The Great Bow

Chapter 21

Athene, Goddess of the flashing eyes, now prompted that wise lady, Penelope, to confront the Suitors in the palace with the bow and the grey iron axes that were to test their skill and lead to their destruction. She descended the high staircase from her own apartments and with her shapely hand picked up a well-made copper key which had an ivory handle, then made her way with her ladies to a storeroom in a distant corner of the house where the King’s treasure was kept. Here, with his stocks of bronze, of gold, and of wrought iron, lay the incurved bow and quiver full of deadly arrows which had been given to him by his friend Iphitus, of heroic fame, when they met in Lacedaemon. The two came across each other at Ortilochus’ house in Messene. Odysseus had come over to­ recover a public debt, some Messenians having lifted three hundred sheep from Ithaca, shepherds and all, and carried them off in their galleys. This was the business that brought Odysseus so far a field, though a mere lad at the time. His father and the other elders had entrusted him with the mission. Iphitus, for his part, had come in search of a dozen mares he had lost, with the sturdy little mules that they had foaled. In the sequel these horses led to his death in a fatal encounter with Heracles, the lion-hearted Child of Zeus and hero of the mighty Labours. For Heracles killed him in his own house, though he was Iphitus’ host, caring no more in that cruel heart of his for the vengeful eye of god than for the hospitality he had given him – feasted the man first, then killed him, took the mares himself and put them in his own stables.
It was on his quest for these animals that Iphitus met Odysseus and gave him the bow, which in years gone by the great Eurytus, his father, had carried and at his death bequeathed him in his palace. In return, Odysseus gave Iphitus a sharp sword and a stout spear as earnest of a friendship that he hoped to cherish. But before the two could meet as host and guest, the Son of Zeus had killed the heroic Iphitus, the giver of the bow. This bow Odysseus never took on board with him when he sailed to the wars but laid it up at home in memory of a treasured friend, though he did use it on his own estate.
The Queen reached the store-room and mounted the oaken threshold – the work of some carpenter of bygone days, whose adze had smoothed it well and trued it to the line, and whose hands had fixed the doorposts too in their sockets and hung the polished doors upon them. She quickly undid the thong attached to the door-knob, passed the key through the hole, and with a well-aimed thrust shot back the bolt. The key did its work. With a groan like the roar of a bull at grass in a meadow, the doors flew open before her, and she stepped onto the raised boarding of the floor. Here stood the chests where clothing was laid by in scented herbs. But Penelope, rising on tiptoe, fetched the bow down from its peg in the shining case that covered it. And there she sat down with the case on her knees and burst into sobs as she drew out her husband’s bow. But when the abundance of her tears had brought its own relief, she set out for the hall to face the proud lords who were courting her, carrying the bow and the quiver with its deadly load of arrows in her arms, while the women followed with a box full of the iron and bronze implements that their master had employed for games of skill. Then, veiling her cheeks with a fold of her bright head-dress, the noble lady took her stand by a pillar of the massive roof and without further ado issued her challenge to the Suitors:
“Listen, my lords. You have fastened on this house, in the long absence of its master, as the scene of your perpetual feasts, and you could offer no better pretext for your conduct than your wish to win my hand in marriage. That being the prize, come forward now, my gallant lords; for I challenge you to try your skill on the great bow of King Odysseus. And whichever man among you proves the handiest at stringing the bow and shoots an arrow through every one of these twelve axes, with that man I will go, bidding goodbye to this house which welcomed me as a bride, this lovely house so full of all good things, this home that even in my dreams I never shall forget.”
She then turned to the good swineherd Eumaeus and told him to hand over the bow and the iron tools to the Suitors. As he took them from her and set them down, Eumaeus gave way to tears, while from the cowman beyond him there also came a sob when he saw his master’s bow. Antinous fell foul of them at once. “The stupid yokels,” he exclaimed, “who can’t see further than their noses! You miserable pair, what are you standing there for, snivelling and upsetting your mistress, as though the loss of her beloved husband weren’t trouble enough? Sit down and eat your food in silence; or else clear out of here and cry outside. You can leave the bow where it is, to settle this matter between us, as it certainly will. For I don’t think that pretty weapon will prove easy to string! There’s not a man in this whole company as good as Odysseus was. I saw him myself; and I have a good memory, though I was only a child at the time.”
In spite of what he said, Antinous nursed a secret hope that he himself might string the bow and shoot through all the marks, though actually, when it came to shooting, he was to be the first to feel an arrow from the hands of the peerless Odysseus, whom he had just been insulting, and encouraging all his friends to insult, as he sat in the man’s own house.
But the young prince Telemachus had a word to say too. “I’m afraid I must be a born fool!” he laughingly exclaimed. “My dear mother, wise as she is, says she will leave this house to marry again, and here I am, smiling and chuckling to myself like an idiot. Well, gentlemen all, come forward. Here is your prize – a lady whose like you will not find to-day in all Achaea, no, not in sacred Pylos, nor in Argos, nor Mycene, nor in Ithaca itself, nor on the dark mainland. But you know this well enough. What need for me to sing my mother’s praises? So come along! No false excuses or delays! Make up your minds to face the thing, and let us see you string it. Why, I shouldn’t mind trying myself. And if I string the bow and shoot an arrow through the axes, my mother can say goodbye to this house and go off with another man, for all I care, leaving me here, satisfied that at last I am equal to handling my father’s formidable toys.”
As he finished, Telemachus leapt from his seat, thrust the purple cloak off his shoulders and removed his sword. He proceeded to dig a single long trench for all the axes; then he planted them in it, checked their alignment and stamped down the earth around them. The men watching him could not help admiring the neat way in which he set them up though he had never seen it done before. Then he took his stance on the threshold and addressed himself to the bow. Three times he made it quiver in his efforts to bend it, but every time he gave the struggle up, though not the hope that he might still succeed in drawing on the string and shooting through the iron marks. And the fourth time he put such pressure on the bow that he might well have strung it yet, if Odysseus had not put an end to his attempts with a shake of the head.
“Ah well,” the young prince sighed, “I suppose I shall always be a craven and a weakling. Or perhaps I’m too young, not sure enough yet of my own strength to take on anyone who may care to pick a quarrel with me. Well, sirs, it is now up to you, who are stronger men than I, to try the bow and see who comes off best.”
With this he put the bow down on the ground, propping the tip against the polished woodwork of the door with the arrow resting close beside it. Then he resumed his seat. Antinous, in his persuasive way, proposed that they should all take their turn, working from left to right, the way the wine went round. This was agreed, with the result that the first man to get up was Leodes son of Oenops, who used to officiate at their sacrifices and always sat by the great wine-bowl in the far corner. Unlike the rest, he abhorred violence, and their conduct filled him with indignation. Rising now to take the first turn, he picked up the bow and arrow, took his stand on the threshold and addressed himself to the bow. But long before he could string it, the effort of bending it tired out his delicate, unhardened hands.
He turned to the Suitors. “My friends,” he said, “I shall never string it; let the next man try. Believe me, this bow will break the heart and be the death of many a champion here. And a good thing too: far better to die than to live on and miss the prize that lures us all here every day and keeps us always hoping. There are some of you at this moment who still think they may have their desire and win Queen Penelope’s hand. Let them try the bow and see! They’ll soon transfer their love and lay their gifts at the feet of some other Achaean beauty. And so Penelope will be able to marry the man who offers most and is her destined mate.”
Leodes relinquished the bow, propping the tip against the polished woodwork of the door with the arrow leaning close beside it; and so resumed his seat. But Antinous took him to task with asperity: “Leodes! What a preposterous speech! It’s an outrage, which I strongly resent, to suggest that this bow will ‘break the hearts and be the death of the best men here’ – just because you cannot string it yourself. Which is really your mother’s fault – you were never born to be a bowman. However, there are others in this noble company who will string it soon enough.” Then he turned to Melanthius the goatherd. “Look sharp, Melantheus,” he ordered, “and make a fire in the hall, draw up a big stool with a fleece on it, and bring a large round of tallow from the stores, so that we young men may thaw and grease the bow before we try it and settle the match.”
Melanthius quickly made up the fire, which was still glowing, drew up a stool, on which he spread a rug, and fetched a large round of tallow from the store. The young men greased the bow with hot tallow and did their best. But they failed to string it all the same; in fact they were not nearly strong enough. Antinous, however, and Prince Eurymachus held off for the time being – and they were the leaders of the party and by far the best men it could boast.
Meanwhile the two king’s men, the cowman and the swineherd, had joined forces and slipped out of the house. Odysseus himself followed them, and when they had passed through the door and the courtyard, he called out, “Cow­man! And you there, the swineherd!” and then proceeded tactfully to sound them: “Shall I out with it, or shall I hold my tongue? No, I feel I must speak. If it came to fighting for Odysseus, what line would you men take – supposing he were to blow in from somewhere, suddenly, just like that? Would you be on the Suitors’ side or his? Tell me which way your real feelings lie.”
“I wish to god,” the cowman said, “some power would only bring him home. 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 their wise master might see his home again.
Odysseus, thus assured of their genuine feelings, took the next step. “Well, here I am!” he said. “Yes, I myself, home again in my own country after nineteen years of suffering. I realize that you are the only two of all my men who will be glad to see me back, for I have not heard a single one of the others put up a prayer for my return. So I’m going to tell you two exactly what I am prepared to do for you in the future. If the powers above let me suppress this gang of bullies, I’ll get you each a wife, make you a grant, and build you houses near to mine; and from that day I shall regard you both as Telemachus’ friends and brothers. I have said I am Odysseus – let me give you proof positive of the fact, so that you may know me for certain and be convinced in your hearts. Look at this scar, where I was struck by a boar’s tusk when I went to Parnassus with Autolycus’ sons.”
As he spoke, he drew his rags aside and exposed the long scar. The two men looked, and examined it carefully. Then they burst into tears, flung their arms round Odysseus’ neck, and kissed him fondly on the head and shoulders. Odysseus, ­equally moved, kissed their heads and hands; and the tender scene might well have been prolonged till sunset, had Odysseus not decided to bring it to an end. “Stop crying,” he said, “or someone coming from the house may notice us and tell the people indoors. Go in now, one after the other, not in company. I shall go first; and you must follow. And ­here’s your cue. The others, I mean that gang of Suitors, will refuse to let me have the bow and quiver. When that happens, my good Eumaeus, bring the bow down the hall and put it in my hands. Also, tell the women to lock that tight-fitting door which leads to their rooms, and say that if they hear groans or any other noise from the men’s part of the house, they are not to stir from their quarters but to stay quietly where they are and get on with their work. The job of bolting and roping the courtyard gate, I give to you, my good Philoetius. Fasten it tight!”
When he had given them these instructions Odysseus went back into the palace and sat down once more on his stool. The two royal servants followed him in.
By now the bow had come into the hands of Eurymachus, who was shifting it about in the firelight to warm it. But he failed to string it for all that, and the man’s proud heart rebelled. “Damnation take the thing!” he cried in his rage. “I feel this bitterly, not for myself alone but for us all. The miscarriage of our wedding plans I certainly regret, but not so very much – there are plenty of women left in our island here and in the other towns. What does grieve me is the thought that our failure with his bow proves us such weak-­lings compared with the godlike Odysseus. The disgrace will stick to our names for ever.”
But Antinous, plausible as always, would have none of this. “Eurymachus,” he said, “that is quite the wrong view to take; you know it yourself. To-day is a public holiday in honour of the Archer god. Is that a time for bending bows? Put the thing down and forget it. And why not leave the axes standing where they are? I’m sure nobody’s going to break into the royal palace and steal them. Come, let the wine-steward go round and pour a little in each cup. We’ll make our offerings and give archery a rest. And tell the goat­herd Melanthius in the morning to bring in the very best goats from all his flocks, so that we can sacrifice to the great Archer, Apollo, and then try the bow and see who wins.”
This was very much to their liking. Accordingly their squires came and sprinkled their hands with water, while the lads filled the mixing bowls to the brim with drink, and then, after pouring a little first in each man’s cup, they served them all with wine. When they had made their libations and satisfied their thirst, the crafty Odysseus came out with a seemingly guileless suggestion.
“Hear me,” he said, “you gentlemen that are courting our famous queen. I feel moved to beg a favour of you all, and in particular of Eurymachus, and Prince Antinous, who so wisely proposed that you should let the bow be for the moment and leave the issue to heaven, confident that tomorrow the Archer god will make his favourite win. Now what I ask is that you should let me have the bow, so that you may see me test the strength of my hands and find out whether there’s any power left in these limbs that were once so supple, or whether a roving and comfortless life has robbed me of it all by now.”
His request annoyed them beyond measure, for they really feared that he might string the bow; and Antinous took him up sharply: “A pest on you, sir! When will you learn sense? Aren’t you content to dine in peace with your betters, to get your share of every dish and to listen to our talk, which no other visitor or tramp is privileged to hear? Your trouble is this mellow wine, which always does for a man when he gulps it down instead of drinking in moderation. Remember Eurytion the Centaur! It was the wine that got at his wits, in King Peirithous’ house, when he was visiting the Lapithae. Fuddled with drink, what must he do but run amuck in the palace? His hosts leapt up in anger, dragged him to the porch, and threw him out of doors; but not before they had sliced his ears and nose off with a knife. A way went the maddened brute, with his woes heavy on his silly soul; and so the feud started between Centaurs and men. But he was the first to suffer, and he brought his troubles on himself by getting drunk. And you, sir, I warn you, will come to grief in much the same way, if you string this bow. You will be given no quarter in our part of the country, but we’ll pack you off in a black ship to King Echetus, the Ogre; and nothing will get you out of his clutches! So drink in peace, and don’t attempt to compete with men younger than yourself.”
But here the prudent Penelope intervened: “Antinous, it is neither good manners nor common decency to show such meanness to people who come to this house as Telemachus’ guests. Do you imagine that if this stranger has enough faith in his own strength to bend the great bow of Odysseus, he is going to carry me home with him and make me his wife? I don’t believe he ever thought of such a thing himself. So ­do not let that spoil anyone’s dinner here. The idea is pre­posterous!”
Eurymachus now took a part in the argument: “Our wise Queen Penelope must realize that we are not afraid that this man will win her hand. That is out of the question. What we shrink from is the name that men and women will give us. We don’t want the common folk to be saying things like this: ‘A poor lot, these; not up to the fine gentleman whose wife they want to marry! They can’t string his bow! But in comes some casual tramp, strings the bow with the greatest ease and shoots through all the marks!’ That is the sort of thing they will say; and our reputation might suffer.”
“Eurymachus,” Penelope retorted, “no one who cynically supports himself at his prince’s expense can possibly stand well with the people. But why take this affair as a reflection on yourselves? Our guest here is a very big and well-built man, who can also claim to be of noble birth. So give him the bow now and let us see what happens. I promise – and these are no idle words – that if by Apollo’s favour he suc­ceeds in stringing it I shall fit him out in a fine new coat and tunic, I shall give him a sharp javelin to keep off dogs and men, and a two-edged sword, as well as sandals for his feet, and I shall see him safe wherever he wants to go.”
“About that bow, mother – ” Telemachus interposed, “there is not a man in the whole country who has a better right than I to give it or refuse it as I like. And that applies to every chieftain here in rugged Ithaca or in the isles off Elis where the horses graze. There is not one of them who could override my decision, even if I made up my mind to give this bow to my guest once and for all and let him take it away. So go to your quarters now and attend to your own work, the loom and the spindle, and see that the servants get on with theirs. The bow is the men’s concern, and mine above all; for I am master in this house.”
Penelope was taken aback and retired to her own apart­ments digesting the wisdom of her son’s rebuke. Attended by her maids she went upstairs to her bedroom, where she gave way to tears for Odysseus, her beloved husband, till bright-eyed Athene closed her eyes in grateful sleep.
Meanwhile the worthy swineherd had picked up the curved bow and was taking it along, when protests rang out from all the Suitors in the hall. He could hear one of the young bloods yelling at him: “Where are you taking that bow, wretched swineherd and vagabond? If we could have our way, the very dogs you’ve bred would tear you to pieces, out there among your pigs where no-one goes.”
The torrent of abuse brought Eumaeus to a standstill, and cowed by the angry crowd in the hall he dropped the bow.
But now Telemachus’ voice came loud and menacing from the other side. “Forward there with the bow, old fellow! You’ll soon find that you can’t obey us all. Take care I don’t chase you up the fields with a shower of stones. I may be young, but I’m a brawnier man than you. And if only I had the same advantage in muscle over all the hangers-on in the place, I’d soon be throwing them out on their ears from this house of mine where they hatch their ugly plots.”
The Suitors greeted this effusion with roars of merry laughter, which took the edge off their resentment against Telemachus. The swineherd picked up the bow, carried it down the hall to Odysseus and put it in his able hands. He then called the nurse Eurycleia from her quarters and told her what to do: “Eurycleia,” he said, “you have a wise head on your shoulders. Telemachus wants you to lock that close­-fitting door to the women’s rooms. And if they hear groans or any other noise from the men’s part of the house, they are not to stir from their quarters, but must stay quietly where they are and get on with their work.”
Too awestruck to argue, Eurycleia went and locked the door leading out of the great hall. At the same time Philoetius slipped quietly out and barred the door leading into the court­yard, which he made fast with a ship’s hawser of papyrus that was lying under the colonnade. This done, he went in and sat down on the stool he had left, with his eyes fixed on Odysseus.
Odysseus now had the bow in his hands and was twisting it about, testing it this way and that, for fear that the worms might have eaten into the horn in the long absence of its owner. The Suitors glanced at one another and gave vent to some typical comments: “Ha! Quite the expert, with a critic’s eye for bows! No doubt he collects them at home or wants to start a factory, judging by the way he twists it about, just as though he had learnt something useful in his life on the road!” And this from another of the young gallants: “Little good may he get from it – as little as his chance of ever stringing the bow!”
Amid all their banter, the cool-headed Odysseus had poised the great bow and given it a final inspection. And now, a easily as a musician who knows his lyre strings the cord on a new peg after looping the twisted sheep-gut at both ends, he strung the great bow without effort or haste and with his right hand proved the string, which gave a lovely sound in answer like a swallow’s note. The Suitors were confounded. The colour faded from their cheeks; while to mark the signal moment there came a thunderclap from Zeus, and Odysseus’ long-suffering heart leapt up for joy at this sign of favour from the Son of Cronos of the crooked ways.
One arrow lay exposed on the table beside him, the rest, which the Achaean lords were soon to feel, being still inside their hollow quiver. He picked up this shaft, set it against the bridge of the bow, drew back the grooved end and the string together, all without rising from his stool, and aiming straight ahead he shot. Not a single axe did he miss. From the first haft, right through them all and out at the last, the arrow sped with its burden of bronze. Odysseus turned to his son. “Telemachus,” he said, “the stranger sitting in your hall has not disgraced you. I scored no miss, nor made hard work of stringing the bow. My powers are unimpaired, and these gentlemen were mistaken when they scornfully rated them so low. But the time has come now to get their supper ready, while it is light, and after that to pass on to the further pleasures of music and dancing, without which no banquet is complete.”
As he finished, Odysseus gave a nod. Whereupon his son and heir, Prince Telemachus, slung on his sharp-edged sword and gripping his spear took his stand by the chair at his father’s side, armed with resplendent bronze.

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