Odyssey Bk I Page title

Tell me, Muse, of that man of many resources, who wandered far and wide, after sacking the holy citadel of Troy. Many the men whose cities he saw, whose ways he learned. Many the sorrows he suffered at sea, while trying to bring himself and his friends back alive. Yet despite his wishes he failed to save them, because of their own un-wisdom, foolishly eating the cattle of Helios, the Sun, so the god denied them their return. Tell us of these things, beginning where you will, Goddess, Daughter of Zeus.

Now, all the others, who had escaped destruction, had reached their homes, and were free of sea and war. He alone, longing for wife and home, Calypso, the Nymph, kept in her echoing cavern, desiring him for a husband. Not even when the changing seasons brought the year the gods had chosen for his return to Ithaca was he free from danger, and among friends. Yet all the gods pitied him, except Poseidon, who continued his relentless anger against godlike Odysseus until he reached his own land at last.

Now, though, Poseidon was visiting the distant Ethiopians, the most remote of all, a divided people, some of whom live where Hyperion sets the others where he rises, to accept a hecatomb of sacrificial bulls and rams, and there he sat, enjoying the feast: but the rest of the gods had gathered in the halls of Olympian Zeus. The Father of gods and men was first to address them, for he was thinking of flawless Aegisthus, whom far-famed Orestes, Agamemnon’s son had killed. And, thinking of him, he spoke to the immortals.

‘How surprising that men blame the gods, and say their troubles come from us, though they, through their own un-wisdom, find suffering beyond what is fated. Just as Aegisthus, beyond what was fated, took the wife of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, and murdered him when he returned, though he knew the end would be a complete disaster, since we sent Hermes, keen-eyed slayer of Argus, to warn him not to kill the man, or court his wife, as Orestes would avenge Agamemnon, once he reached manhood and longed for his own land. So Hermes told him, but despite his kind intent he could not move Aegisthus’ heart: and Aegisthus has paid the price now for it all.’

Athene, the bright-eyed goddess, answered him at once: ‘Father of us all, Son of Cronos, Highest King, clearly that man deserved to be destroyed: so let all be destroyed who act as he did. But my heart aches for Odysseus, wise but ill fated, who suffers far from his friends on an island deep in the sea. The island is densely wooded and a goddess lives there, a child of malevolent Atlas, he who knows the depths of the sea, and supports the great columns that separate earth and sky. It is his daughter who detains that unlucky, sorrowful man: she lulls him, always, with soft seductive words, intending him to forget Ithaca. But Odysseus, who yearns for the mere sight of the smoke rising from his own country, only longs to die. Yet, Olympian, your heart is unmoved. Did he win no favour with the sacrifices he made you, by the Argive ships, on the wide plains of Troy? Why do you will this man such pain, Zeus?’

Cloud-Gathering Zeus answered her then: ‘My child, what words escape your lips? How could I ever forget godlike Odysseus, who exceeds all mortals in wisdom, and also in sacrifice to the deathless gods who inhabit the broad heavens? It is Poseidon, the Earth-Bearer, who is always filled with implacable anger against him, because of godlike Polyphemus, the strongest Cyclops of all, whom Odysseus blinded. The nymph Thoosa bore him, daughter of Phorcys who rules the barren sea: she slept with Poseidon in the hollow caves. Since that blinding, Poseidon, the Earth-Shaker, though he will not kill him, keeps Odysseus far from his native land. Come, let all here plan how he might come home: then Poseidon will relent, since he’ll not be able to contend, alone, against all the deathless gods together.’

The goddess, bright-eyed Athene, answered him: ‘Father of us all, Son of Cronos, Highest King, if it truly pleases the blessed gods for wise Odysseus to return home, let us send Hermes, the Messenger, Slayer of Argus, to the isle of Ogygia, so he can tell the Nymph with the lovely tresses of our unalterable decision, that long-suffering Odysseus may come home. Meanwhile I will go to Ithaca, to stir his son, and encourage him to call the long-haired Achaeans together, and speak his mind to the Suitors who slaughter his flocks of sheep, and his shambling cattle with twisted horns. Then I will lead him to Sparta and sandy Pylos to gain news of his loyal father’s return, if he can, and so win praise.’

o saying, she bound to her feet her beautiful sandals of imperishable gold that would carry her over the waves, over the wide lands, as swiftly as the wind. And she took her heavy spear, great and strong, with its tip of sharpened bronze, with which she destroys the ranks of men, and heroes, when that daughter of a mighty father is angered. Then she flew down from the heights of Olympus, and reaching Ithaca stood at Odysseus’ gate, at the threshold of the court. She appeared as a visitor, Mentes, chief of the Taphians, bronze spear in hand. There she found the insolent suitors, sitting in front of the doors, on ox hides from beasts they had slaughtered themselves, playing at counters: their pages and squires were busy mixing water and wine in bowls, others were wiping tables with sponges then laying them, while others were setting out plentiful servings of meat.

Godlike Telemachus, sitting troubled among the suitors, imagining how his noble father might arrive from somewhere, throw the suitors from the palace, win honour and rule his own again, was first to see her. Thinking of it, sitting among the suitors, he saw Athene, and went straight to the doorway, ashamed a stranger should wait so long at the gates. Approaching her, he clasped her right hand, took her spear of bronze, and spoke to her winged words: ‘Welcome, stranger, here you will find hospitality, and after you have eaten you may tell us why you are here.’

At this, he led the way, and Pallas Athene followed. Once inside the high hall, he took the spear and set it in a polished rack by a tall pillar, with other spears that belonged to loyal Odysseus. He led Athene herself to a handsome, richly carved chair, spread a linen cloth over it, and seated her there with a footstool for her feet. He drew up on ornate stool for himself, as well, away from the Suitors, lest the stranger should shun the food, annoyed by the din, finding himself in a crowd of insolent men: and so he might ask news of his absent father. Next a maid brought water in a fine gold jug, and poured it over a silver basin, so they could rinse their hands: then drew up a polished table. The housekeeper silently brought them bread, and various delicacies, drawing liberally on her store. And a carver lifted plates of different meats, and set them down with gold cups beside them, while a steward, constantly walking by, poured the wine.

The insolent Suitors entered and sat in rows on stools and chairs. Squires poured water over their hands, while maids piled bread in baskets beside them, and pages filled bowls with wine: and they reached for the good things spread before them. Then when the Suitors had satisfied hunger and thirst, their thoughts turned elsewhere, to song and dance, since these things crown a feast. A herald placed a fine lyre in the hands of Phemius, whom the Suitors had forced to sing for them: and he struck the chords to begin his pleasant song.

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As soon as rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, Odysseus’ steadfast son rose from his bed and dressed. He slung his sharp sword from his shoulder, bound fine sandals on his gleaming feet, and strode from his room like a god. Immediately he commanded the clear-voiced heralds to call the longhaired Achaeans to assemble. The heralds gave their cry and the Achaeans soon gathered. When the assembly had convened Telemachus walked there, bronze spear in hand, followed by two hunting dogs, and Athene endowed him with such grace that all marvelled at him as he arrived. The elders gave way, and he took his father’s seat.

Noble Aegyptius was the first to speak, a man bent with age, but profoundly wise. He spoke because his dear son, Antiphus, a spearman, had sailed in the hollow ships with godlike Odysseus, to Ilium, famous for its horses. The savage Cyclops killed Antiphus in his echoing cave, and made a meal of him. He had three more sons: Eurynomus had joined the Suitors, while two of them worked their father’s estate. Yet, sad and grieving, he could not forget the other: and on his account he spoke to the assembly:

‘Listen to my words, men of Ithaca. We have not held a council or assembly since the day good Odysseus left in the hollow ships. Who calls us now? Who of the young men or the old has that need? Has he had news of the returning army and, first to hear, can give us a firm report? Or is there some other issue, a public matter, he wants to discuss? A good and blessed man he appears to me. Whatever he wishes, may Zeus grant him some good.’

So he spoke, and Odysseus’ steadfast son was delighted by his auspicious words: eager to speak he rose from his seat. Taking his stand in the middle of the assembly, he received the staff from Peisenor, the wise herald. Then he addressed old Aegyptius:

‘Venerable man, he who called this meeting is here: I did so, since on me above all trouble falls. I have no news of the returning army, nor am first to hear, nor can give a firm report. Nor is it an issue of public concern I want to discuss. The need is personal: twin evils have befallen my house. Firstly I have lost my noble father, who was once your king, kindly as a father. And then, there is a far greater evil that robs me of my estate, and will utterly destroy my house. My mother has attracted Suitors, without wishing to do so, sons of the noblest men here. They shun the house of Icarius her father, where he himself might give her away as he wishes, to whoever meets his favour, and arrange her dowry. Instead they frequent our house day after day, slaughter our oxen, sheep and goats, feast themselves, and drink wildly of our glowing wine: most of our stores are already gone. There is no one like Odysseus here to prevent the ruin of our house. We are not strong enough: we could only prove how weak we are, inexperienced in a fight. Yet I would honestly defend myself if I had the power: since things are done that cannot be endured, and the destruction of my house reveals injustice.

You should be ashamed yourselves, feel shame before our neighbours too, and fear the gods’ anger, lest they turn on you in fury at evil actions. By Olympian Zeus, and by that Themis who joins and dissolves the councils of men, prevent it, my friends, and let me nurse my bitter grief alone, unless you think my father, good Odysseus, was so hostile to the bronze-greaved Achaeans and did them evil, that you, hostile to me, repay it with evil, by encouraging these Suitors. I had rather you yourselves consumed my wealth, my herds. If it were you, there might some day be compensation: we could go up and down the island pressing our claim, asking for our goods till all was repaid. But the sorrows you trouble my heart with are past cure.’

Weeping with anger, he hurled the staff to the ground: and they were seized with compassion. Everyone was silent, and none of them had the desire to answer Telemachus with angry words, until the lone voice of Antinous replied:

Telemachus, great orator and bold spirit, how you put us to shame, pinning the blame on us! Yet it is not the Achaean Suitors who are at fault, but your own mother, cleverest of women. Three years, almost four, she has misled our Achaean hearts. She holds out hope to all, sends messages of promise to every man, but her mind is fixed on other things. She contrived this piece of cunning, too, in her mind: she set up a great web in her hall, and began weaving with long fine thread. She said to us: ‘My lords, my Suitors, though Odysseus is dead and you are eager for me to marry, have patience till I complete this work, I do not want it wasted, this shroud for noble Laertes, ready for when pitiless death’s cruel end overtakes him: since I fear some Achaean woman of this land would blame me, if he who won great wealth lay there without a shroud.’

So she said, and though proud we agreed. Then day after day she wove the great web, but at night, by torchlight, she unmade it. So for three years she cunningly kept the Achaeans from knowing, and so tricked them. But when the fourth year began, as the seasons rolled by, one of her women, knowing all, told us, and we caught her unravelling its fineness. Then she was forced, unwillingly, to complete it.

Here is the Suitors’ answer, for you and the Achaeans to keep clearly in mind: order your mother to marry whomever her father dictates, or whoever pleases her, but send her away. As long as she continues to frustrate the young Achaeans – given her mental powers that Athene granted her above other women, her knowledge in skilful work, sound sense, and intelligence such as we never heard of women of old, Tyro, Alcmene, or Mycene, of the lovely crown, none of them equal to Penelope in clever schemes, though this one was wrongly devised – so long will men consume your goods and livelihood, as long in other words as she keeps to this plan the gods suggest. She is winning great fame for herself, but brings to you regret for your vanishing wealth. And we will not go to our own estates, or anywhere else, until she marries whichever of the Achaeans she chooses.’