Chapter 20
Meanwhile Odysseus prepared himself for sleep in tile portico. He spread an untanned ox-hide on the floor and piled it up with plenty of fleeces, from sheep that the young lords had slaughtered as their habit was; and Eurynome cast a mantle over him when he had settled down. As he lay there brewing trouble for his rivals and unable to sleep, a party of womenfolk, the Suitors’ mistresses, came trooping out of the house with many a laugh and interchange of pleasantries. Odysseus’ gorge rose within him. Yet he was quite uncertain what to do and he debated long. Should he dash after them and put them all to death; or should he let them spend this one last night in the arms of their profligate lovers? The thought made him snarl with repressed fury, like a bitch that snarls and shows fight as she takes her stand above her helpless puppies when a stranger comes by. So did Odysseus growl to himself in sheer revolt at these licentious ways. But in the end he brought his fist down on his heart and called it to order. “Patience, my heart!” he said. “You had a far more loathsome thing than this to put up with when the savage Cyclops devoured those gallant men. And yet you managed to hold out, till cunning got you clear of the cave where you had thought your end had come.”
But though he was able by such self-rebuke to quell all mutiny in his heart and steel it to endure, Odysseus nevertheless could not help tossing to and fro on his bed, just as a paunch stuffed with fat and blood is tossed this way and that in the blaze of the fire by a cook who wants to get it quickly roasted. Twisting and turning thus to one side and the other, he was wondering how single-handed against such odds he should come to grips with his unprincipled rivals, when Athene descended from heaven and approached him in the form of a woman. She leant over his head and spoke to him: “Sleepless again, poor wretch? And why? Is not this house your home? Is not your wife inside it, and your son as well, a lad whom any man might wish his son to match?”
“Goddess,” replied Odysseus with his usual forethought, “all that you say is true. And yet I am in some perplexity. How on earth am I to attack these young profligates? I am alone, whereas they always stick together in a crowd when they are here. And there’s another and still graver matter on my mind. If by Zeus’ grace and yours I bring about their deaths, to what safe refuge can I fly? These are the problems I should like you to consider.”
“How hard you are to please!” exclaimed the bright-eyed goddess. “Most people are content to put their trust in far less powerful allies, mere men and not equipped with wisdom such as mine. But I that have never ceased to watch over you in all your adventures am a goddess. Will this make you understand? If you and I were surrounded by fifty companies of men-at-arms, all thirsting for your blood, you could drive away their cows and sheep beneath their very noses. Come now, give yourself up to sleep. It is mere vexation to lie awake and watch the whole night through; and presently you’ll rise above your troubles.” With which the lady goddess closed his eyes in sleep and withdrew to Olympus.
But sleep had no sooner come to Odysseus, resolving all his cares as it relaxed his limbs, than his faithful wife awoke, and sitting up in her soft bed gave way to tears; then, tired of weeping, she had recourse to prayer. “Great Artemis, Daughter of Zeus,” she prayed, for it was to Artemis that the noble lady’s thoughts had flown, “oh for an arrow from your bow to pierce my heart and take away my spirit in this very hour! Or let the Storm-wind snatch me up and vanish with me down the ways of darkness to drop me where the sea runs into the circling Stream of Ocean – just as the daughters of Pandareus were rapt away by the Demons of the Storm. The gods had robbed them of their parents and left them orphaned in their home; and yet they lived, and flourished on the cheese, the sweet honey, and the mellow wine that Aphrodite brought them, while Here made them beautiful and wise beyond all other women, chaste Artemis increased their stature, and Athene taught them the skilled handicrafts that are a woman’s pride. But there came a day when the Lady Aphrodite, eager to make happy marriages for them all, went up to high Olympus to consult with Zeus the Thunderer, who knows so well what good and evil is allotted to each one of us on earth – and on that very day the Storm-Fiends snatched them up and gave them to the hateful Erinyes to serve their beck and call. Gods of Olympus, blot me out like that; or strike me dead, fair Artemis, so that I may sink into the very bowels of the earth with Odysseus’ image in my heart, rather than serve the pleasures of a lesser man.”
“Ah, it is hard but not beyond endurance, when sick at heart one weeps the whole day long but is possessed by sleep at night, sleep which the moment that it seals one’s eyes drives out all consciousness of good and bad alike. But even the dreams that heaven inflicts on me are evil. This very night again I thought I saw Odysseus by me in the bed, looking exactly as he looked when he sailed away with the fleet; and my heart leapt up, since I took it for no dream but actual fact.”
Close on her prayers came Dawn and filled the East with gold. Odysseus was disturbed by the sounds of Penelope’s distress. He recognized her voice and in a waking dream he seemed to see her beside him with the light of recognition in her eyes. He took the cloak and sheepskins from his bed and put them on a chair indoors, carried the ox-hide out and laid it down, then lifted up his hands in prayer: “O Father Zeus, if it is true that after all your persecution you gods by your grace brought me home over dry land and sea to my own country, let someone in the house, where they are waking now, utter a lucky word for me and let some other sign be given out-of-doors.”
No sooner had he made his prayer than Zeus the Counsellor thundered in answer from his throne above the mists on the dazzling heights of Olympus. Royal Odysseus rejoiced; and close upon this came the precious words he wanted, from a female slave in a building nearby, where the King’s hand-mills stood. Twelve women had to toil away at these mills, grinding the barley and the wheat into meal for the household bread. At the moment they had all ground their share and gone off to sleep, all except one not so vigorous as the rest, who had not yet finished her task. This woman stopped her mill now and uttered the words that meant so much to her master: “Zeus, lord of heaven and earth, what thunder from a starry sky! And never a cloud in sight! You must have meant it for some lucky man. Listen to poor me too, and let my wish come true. Here ’tis. Let this very day see the end of these junketings in the palace. Terrible work this, grinding the meal for the young lords. They’ve broken my back. May this be their last dinner, say I.”
The woman’s ominous words combined with the clap of thunder to make Odysseus a happy man. He felt that revenge on the miscreants was in his hands.
By this time the palace maid-servants had assembled for work and were making up the fire which never quite died down on the hearth. Telemachus put on his clothes and got up from his bed, fresh as a young god. He slung his sharp sword from his shoulder, bound a stout pair of sandals on his comely feet, picked up his great bronze-pointed spear, and made his way to the threshold, where he paused for a word with Eurycleia.
“My dear nurse,” he said, “did you women attend properly to our visitor here, in the matter of food and bedding? Or did you leave him to sleep as best he could? That would be just like my mother, who for all her wisdom is far too ready to make much of a ne’er-do-well and send a better man packing.”
“Come, my child,” said Eurycleia reasonably, “don’t blame her when there is no cause. The man sat and drank as long as he wished; while, as for food, he said he had no appetite for more. Your mother asked him; and when the time came to think of sleep, she told the servants to spread him a proper bed. But like a poor fellow utterly down on his luck, he refused to sleep between blankets on a bed, and lay down instead on an undressed hide and some sheepskins in the portico. The mantle over him was due to us.”
When he had heard this, Telemachus set out from the hall, swinging his spear, and with a couple of dogs trotting beside him made his way to the market-place to join his fellow-countrymen. Meanwhile Eurycleia, as befitted her gentle birth – she was the daughter of Ops, Peisenor’s son – issued her orders to the rest of the staff.
“To work!” she called. “You there, sweep and sprinkle the floors. Look sharp about it, and don’t forget to spread the purple coverings on the chairs. And you, sponge all the tables down, and wash the wine-bowls and the best two-handled cups. And you others, run off to the well and fetch us some water as quick as you can. For we shall soon have the young lords in the place. They’re coming early: to-day’s a public holiday.”
The girls flew to their duties. Twenty went off to draw water from the depths of the well, while the rest got on with the work indoors like well-trained maids. The gentlemen’s men-servants next appeared, and chopped up the fire-wood in a neat and businesslike manner. The womenfolk soon came back from the well, and were joined by the swineherd, who drove up three fatted hogs, the pick of all his beasts. He left the animals to nose around for food in the ample courtyard, and came up to Odysseus, whom he greeted affably: “Well, friend, are you in better odour with the young lords, or do they still turn up their noses at you here?”
“Ah, Eumaeus,” answered Odysseus, “how I hope that the gods may some day pay the villains out for their insolence and intolerable behaviour in another man’s house! They have not a shred of decency among them.”
While the two were chatting together, up came Melanthius the goatherd, driving in the choice goats from his flocks for the Suitors’ table. There were two other herdsmen with him. They tied up the goats under the echoing portico, and Melanthius began baiting Odysseus once more: “What, you still here? Still set on begging from the gentlemen and upsetting the whole house, rather than pack yourself off? I fancy that you and I will have to sample each other’s fists before we say goodbye. For I don’t like your way of begging. And anyhow this house is not the only one where people dine.”
Odysseus was prudent enough to give him back not a single word. He merely shook his head in silence, though his heart seethed with evil thoughts.
A third new arrival was the master-herdsman Philoetius, who was driving in a heifer and some fatted goats for the Suitors. These beasts had been brought over from the mainland by the ferrymen who run a service for any travellers that turn up. Philoetius carefully tethered his animals under the echoing portico, and came up to the swineherd with a question. “Who is this stranger,” he asked, “that has just come to our house? Where does he hail from according to his own account? Who might his people be, and what is his native place? He seems down on his luck, and yet he has the bearing of a royal prince. But the gods spoil a man’s looks, even though he was born in a palace, when they force him to the wretched life of the road.”
With this, he went up to Odysseus, proffered his hand and greeted him with warmth. “A welcome to you, my ancient friend! You are under the weather now; but here’s to your future happiness! Father Zeus, what a cruel god you are! There is none harder. In dealing out misfortunes, misery, and suffering to us men, no sense of mercy holds you back; yet it was you who caused us to be born. Sir, when I looked at you just now, the sweat broke out on me and my eyes were filled with tears. You had brought Odysseus to my mind: for I reckon that he too, in just such rags as you have on, must be a wanderer on the face of the earth, if indeed he is alive and can see the sunshine still. If not, if he has gone below, then here’s a sigh for the good Odysseus, who set me over his cattle in the Cephallenian country when I was only a lad. And now those broad-browed herds of mine have multiplied beyond belief, like the ripening corn. Short of a miracle, one couldn’t hope for more. But as things are, new masters order me to bring these cattle in, just for themselves to eat, caring no more for the prince’s presence in the house than they fear the baleful eye of god. Indeed the king has been away so long that nothing will content them now but to share out his goods. And what a quandary for me! I keep turning it over and over in my mind. With a son of his alive, it seems a poor way out for me to flit elsewhere and take myself and all my herds to foreign parts. Yet it’s harder still to stay here and stick to the miserable job of tending cattle that have passed to other hands. I’d have run away long ago and found some great prince to protect me, since things have come to such a pass that I can’t bear it; but I still have hopes of my unhappy master; I still think he may blow in some day and send these Suitors flying through the palace.”
“Herdsman,” replied the quick-witted Odysseus, “you talk like a man of sense and goodwill. I have come to my own conclusions and believe in your discretion. So here’s a piece of news for you which I vouch for with my solemn oath. I swear by Zeus before all other gods and by the board of hospitality and by the good Odysseus’ hearth which I have reached, that before ever you leave Ithaca Odysseus will be back, and if you wish, you shall see with your own eyes the killing of these gallants who play the part of master here.”
“Sir,” said the cowman in reply to this, “god grant that all you say may happen! You’d soon know my mettle and what I can do with my hands!” And Eumaeus chimed in with a prayer to all the gods that the wise Odysseus might see his home again.”
Meanwhile the Suitors whom they had been discussing were once more canvassing ways and means for Telemachus’ murder, when, lo and behold, a bird of omen appeared on their left, a soaring eagle with a terrified dove in his talons. Amphinomus rose at once, warned his friends that their plot to kill Telemachus was doomed to miscarry, and proposed a move to dinner. His suggestion pleased them well enough and they adjourned to Odysseus’ palace, where they threw down their cloaks on settles or chairs and proceeded to slaughter the big sheep, the fatted goats and porkers and the heifer from the herd as well. They roasted and served the inner parts and mixed themselves wine in the bowls; the swineherd laid a cup for each man; the master-herdsman Philoetius served them with bread in dainty baskets; Melanthius went round with the wine; and they fell to on the good fare spread before them.
Telemachus deliberately chose Odysseus a spot by the stone threshold, just within the great hall, where he paced a shabby stool for him and a small table. He helped him to the entrails, poured him some wine in a golden cup, and told him he could sit there and drink with the gentlemen. “You can rely on me,” he added, “to protect you from any insolence or blows from them. This is not an inn but the palace of Odysseus, which has come into my hands from his. And I ask you, gentlemen, to refrain from all provocation and violence, so that we may have no brawls or wrangling here.”
It amazed them that Telemachus should have the audacity to address them in this style. They all bit their lips, and the Only comment came from Antinous, Eupeithes’ son, who said: “Well, sirs, offensive as it is, I suppose we must put up with this pronouncement from Telemachus, in spite of the menacing tone he has adopted. Our plan, you see, was interfered with by the Powers above. Otherwise, we should have arranged by now that these walls should hear that silvery voice no more.”
Antinous had his say. But Telemachus took not the slightest notice of him.
Meanwhile, in the town, the beasts destined for sacrifice on this holy day were being led by stewards through the streets; and the long-haired Achaean townsfolk were congregating in the shady grove of Apollo the Archer. But the party in the palace, after the outer flesh had been roasted, withdrawn from the spits and carved up, devoted themselves to the pleasures of the table. The serving-men gave Odysseus his fair share, which was as generous a helping as they got themselves. Telemachus, his son and heir, had given them orders to this effect. But Athene had no intention of letting the arrogant Suitors abandon their attitude of galling insolence: she wished the anguish to bite deeper yet into Odysseus’ royal heart.
They had among them a man called Ctesippus, an unruly spirit who had come over from his home in Same, imbued with a simple faith in his fabulous wealth, to woo the wife of the long-absent king. He now insisted on making himself heard by his uproarious boon companions while he delivered himself of a jest. “My lords,” he said, “our guest has already been served with an ample helping, as is only proper, for it would be neither good manners nor common decency to stint any friends of Telemachus who come to the house. But look! I am going to make him a present on my own account, so that he may have something to pass on to the bath attendant or one of the other servants in the royal palace.”
With this, he laid his great hand on a cow’s hoof that was in the dish and hurled it at him. But Odysseus avoided it by simply ducking to one side, and the quiet smile he permitted himself as the missile struck the solid wall was sardonic indeed. Telemachus pounced on Ctesippus at once: “It was well for you, Ctesippus, that you didn’t hit my guest, even if your miss was due to him. For if you had, I’d have run you through with my spear, and your father would have held a funeral here instead of a wedding. Understand, I won’t have this unseemly conduct from anyone in my house. I have learnt to use my brains by now and to know right from wrong; my childhood is a thing of the past. And although I must and do put up with the sight of your orgies, the slaughtered sheep, the wine and bread consumed, since I could hardly stop you all single-handed, I do ask you to refrain from these outrages, which are aimed against myself. But if you have reached the point where nothing short of my murder will content you, well, I should prefer it so and think it a far better thing to die than day after day to look on while disgraceful things like this are done, my guests are bullied, and my maids are hauled about this lovely house for your foul purposes.”
A long and complete silence followed Telemachus’ outburst. It was broken at last by Agelaus, son of Damastor.
“My friends,” he remarked, “when the proper thing has been said, captious objections would be out of place. Let there be no bullying of this stranger or of any of the royal servants. And now I have a suggestion to make to Telemachus and his mother. It is kindly meant and I hope that both will take it in good part. As long, Telemachus, as you and your mother could still cherish the hope that your wise father would one day come home, no-one could blame you for waiting and holding your ground against the Suitors here. It seemed the better course, and would have proved so, had Odysseus really succeeded in finding his way back. But it is obvious by now that he is not destined to do so. I ask you, therefore, to seek your mother out and put the whole case before her. Let her marry the best and most generous man among us; and as a sequel you shall enjoy your inheritance at ease, with plenty to eat and drink, while she looks after her new husband’s house.”
“I swear to you, Agelaus,” the wise youth replied, “I swear by Zeus and by the sufferings of my father, dead far from Ithaca or wandering yet, that I have no wish whatever to postpone my mother’s marriage, that I actually urge her to make her choice and wed again, and that I have promised her a most generous settlement too. But to say the final word that would drive her from the house against her will goes clean against my conscience. God save me from that!”
Pallas Athene had fuddled the Suitors’ wits to such effect that they greeted Telemachus’ reply with peal after peal of helpless merriment. But before long their laughing faces took on a strained and alien look. Blood, so it seemed to them, was spattered on the food they ate. Tears filled their eyes, and maudlin sentiment their hearts.
And now the voice of the noble Theoclymenus was heard. “Unhappy men,” he cried, “what blight is this that has descended on you? Your heads, your faces and your knees are veiled in night. There is a sound of mourning in the air; I see cheeks wet with tears. And look, the panels and the walls are splashed with blood. The porch is filled with ghosts. So are the court – ghosts hurrying down to darkness and to Hell. The sun is blotted out from heaven and a malignant mist has crept upon the world.”
They laughed at him. They laughed delightedly, with one accord; and Polybus’ son, Eurymachus, got up and shouted: “Our new friend’s wits have suffered on his journey from abroad. Quick, you fellows, show him out and direct him to the market-place, since he finds it so dark in here.”
“Eurymachus,” the seer replied, “I want no help from you to find my way. I have eyes and ears and two feet of my own, as well as a pretty sound head on my shoulders – quite enough to get me out of doors, where I am going now. For I see advancing on you all a catastrophe which you cannot hope to survive or shun, no, not a single one of you who spend your time insulting folk and running riot in King Odysseus’ house.” And with that he strode from the palace and sought out Peiraeus, who received him kindly.
But the Suitors, after exchanging a few encouraging glances, began one and all to bait Telemachus by holding up his guests to ridicule.
“Telemachus,” said one young blade, and his sally was typical of the rest, “you really are most unfortunate in your hospitality. Look at this tramp now, whom you have dragged in here to entertain. All he wants is food and drink. He has never heard of a hard day’s work; in fact he is just a burden on the earth. And as if that weren’t enough, up jumps another and must play the seer. You’d much better take my advice and let us clap these friends of yours on board a galley bound for Sicily, where you could make a profit on the deal.”
But this and all their other jibes provoked Telemachus to no rejoinder. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes fixed on his father, always watching for the moment when Odysseus should be ready to attack the graceless crew. As for Penelope, that prudent lady had placed her best chair for herself at a point of vantage from which she was able to hear what was said by everyone in the hall.
It was certainly a rich and savoury dinner that they had managed, for all their merriment, to prepare, since they had slaughtered freely. But as for their supper, nothing less palatable could be imagined than the fare which a goddess and a strong man were soon to spread before them, since the first step in villainy had been theirs.
