Chapter 3
Leaving the waters of the splendid East, the Sun leapt up into the firmament to bring light to the immortals and to men who plough the earth and perish. The travellers now came to Pylos, the stately citadel of Neleus, where they found the people on the sea-beach sacrificing jet-black bulls to Poseidon, Lord of the Earthquake, god of the sable locks. There were nine companies in session, with five hundred men in each; and every company had nine bulls to offer. They had just tasted the victims’ entrails and were burning the pieces from the thighs in the god’s honour, as the trim ship came bearing down upon them. The crew brailed up the sail, moored their vessel and disembarked. Athene followed; Telemachus was the last to leave the ship.
The goddess with the flashing eyes turned to him now and said: “Telemachus, you must forget your diffidence: there is no occasion for it here at all. Why have you crossed the seas, if not to find out where your father’s bones lie buried and how he met his end? Go straight up, then, to Nestor, the tamer of horses; for we are here to wring his secrets from him. But you yourself must approach him if you want the truth from his lips. Not that I think you will get anything else from so wise a man as he.”
But Telemachus was wary. “Mentor,” he asked, “how am I to go up to the great man? How shall I greet him? Remember that I have had no practice in making speeches; and a young man may well hesitate to cross-examine one so much his senior.”
“Telemachus,” replied Athene, “where your native wit fails, heaven will inspire you. It is not for nothing that the gods have watched your progress ever since your birth.”
With this, Pallas Athene led off at a quick pace and Telemachus followed in the steps of the goddess till they reached the spot where the people of Pylos were assembled in session. There sat Nestor with his sons, while their followers around them were piercing meat with skewers or roasting it in preparation for the banquet. But as soon as they caught sight of the strangers they all made a move in their direction, waving their hands in welcome, and beckoning the newcomers to join them. Nestor’s son, Peisistratus, who was the first to reach them, took them both by the hand and gave them places at the banquet on downy fleeces spread over the sandy beach, near his brother Thrasymedes and his father. Then he helped them to the victims’ inner parts, filled a gold cup with wine and proffered it with these words to Pallas Athene, Daughter of Zeus who wears the aegis:
“This feast that you find us holding is in the Lord Poseidon’s honour. Pray to the god, my friend; and when you have made your drink-offering and your prayer, as our rites dictate, pass on the cup of mellow wine to your companion here, so that he may do the same. For he too must be a worshipper of the immortal gods, whom no man can neglect. And it is only because he is the younger, in fact a man of my own age, that I hand this golden beaker to you first.” And he placed the cup of sweet wine in Athene’s hands.
The goddess was delighted at the tact and nicety which the young man had shown in giving her the golden beaker first, and at once began an earnest prayer to the Lord Poseidon:
“Hear me, Poseidon, Girdler of Earth, and do not begrudge us, your suppliants, the fulfilment of our wishes. First of all, vouchsafe success to Nestor and his sons. Consider next these others, and make a gracious return to all in Pylos for their sumptuous offerings. Grant, lastly, that Telemachus and I may successfully accomplish the task that brings us here in our black ship and afterwards get safely home.”
So the goddess prayed, and as each petition left her lips she herself made its fulfilment sure. Then she passed the fine two-handled beaker to Telemachus, and Odysseus’ son repeated her prayers. The outer flesh from the victims was now roasted and drawn off the spits, portions were carved for all, and they fell to on their splendid feast. When they had satisfied their appetite and thirst, Nestor, the old charioteer of Gerenian fame, made himself heard:
“Now that our visitors have regaled themselves, it will be no breach of manners to put some questions to them and inquire who they may be.” And turning to his guests, “Who are you, sirs? From what port have you sailed over the highways of the sea? Is yours a trading venture; or are you cruising the main on chance, like roving pirates, who risk their lives to ruin other people?”
Telemachus, inspired by Athene, who was anxious for him to catechize the old king about his father’s disappearance, now plucked up the courage to make him a spirited reply:
“Nestor son of Neleus, I salute you whom the Achaeans love to honour. You ask where we hail from. I will tell you. We are from Ithaca, which lies at Neion’s foot, and have come on private, not on public, business, as you will understand when I tell you that I am searching through the length and breadth of the land for any news that I can pick up of my royal father, the gallant Odysseus, who is said years ago to have fought by your side at the sack of Troy. We can account for all the others who took part in the war. We know where each man fell, and a sorry tale it is. But Zeus has wrapped Odysseus’ fate up to his very death in utter mystery; and no one can tell us for certain when he died, whether he was the victim of some hostile tribe on land, or whether he was lost at sea in Amphitrite’s waves. So I have come here to plead with you in the hope that you will tell me the truth about my father’s unhappy end, if by any chance you witnessed it yourself or heard the story from some wanderer like him. For if ever a man was born for misery, it was he. Do not soften your account out of pity or concern for my feelings, but faithfully describe the scene that met your eyes. I beseech you, if ever my good father Odysseus in the hard years of war you had at Troy gave you his word to speak or act on your behalf, and made it good, remember what he did and tell me all you know.”
“Ah, my friend,” exclaimed Nestor, the Gerenian charioteer, “what memories the name of Troy brings back! The miseries we fierce Achaeans put up with there – raid after raid across the misty seas in search of plunder at Achilles’ beck and call, fight after fight around the very walls of royal Priam’s town! And there our best men fell. There warlike Aias lies. There lies Achilles. There Patroclus, wise as the gods in counsel. There too, Antilochus, my own dear son, as good as he was brave, the fastest runner of them all, and what a fighter too! Nor is that the full count of what the Achaean chivalry endured at Troy. There is no man on earth who could unfold to you the whole disastrous tale, not though you sat and questioned him for half a dozen years, by which time your patience would be gone, and you yourself be home.
“For nine long years we toiled to bring them down by every stratagem we could devise – even when the final victory came, Zeus seemed to grudge it to us. And all the time there was not a man that dared to match his wits against the admirable Odysseus, who in every kind of strategy proved himself supreme. I am speaking of your father, if you really are that great man’s son. Indeed, I cannot help looking at you in amazement: you talk exactly as he did, and I should have sworn no youngster could so resemble him in speech. However, in all those years, whether at the general assembly or in the council of the kings, not once did Odysseus and I find ourselves speaking on opposite sides. We seemed to share a single mind, so well did we agree on the policy which in our good sense and ripe judgment we laid down for the successful conduct of the Argives’ affairs.
“But not all of the Argives showed as much wisdom or honesty, and so, when we had brought Priam’s city down in ruins and sailed away and had our fleet scattered by heaven’s hand, Zeus planned disaster for them on the homeward run. As a result, many of them came to grief through the fatal anger of the bright-eyed Daughter of that mighty Sire. She began by making the two sons of Atreus quarrel. Acting on the spur of the moment and with no regard for form, they summoned the whole Achaean army to assemble at sunset, so that the troops rolled up sodden with wine; and then they delivered the harangues for which they had called them together. Menelaus put it to them all that their first concern should be to get to their distant homes across the seas. But this was not at all to Agamemnon’s liking. He was for keeping them there and making ceremonial offerings to Athene, in the hope of appeasing her terrible wrath, not realizing in his folly how implacable she would prove; for it is not so easy to divert the immortal gods from their purpose. Well, the pair of them stood there bandying hard words, till their armed audience, themselves divided in opinion, broke up the assembly in indescribable uproar. That night our rest was spoilt by vindictive feelings against our comrades-in-arms; for Zeus was making ready to strike us the fatal blow. In the morning half of us ran our ships down into the tranquil sea, and stowed in them our spoils and the captive women with their girdles round their hips. Then, though the rest still held aloof and stayed where they were with Agamemnon the commander-in-chief, our party embarked and set out.
“Our ships went well, for luckily no swell was running and the sea was smooth. We soon made Tenedos, and there, all agog to be home, we sacrificed to the gods. But Zeus had no intention of letting us get home so soon, and for his own cruel purposes he set us all at loggerheads once more. As a result, one squadron swung the curved prows of their vessels round and turned back in their tracks. It was the followers of Odysseus, that wise and subtle king, who thus saw fit to renew their allegiance to Agamemnon son of Atreus. But I, well aware of the god’s sinister designs, fled on with the massed ships that formed my company. Warlike Diomedes did the same, bringing his party with him, and late in our wake red-haired Menelaus followed too. He caught us up in Lesbos, where we were hesitating whether to choose the long passage outside the rugged coast of Chios and by way of Psyria, keeping that island on our left, or to sail inside Chios past the windy heights of Mimas. In this dilemma we prayed for a sign, and heaven made it clear that we should cut straight across the open sea to Euboea1 to get out of harm’s way as quickly as possible. A whistling wind blew up, and our ships made splendid running down the highways of the fish, reaching Geraestus in the night. And many a bull’s thigh we laid on Poseidon’s altar after spanning that weary stretch of water.
“It was on the fourth day that the company of Diomedes the tamer of horses brought their fine craft to anchor in Argos. But I held on for Pylos, and the breeze never dropped from the moment when by god’s will it had begun to blow. Consequently, my dear lad, I got back without any news of the men we had left behind, and have no idea who escaped or who was lost. But all the news that has come to me as I sit here at home you shall have, as is only right, and I’ll keep nothing back. In the first place, they tell me that the Myrmidon2 spearmen reached home in safety under the great Achilles’ noble son; and that Poeas’ son, the brilliant Philoctetes, fared equally well. Again, Idomeneus brought all his men to Crete, all, that is, who had survived the war. The sea got none from him. As for Agamemnon, I know your home is far from his, yet even you must have heard how he had no sooner got back than he fell a wretched victim to Aegisthus’ plot. And a grim reckoning there was for Aegisthus! Which shows what a good thing it is, when a man dies, for a son to survive him, as Orestes survived to pay the murderer out and kill that snake in the grass, Aegisthus, who had killed his noble father. You, my friend – and what a tall and splendid fellow you have grown! – must be as brave as Orestes. Then future generations will sing your praises.”
The wise young Telemachus replied: “King Nestor, whom the Achaeans delight to honour, that was revenge indeed! Orestes’ fame will travel through Achaean lands and live for generations still to come. Ah, if the gods would only give me strength like his, to cope with the insufferable insolence of my mother’s suitors and settle accounts with those ruffians for their blackguardly tricks! But Fate has no such happiness in store for me, nor for my father either. I have to grin and bear things as they are.”
“My friend,” said Gerenian Nestor, “now that your own remarks have put me in mind of it, I admit I have been told that a whole crowd of young gallants are courting your mother and running riot in your house as uninvited guests. Tell me, do you take this lying down, or have the people of Ithaca been listening to some heaven-fed rumour that has turned their hearts against you? Who knows whether some day Odysseus may not come back, alone perhaps, or with his following intact, and pay these Suitors out for all their violence? I only wish that bright-eyed Athene could bring herself to show on your behalf some of the loving care she devoted to your illustrious father in the course of those hard campaigns of ours at Troy. For never in my life have I seen the gods display such open affection as Pallas Athene showed in her championship of Odysseus. Ah, if only she would love and care for you like that, some of those gentlemen would soon have all thoughts of courtship knocked out of their heads for ever.”
“Sire,” said the wise Telemachus, “I see no hope whatever of your forecast proving true. You have conjured up too marvellous a vision: I cannot bear to think of it. And I, for one, dare not expect such happiness, even if it proves to be god’s will.”
But Athene rounded on the young man. “Telemachus,” she exclaimed, “what a thing to say! However far a man may have strayed, a friendly god could bring him safely home, and that with ease. And for myself I would rather live through untold hardships to get home in the end and see that happy day, than come back and die at my own hearth, as Agamemnon died by the treachery of Aegisthus and his wife. But there again, it is our common lot to die, and the gods themselves cannot rescue even one they love, when Death that stretches all men out lays its dreaded hand upon him.”
“Mentor,” the wise Telemachus replied, “let us not discuss these painful matters any more. We can no longer count on my father’s return. The gods who never die have already set his feet on the dark path that leads to death. But I should like now to bring up another question and put it to Nestor, whose knowledge of men’s ways and thoughts is unrivalled. For they tell me he has been king through three generations, and when I look at him I seem to gaze on immortality itself.” Here Telemachus turned to his host:
“Will your majesty enlighten me again? How did Imperial Agamemnon meet his end? Where was Menelaus, and by what cunning snare did that false knave Aegisthus contrive to kill a man far braver than himself? Was Menelaus away from Achaean Argos and wandering abroad? Is that why the coward plucked up the courage to strike?”
“My child,” Gerenian Nestor answered, “I shall be glad to tell you the whole tale. You can imagine for yourself what would have happened had Agamemnon’s brother, red-haired Menelaus, come back from Troy and caught Aegisthus in the house alive. No barrow would have honoured his remains! Flung on the plain outside the city walls, he’d have made meat for the dogs and birds of prey, and there’s no woman in Achaea who would have shed a tear for him. His was indeed no petty crime. While we that were beleaguering Troy toiled at heroic tasks, he spent his leisured days, right in the heart of Argos where the horses graze, besieging Agamemnon’s wife with his seductive talk. At first Queen Clytaemnestra turned a deaf ear to his dishonourable schemes. She was a sensible woman, and besides, she had a man with her, a minstrel by profession, to whom Agamemnon when he left for Troy had given strict orders to watch over his queen. But when the fatal day appointed for her conquest came, Aegisthus took this minstrel to a desert isle, left him there as carrion for the birds of prey and carried Clytaemnestra off to his own house, fond lover, willing dame. This doughty deed accomplished, he heaped the holy altars of the gods with sacrificial meat and plastered the temple walls with splendid gifts of gold brocade, thank-offerings for a success beyond his wildest dreams.
“Meanwhile we were sailing in company over the sea from Troy, Menelaus and I, the best of friends. But when we were abreast of the sacred cape of Sunium, where Attica juts out in to the sea, Phoebus Apollo let fly his gentle darts at Menelaus’ helmsman and struck him dead, with the steering-oar of the running ship in his hands. This man Phrontis son of Onetor had been the world’s best steersman in a gale, and Menelaus, though anxious to proceed, was detained at Sunium till he could bury his comrade with the proper rites. But when he too had got away over the wine-dark sea in those great ships of his and had run as far as the steep bluff of Malea, Zeus, who is always on the watch, took it into his head to give them a rough time, and sent them a howling gale with giant waves as massive and as high as mountains. Then and there he split the fleet into two parts, one of which he drove towards Crete and the Cydonian settlements on the River Iardanus. Now where the lands of Gortyn end, out in the misty sea, there is a smooth rock that falls abruptly to the water, and the south-westerly gales drive the great rollers against a headland to the left, in towards Phaestus, with nothing but this puny reef to keep their violence in check. It was here that the one party made their landfall. The crews by a hair’s breadth escaped destruction; their ships were splintered on the rocks by the fury of the seas. Meanwhile Menelaus with the remaining five vessels of his blue-prowed fleet was driven on by wind and wave to Egypt. And so it came about that he was cruising in those distant parts where people talk a foreign tongue, amassing a fortune in goods and gold, while Aegisthus schemed this wickedness at home. After he had killed Agamemnon, the usurper reigned in golden Mycenae and kept the people under his thumb for seven years. But the eighth brought him disaster, in the shape of Orestes; for that brave youth, returning from Athens, killed Aegisthus, his noble father’s murderer, and so the slayer was slain. When Orestes had done the deed, he invited his friends to a funeral banquet for the mother he had loathed and the craven Aegisthus; and on the selfsame day he was joined by the veteran Menelaus bringing in all the treasures that had filled his holds.
“Be warned yourself, my friend! Don’t stray too long from home, nor leave your wealth unguarded with such a set of scoundrels in the place, unless you want them to share it out, to eat up all you have and to make a farce of your expedition. I do urge you, however, to pay Menelaus a visit. For he has only just got back from abroad, and from a region so remote that one might well give up all hope of return once the winds had blown one astray into that wide expanse of sea, which is so vast and perilous that even the birds cannot make their passage in the year. So off you go now to Menelaus with your ship and crew; or, if you prefer the land route, I have a chariot and horses at your disposal and my sons are at your service too, to escort you to lovely Lacedaemon where the red-haired Menelaus lives. And see that you approach him in person if you want the truth from his lips; not that I think you will get anything else from so intelligent a man as Menelaus.”
As Nestor came to an end, the sun went down and darkness fell. It was the bright-eyed goddess Athene who spoke next:
“We thank you, sire, for a tale well told. But come, sirs, cut up the victims’ tongues and mix the wine, so that we can pour out offerings to Poseidon and the other immortals before we think of sleeping. It is time for bed, now that the light has sunk into the western gloom. Nor should one linger at a holy feast, but make an early move.”
It was the Daughter of Zeus who had spoken; her words did not fall on deaf ears. The squires sprinkled their hands with water, while the young attendants filled the mixing-bowls to the brim with drink, and then, after pouring a few drops first in each man’s cup, they served them all with wine. The tongues were thrown into the flames; the company rose and sprinkled libations on them. And when they had made their offerings and drunk their fill, Athene and Prince Telemachus both made a move to get back to the shelter of their ship. But Nestor stopped them, protesting loudly:
“God forbid that you should go to your ship and turn your backs on my house as though it belonged to some threadbare pauper and there weren’t plenty of blankets and rugs in the place for host and guests to sleep between in comfort! Indeed, I have good bedding for all; and I swear that the son of my friend Odysseus shall not lie down to sleep on his ship’s deck so long as I am alive or sons survive me here to entertain all visitors that come to my door.”
“Nobly said, dear father,” replied the goddess of the flashing eyes; “and Telemachus may well accept your invitation, for nothing could be more agreeable. Let him go off with you now and sleep in your palace, while I return to the black ship to reassure the men and tell them each their duties. For I am the only senior in the party; all the rest are young fellows of much the same age as our gallant Telemachus and follow him for love. I propose to sleep there by the black ship’s hull to-night, and in the morning to set out on a visit to those enterprising people, the Cauconians, with whom I have an outstanding claim of some importance to settle. But since my friend here has become your guest, I suggest that you should send him on in a chariot with one of your sons and give him the fastest and strongest horses in your stable.”
As she finished, bright-eyed Athene took the form of a sea-eagle and flew off. They were all confounded at the sight. The old king marvelled as he took it in, and seizing Telemachus’ hand saluted him.
“My friend,” he cried, “no fear that you will ever be a dastard or a knave, when, young as you are, you already have your guardian gods. For of all that live on Olympus, this was no other than the Daughter of Zeus, the august Lady of Triton, who singled out your noble father too for honour among the Argives. My Queen, be gracious to your servant, and vouchsafe good repute to me and to my sons and to my faithful consort. In return you shall have a yearling heifer,* broad in the brow, whom no-one yet has broken in and led beneath the yoke. She shall be sacrificed to you with gold foil on her horns.”
His prayer reached the ears of Pallas Athene; and now the Gerenian charioteer Nestor led the way towards his stately home, followed by his sons and his daughters’ husbands. When they came to the royal palace, they took their places on the settles and chairs, and the old man prepared a bowl of mellow wine for his guests, from a jar that had stood for ten years before the maid undid the cap and broached it. When the old king had mixed a bowl of this vintage, he poured a little out, with earnest prayers to Athene, Daughter of Zeus who wears the aegis.
They made their libations and quenched their thirst, after which the rest went off to their several quarters for the night. But the Gerenian horseman Nestor arranged for King Odysseus’ son Telemachus to sleep at the palace itself, on a wooden bedstead in the echoing portico, with Peisistratus beside him; for that young spearman and captain was the only unmarried son left to him in the home. The king himself retired to rest in his room at the back of the high building, where the queen his wife made bed and bedding ready for him.
When tender Dawn had brushed the sky with her rose-tinted hands, Gerenian Nestor got up from his bed, went out and seated himself on a smooth bench of white marble, which stood, gleaming with polish, in front of his lofty doors. Here Neleus once had sat and proved himself a rival of the gods in wisdom; but he had long since met his doom and gone to Hades’ Halls. So now Gerenian Nestor sat there in his turn, sceptre in hand, a Warden of the Achaean race. His sons all came from their rooms and gathered round him, Echephron and Stratius, Perseus and Aretus, and the noble Thrasymedes. The young lord Peisistratus came last and made the sixth. Prince Telemachus was ushered to a seat at their side; and Nestor the Gerenian charioteer now made his wishes known:
“Bestir yourselves, my dear sons, and help me to pay my devotions to Athene, who of all gods has the first claim upon them, since it was she who made herself manifest to me at our sumptuous banquet. Go, one of you, to the meadows for a heifer, and get her here without delay, telling the man in charge of the herd to drive her up. And one go down to Prince Telemachus’ ship and bring all his crew along but two; while another summons the goldsmith Laerces to the house to gild the heifer’s horns. The rest of you stay with me here, and tell the servants indoors to prepare a feast in the palace and to fetch seats, and wood to go round the altar, and a supply of fresh water.”
They all hurried off to carry out his orders. The heifer was brought in from the meadows; Prince Telemachus’ crew came up from his good ship; and the smith arrived, equipped with the tools of his trade, the anvil, the hammer and the sturdy tongs he used for working gold. Athene too attended to accept the sacrifice. Then Nestor the old charioteer gave out the gold, which the smith worked into foil and laid round the heifer’s horns by way of embellishment to please the goddess’ eye. Next Stratius and Echephron led the heifer forward by the horns, and Aretus came out from the store-room, carrying in his right hand a flowered bowl of lustral water for their use, and in the other a basket with the barley-corns, while the stalwart Thrasymedes, gripping a sharp axe, stood by to cut the victim down, and Perseus held the dish to catch its blood.
The old charioteer Nestor now started the ritual with the lustral water and the scattered grain, and offered up his earnest prayers to Athene as he began the sacrifice by throwing a lock from the victim’s head on the fire.
When they had made their petitions and sprinkled the barley-corns, Nestor’s son Thrasymedes stepped boldly up and struck. The axe cut through the tendons of the heifer’s neck and she collapsed. At this, the women raised their cry, Nestor’s daughters and his sons’ wives and his loyal consort Eurydice, Clymenus’ eldest daughter. But the men lifted the heifer’s head from the trodden earth and held it up while the captain Peisistratus cut its throat. When the dark blood had gushed out and life had left the heifer’s bones, they swiftly dismembered the carcass, cut slices off the thighs in ceremonial fashion, wrapped them in folds of fat and laid raw meat above them. These pieces the venerable king burnt on the faggots, while he sprinkled red wine over the flames, and the young men gathered round with five-pronged forks in their hands. When the thighs were burnt up and they had tasted the inner parts, they carved the rest into small pieces, pierced them with skewers and held the sharp ends of the spits to the fire till all was roasted.
In the meantime, the beautiful Polycaste, King Nestor’s youngest daughter, had given Telemachus his bath. When she had bathed him and rubbed him with olive oil, she gave him a tunic and arranged a fine cloak round his shoulders, so that he stepped out of the bath looking like an immortal god. He then went and sat down by Nestor, the shepherd of the people.
When they had roasted the outer flesh and drawn it off the skewers, they took their seats at table, with men of gentle birth to wait on them and fill their golden cups with wine. After they had satisfied their appetite and thirst, the Gerenian charioteer Nestor announced his wishes:
“Up with you now, my lads! Fetch Telemachus a pair of long-maned horses and harness them to a chariot so that he can be getting on his way.”
They obeyed him promptly and soon had a pair of fast horses harnessed to a car, in which the housekeeper packed bread and wine together with dainties of the kind that royal princes eat. Talemachus took his place in the handsome chariot and Nestor’s son, the captain Peisistratus, got in beside him, took the reins in his hands and flicked the horses with the whip to start them. The willing pair flew off towards the plains, putting the high citadel of Pylos behind them, and all day long they swayed the yoke up and down on their necks.
By sundown, when the roads grew dark, they had reached Pherae, where they drove up to the house of Diocles, son of Ortilochus, whose father was Alpheius. There they put up for the night and received the gifts that hospitality dictates. But tender Dawn had hardly touched the East with red when they were harnessing their horses once again and mounting the gaily-coloured chariot. Out past the sounding portico and through the gates they drove. A flick of the whip to make the horses go, and the pair flew on with a will. In due course they came to the wheat plains and attacked the last stage of their journey; such excellent going had their thoroughbreds made. And now the sun sank once more and darkness swallowed all the tracks.
