her carved chair within earshot, at the door,
so she could catch each word they uttered in the hall.
Laughing rowdily, men prepared their noonday meal,
succulent, rich —they’d butchered quite a herd.
But as for supper, what could be less enticing
than what a goddess and a powerful man
would spread before them soon? A groaning feast —
for they’d been first to plot their vicious crimes.