Chapter 22
Shedding his rags, the indomitable Odysseus leapt onto the great threshold with his bow and his full quiver, and poured out the winged arrows at his feet.
“That match is played and won!” he shouted to the Suitors. “Now for another target! No man has hit it yet; but with Apollo’s help I’ll try.” And with that he levelled a deadly shaft straight at Antinous.
Antinous had just reached for his golden cup to take a draught of wine, and the rich, two-handled beaker was balanced in his hands. No thought of bloodshed had entered his head. For who could guess, there in that festive company, that one man, however powerful he might be, would bring calamity and death to him against such odds? Yet Odysseus shot his bolt and struck him in the throat. The point passed clean through the soft flesh of his neck. Dropping the cup as he was hit, he lurched over to one side. His life-blood gushed from his nostrils in a turbid jet. His foot lashed out and kicked the table from him; the food was scattered on the ground, and his bread and meat were smeared with gore.
When the Suitors saw the man collapse, there was an angry outcry in the hall. They sprang from their chairs and rushed distraught about the room, searching the solid walls on every side. But not a shield or sturdy spear did they see to lay their hands on. They rounded in fury on Odysseus: “Stranger, men make a dangerous target; you have played your last match. Now you shall surely die. You have killed the greatest nobleman in Ithaca: the vultures of Ithaca shall eat you.”
They laboured each and all under the delusion that he had killed the man by accident. It had not dawned upon the fools that every one of them was marked for slaughter too.
The unconquerable Odysseus looked down on them with a scowl. “You curs!” he cried. “You never thought to see me back from Troy. So you ate me out of house and home; you raped my maids; you wooed my wife on the sly though I was alive – with no more fear of the gods in heaven than of the human vengeance that might come. I tell you, one and all, your doom is sealed.”
Fear drained the colour from their cheeks and each man peered round to find some sanctuary from sudden death. Eurymachus alone was able to reply: “If Odysseus of Ithaca is home and you are the man, then what you say of all the villainous things we have done, here in your house and on your lands, is justified. But the man who was responsible for all lies dead already, Antinous there, the prime mover in these misdeeds, inspired not so much by any wish or need to marry as by a very different aim, in which the powers above have thwarted him. And that was to make himself king of the fair city and land of Ithaca, after setting a trap for your son and putting him to death. But he has got his deserts now and been killed. So spare us, who are your own people. And afterwards we will make amends to you by a public levy for all the food and drink that has been consumed in your house. We will each bring a contribution to the value of twenty oxen, and repay you in bronze and gold, till you relent. Meanwhile, there is every excuse for your anger.”
Odysseus glared at him and said: “Eurymachus, not if you made over your whole estates to me, with all you stand possessed of or could raise elsewhere, would I keep my hands from killing till you gallants had paid for all your crimes. The choice now lies before you, either to face me and fight, or else to run and see if you can save your skins, though I fancy some of you may fail to get away alive.”
When they heard this, their hearts quaked and their knees shook underneath them. But once again Eurymachus spoke up. “My friends,” he said, “there’s no quarter coming from those ruthless hands. He has got the strong bow and the quiver and will shoot from the threshold floor till he has killed us all. Let’s make the best of it and fight! Out with your swords; hold up the tables to keep off his murderous shots, and advance on him in a body. Who knows but we may oust him from the threshold and the door, and sally through the town, where there would quickly be a hue and cry? He’d soon find out that his last bolt was shot!”
As he spoke, he drew his sharp and two-edged sword of bronze, and leapt at Odysseus with a terrible shout. But at the same moment the brave Odysseus let an arrow fly, which struck him by the nipple on his breast with such force that it pierced his liver. The sword dropped from his hand. Lurching across the table, he crumpled up and tumbled with it, hurling the food and wine-cup to the floor. In agony he dashed his forehead on the ground; his feet lashed out and overthrew the chair, and the fog of death descended on his eyes.
Amphinomus was the next to attack the illustrious Odysseus, making straight at him, sword in hand, to force him somehow from the door. But before he could close, Telemachus had smitten him from behind, midway between the shoulders, with a spear-cast that transfixed his breast. He fell with a crash and struck the ground full with his forehead. Telemachus leapt aside, leaving the long spear planted in Amphinomus’ body, for he was much afraid that one of the enemy might dash in and strike him with a sword as he pulled at the long shaft or stooped above the corpse. So he ran off quickly to rejoin Odysseus and whispered anxiously in his ear: “Listen, father, I am going to fetch you a shield now and a couple of spears and a bronze helmet to fit round your temples. I shall equip myself too when I come back, and do the same for the swineherd and the drover. It would improve our chances to have armour on.”
“Run,” said the imperturbable Odysseus, “and bring the arms while I have arrows left for my defence, or they may drive me from the doorway while I stand alone.”
Telemachus took his father’s advice and hurried off to the store-room where they kept their weapons of war. There he picked out four shields, eight spears, and four bronze helmets topped with horsehair plumes, and carrying these made all haste to his father’s side, where he at once proceeded to arm himself. The two servants equipped themselves in the same way and took their stand by Odysseus, their wise, resourceful leader.
As long as he had arrows to fight with, Odysseus kept picking off the Suitors one by one in the hall till the dead lay in piles. But the time came when the arrows failed the archer. So he propped his bow between one of the door-posts of the great hall and the burnished side of the porch, hung a shield of fourfold hide on his shoulder, put a strong helmet on his sturdy head, with the horsehair plume nodding defiantly above, and finally picked up two stout bronze-pointed spears.
Let into the solid masonry of the wall there was a raised postern, guarded by closely-fitting doors. Here a way led, past the threshold of the great hall at its upper level, into an outside alley. Odysseus told the swineherd to stand on guard by this postern, to which there was only one approach. But Agelaus too had a word to say about this. “Friends,” he called to them all, “can’t somebody climb up to the postern and tell the people what is going on? We should have help in trice; and our friend here would soon find he’d shot his last bolt!”
“Impossible, my lord Agelaus,” answered the goatherd Melanthius. “The big door into the courtyard is terribly near, and the mouth of the alley is an awkward place, where one stout fellow could keep us all back single-handed. But let me fetch you armour to put on from the arsenal. For I have an idea that the arms are in the house and that Odysseus and the prince have not hidden them far afield.”
So Melanthius the goatherd went, up by devious ways through the palace to the store-room of Odysseus, where he helped himself to a dozen shields and spears and an equal number of bronze helmets topped with horsehair plumes. He set out with these and had soon handed them over to the Suitors. When Odysseus saw them putting armour on and brandishing great spears in their hands, his knees quaked and his heart failed him. The affair, he felt, was taking a disastrous turn. He swung round to his son and said in dismay:
“Telemachus, I am certain that one of the women, here is responsible for this warlike display against us. Or else it’s Melantheus work.”
“Father,” Telemachus wisely confessed, “the mistake was mine, and no-one else is to blame. I left the strong door of the store-room open, and they kept a sharper lookout than we did. Quick, my good Eumaeus, go and shut the arsenal door. See too whether it’s one of the women who has done the mischief, or Melantheus, Dolius’ brat, as I suspect.”
As they were talking, Melanthius the goatherd set out once more to fetch another fine load of armour from the store-room. But the worthy swineherd spied him. And at once said to Odysseus, who was close at hand: “My royal master, the very scoundrel we suspected is off to the armoury again. What are your orders? If I can overpower him, shall I kill him or shall I bring him to you here to pay for all his misdeeds in your house?”
To which Odysseus replied: “Telemachus and I will keep these lovelorn gentlemen pent up within the four walls of this hall, however hard they fight. You two are to bind Melanthius’ hands and feet behind his back and throw him into the armoury, locking the door when you have done. Tie a rope round his body and hoist him up a pillar to the roof, so that he may hang alive in torment for a while.”
Only too ready to obey, they set out at once for the arsenal. Melanthius was already there but did not see them come, as he was hunting round for arms in a corner of the room. The two men stood by the doorposts on either side and waited, till the goatherd came out across the threshold with a fine helmet in one hand and the other burdened with a large and ancient shield spotted with mildew, which had been borne by the lord Laertes as a young soldier, but had lain by for some time with the seams of its straps rotted. The two men pounced upon him, dragged him in by the hair and threw the unhappy wretch on the floor, where they tied his hands and feet together with biting knots, relentlessly forcing the limbs till they met behind him, as their royal master had ordained. Finally they made a rope fast round his body and hauled him aloft up a pillar till he nearly touched the roof. Then Eumaeus the swineherd mocked at his victim.
“A long, long watch for you, Melanthius, lying all night on the downy bed that you deserve. Nor will the young Dawn catch you napping as she comes up in gold from Ocean’s Stream, about the time when you drive in the goats for the Suitors’ table in the palace.” And there Melanthius was left, racked in the grip of those deadly cords, while the pair resumed their armour, closed the polished door and returned to Odysseus, their wise and inscrutable master.
It was at this point, when the two parties were breathing defiance at each other, the four on the threshold facing the large and formidable body in the hall, that Zeus’ Daughter Athene assumed Mentor’s voice and appearance to visit the scene. Odysseus hailed her with joy. “To the rescue, Mentor!” he cried. “Remember your old friend and the good turns I’ve done you in the past. Why, you and I were boys together!”
“He had a shrewd idea, when he said this, that he was addressing the warrior goddess, whose arrival, meanwhile, had been greeted on the Suitors’ part by a chorus of abuse. Out of this tumult came the menacing voice of Agelaus, son of Damastor. “Mentor,” he cried, “don’t let Odysseus talk you round and make you fight for him against the Suitors. I’ll tell you just how we intend to finish this affair. When we put these men to death – and we mean to kill both father and son – you too shall join them and shall die for what you now propose to do in this house. With your own head you shall pay the price. And when our swords have disposed of you and your friends, we shall throw in all you possess, indoors or out, with Odysseus’ estate. We shan’t let son or daughter of yours live in your house, and your good wife won’t dare to show herself in the streets of Ithaca.”
This outburst served only to exasperate Athene, who rounded on Odysseus and rated him sharply: “Where is your spirit, Odysseus? Where is your prowess gone? You are not the man you were when for nine relentless years you fought the Trojans for the white arms of highborn Helen, killing your man in battle time and time again, and planning the stratagem that captured Priam’s spacious town. You are home now among your own possessions. Why then deplore your lack of courage to confront that crew? Come, my old friend, stand by my side and watch a deed of arms, to learn how Mentor son of Alcimus repays past kindness in the thick of battle.”
In spite of this, Athene did not yet throw all her powers in, to give him victory, but continued to put the strength and courage of both Odysseus and his noble son on trial, while she herself withdrew, taking the shape of a swallow and darting aloft to perch on the smoky main beam of the hall.
An attempt to rally the Suitors was now made by six of their number – Agelaus son of Damastor, Eurynomus, Amphimedon, Demoptolemus, Peisander son of Polyctor, and the able Polybus – who stood out as the bravest among those left alive to fight for their existence, many having already succumbed to the arrows that had hailed on them from the bow. Agelaus took command and called out to the survivors: “Comrades, the invincible Odysseus shows signs of weakening at last! See how Mentor deserted him after his idle boast, and the four of them are left alone in the entrance. Don’t cast your long spears all together, but let us six throw first on the off chance of hitting Odysseus and covering ourselves with glory. The others won’t count, once he has fallen.”
The six took their cue from him and cast with all their might. But Athene made the whole discharge miscarry. One man hit the doorpost of the great hall, one the solid door, while a third landed his six foot of ash and heavy bronze against the wall. The party on the threshold, unscathed by this volley from the Suitors, now heard the indomitable Odysseus give his orders: “Friends, it is my turn now to give the word, and ours to shoot. Cast into the thick of that gang, who are adding to their other crimes by this attempt to butcher us.”
They all took careful aim and four sharp lances left their hands, with the result that Odysseus killed Demoptolemus, and Telemachus, Euryades, while Elatus fell to the swineherd, and Peisander to the man who kept the cows. Four men had bitten the dust together. The Suitors retreated to the far corner of the hall, while Odysseus’ party dashed in and withdrew their weapons from the dead.
Once more the Suitors fiercely hurled their spears; but for the most part in vain – Athene saw to that. One hit the doorpost of the great hall, another the solid door, while a third struck the wall with the massive bronze point of his ashen pole. But Amphimedon did succeed in catching Telemachus on the wrist – a glancing blow, the bronze just grazed the skin. And a long lance from Ctesippus, flying over Eumaeus’ shield, scratched his shoulder before it passed beyond and fell to the ground. Again Odysseus, cool and collected, discharged a volley with his men into the thick of the enemy. This time Eurydamas fell to the Sacker of Cities, Telemachus killed Amphimedon, the swineherd accounted for Polybus, and finally the cowman struck Ctesippus in the breast and exulted over his foe: “You foul-mouthed son of a braggart, ‘I’ll teach you to control your fatuous tongue and not to talk so big, but to leave judgment to the gods, who are far wiser than you. Take that in return for the cow’s hoof you gave King Odysseus when he begged in the hall.” And so the humble drover had his triumph.
Next, Odysseus rushed in and wounded Agelaus with his great spear, while Telemachus struck Euenor’s son Leiocritus right in the flank with a lance, driving the point clean through the man, who fell face down and struck the ground full with his forehead. And now, high in the roof above their heads, Athene raised her deadly aegis. The Suitors were scared out of their senses. They scattered through the hall like a herd of cattle whom the dancing gadfly has attacked and stampeded, in the spring-time when the long days come in. But the others swooped down on them, as vultures from the hills, with curving claws and crooked beak, swoop down upon the smaller birds, who though they shun the upper air and scour the ground find no help there and no escape, for the vultures pounce on them and kill, while people looking on applaud the sport. So did Odysseus’ party chase the Suitors pell-mell through the hall and hack them down. Skulls cracked, the hideous groans of dying men were heard, and the whole floor ran with blood.
Leodes rushed forward, clasped Odysseus’ knees and burst into an anguished appeal: “I throw myself on your mercy, Odysseus. Have some regard and pity for me. I swear to you that never, by word or deed, have I done wrong to a woman in the house. In fact I did my best to hold them all back from such evil courses. But they wouldn’t listen when I told them to keep their hands from mischief, and their own iniquities have brought them to this awful pass. But I was only their priest; I did nothing. And now I am to share their fate! That is all the thanks one gets for the goodness one has shown.”
Odysseus looked at him with disgust. “You say you were their priest,” he answered. “How often, then, you must have prayed in this hall that the happy day of my return might be put off, and that my dear wife might be yours and bear your children. For that, nothing shall save you from the bitterness of death.” And he laid his great hand on a sword dropped on the ground by Agelaus as he died, and with it struck Leodes full in the neck, so that his head met the dust before he ceased to speak.
The minstrel Phemius, Terpius’ son, who served as their unwilling bard, had so far managed to escape destruction. He stood now close to the postern door. His lyre lay silent in his hands, and he was debating in his mind whether to slip out of the hall and seat himself at the great altar in the court, scene of so many burnt-offerings from Laertes and Odysseus to their Household Zeus, or to come forward and plead for mercy at Odysseus’ feet. He weighed the two courses and decided to make a direct appeal for mercy to the King. So he laid the hollow instrument on the ground half-way between the mixing-bowl and the silver-studded chair, and then ran up to Odysseus, flung his arms round his knees and poured out his plea: “I throw myself on your mercy, Odysseus. Respect and pity me. You will repent it later if you kill a minstrel like me, who sing for gods and men. I had no teacher but myself. All kinds of song spring unpremeditated to my lips; and I feel that I could sing for you as I could sing for a god. Think twice, therefore, before you cut my throat. Besides, your own son Telemachus could tell you that I never came to your house of my own free will or for pay to sing at the Suitors’ banquets, but only because brute force and numbers dragged me there.”
Prince Telemachus was near enough to Odysseus to overhear this appeal and quickly called out to his father: “Stop! The man is innocent. Don’t put him to the sword. And Medon the herald, who always looked after me at home when I was a boy, is another we must spare, unless indeed he has already been killed by Philoetius or the swineherd, or met you as you stormed through the hall.”
His words reached the herald’s ears. For Medon, wise in his generation, had wrapped himself up in the fresh hide of an ox and lay cowering under a high chair, where he had retired to escape destruction. He promptly emerged from this refuge and throwing off the hide made a dash for Telemachus, whom he clasped by the knees and implored for mercy: “My dear lad, here I am. Spare me, and speak for me to your father. Don’t let him kill me with that cruel sword, irresistible as he is and maddened by this gang who ate him out of house and home and hadn’t even the sense to treat you with respect.”
Odysseus in his wisdom smiled at the man and said: “Dismiss your fears. My son has saved you from the jaws of death to teach you the lesson, which I hope you’ll take to heart and preach, that virtue is a better policy than vice. Now quit the hall, you and the songful music-maker. Into the court with you out of this carnage, and sit there till I’ve done the work I have to do indoors.”
The two made off at once out of the hall into the open air and seated themselves at the altar of Zeus, peering about on every side and still expecting sudden death. Odysseus also took a good look round his house to see whether any survivors were hiding to escape their fate. But he found the whole company dead. They lay in heaps in the blood and dust, like fish that the fishermen have dragged out of the grey surf in the meshes of their net onto a bend of the beach, to lie in masses on the sand gasping for the salt sea water till the bright sun ends their lives. Thus, like a catch of fish, the Suitors lay there heaped upon each other.
“Telemachus,” said Odysseus to his son, “will you send the nurse Eurycleia to me here? There is something I wish to tell her.”
Telemachus obediently went off, shook the door of the women’s quarters and called out to Eurycleia, the old dame, telling her to come at once as his father wished to speak to her, and reminding her of her position as matron of the women-servants in the palace.
His summons left Eurycleia speechless, but she opened the door of the apartments, came out and hurried along in Telemachus’ wake. She found Odysseus among the corpses of the fallen, spattered with blood and filth, like a lion when he comes from feeding on some farmer’s bullock, with the blood dripping from his breast and jaws on either side, a fearsome spectacle. That was how Odysseus looked, with the gore thick on his legs and arms. But when Eurycleia saw the dead men and that sea of blood her instinct was to raise a yell of triumph at the mighty achievement that confronted her. Odysseus, however, checked her exuberance with a sharp rebuke: “Restrain yourself, old dame, and gloat in silence. I’ll have no jubilation here. It is an impious thing to exult over the slain. These men fell victims to the hand of heaven and their own infamy. They paid respect to no one who came near them – good men and bad were all alike to them. And now their own insensate wickedness has brought them to this awful end. But what of the women-servants in the house? Tell me which have been disloyal to me and which are honest.”
“My child,” his fond old nurse replied, “I’ll tell you exactly. You have fifty women serving in your palace, whom we have trained in household work and to card wool and make the best of slavery. Of these there are twelve all told who have taken to vicious ways and snap their fingers at me and Penelope herself. Telemachus has only just grown up and his mother wouldn’t allow him to order the maids about. But let me go upstairs now to my lady’s apartments and give her the news. As luck would have it she has fallen asleep.”
“Don’t wake her yet,” said the wise Odysseus. “But tell the women who have disgraced themselves to come here.”
The old dame left the hall to inform the women that they must report themselves, while Odysseus called Telemachus and the two herdsmen to his side and gave them his immediate orders: “Start carrying out the dead and make the women help you. Then clean the tables and our best chairs here with sponges soaked in water. When the whole place is tidied up, take the women out of the hall between the round-house and the great wall of the courtyard, and use your long swords on them, till none are left alive to remember their loves and the hours they stole in these young gallants’ arms.”
Wailing bitterly, with the tears streaming down their cheeks, the women all arrived together. Their first task was to remove the bodies of the slain, which they laid under the portico of the walled courtyard, propping them one against the other. Odysseus himself took charge and hounded them on till they had finished their unwilling work.
Next they washed down the tables and the beautiful chairs with sponges and water, after which Telemachus and the two herdsmen scraped the floor of the great hall with spades, while the maids removed the scrapings and got rid of them outside. Finally, when the whole house had been set in order, they took the women out of the building, and herded them between the round-house and the great courtyard wall in a narrow space from which there was no escape. Then Telemachus spoke.
“I swear I will not give a decent death,” he said, “to women who have heaped dishonour on my head and on my mother’s, and slept with members of this gang.”
With that he took a hawser which had seen service on a blue-bowed ship, made one end fast to a high column in the portico, threw the other over the round-house, and pulled it taut at such a level as would keep their feet from touching earth. And then, like doves or long-winged thrushes caught in a net across the thicket where they come to roost, and meeting death where they had only looked for sleep, the women held their heads out in a row, and a noose was cast round each one’s neck to despatch them in the most miserable way. For a little while their feet kicked out, but not for very long.
Next Melanthius was dragged out across the court and through the gate. There with a sharp knife they sliced his nose and ears off; they ripped away his privy parts as raw meat for the dogs, and in their fury they lopped off his hands and feet. Then, after washing their own hands and feet, they went back indoors to Odysseus and the business was finished.
Odysseus turned now to his fond old nurse. “Eurycleia,” he said, “bring me some disinfectant sulphur, and make me a fire so that I can fumigate the house. Also, ask Penelope to come here with her ladies-in-waiting and tell all the maids to come through into the hall.”
“My child,” said the doting old dame, “all that is right and proper. But let me bring you a cloak and tunic to put on, and don’t stand about like that in the house with your broad shoulders wrapped in rags, or people will be shocked.”
But Odysseus knew his own mind. “The first thing I want,” he retorted, “is a fire in this hall.”
Eurycleia did not disobey him. She made him a fire and brought the sulphur, with which Odysseus thoroughly fumigated the hall, the house, and the courtyard outside.
Meanwhile the old lady went off through the royal palace to give the other women the news and tell them to come. They flocked out of their quarters, torch in hand, and welcomed Odysseus by flinging their arms round his neck, showering affectionate kisses on his head and shoulders, and seizing both his hands. As for him, overwhelmed by tender feelings he broke down and sobbed. There was not one he failed to recognize.
