Book III

The Sun leapt up and left the lovely basin of the sea, and climbed into the brazen heaven, there to shed his light on deathless gods and mortal men across the grain-giving earth. They came to Pylos, Neleus' well-built citadel. There on the shore the people were performing holy rites, sacrificing bulls, all black, to the dark-haired Earth-Shaker. Nine companies were gathered, five hundred men in each, and each held forth nine bulls for the offering. Just as they'd tasted the inner parts and burned the thigh-bones to the god, the others brought their balanced ship straight in to shore, raised the sail and furled it, moored her fast, and stepped out themselves. Then from the ship Telemachus came forth, and Athena led the way. The goddess spoke to him first—gray-eyed Athena: "Telemachus, you must no longer feel shame, not even a little. For this you crossed the open sea: to learn of your father— where the earth conceals him, and what fate befell him. Come now, go straight to Nestor, tamer of horses. Let us learn what counsel he keeps hidden in his breast. Beseech him yourself that he may tell you the unerring truth— he will speak no lie, for he is deeply wise."

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her in turn: "Mentor, how shall I go? How shall I approach and greet him? I have no practice yet in finely woven speech, and a young man feels shame to question one so much his elder."

The goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him again: "Telemachus, some things your own heart will devise, and some a god will prompt. I do not think you were born and raised against the will of the gods."

So speaking, Pallas Athena led the way swiftly, and he walked behind, following in the footsteps of the goddess. They reached the gathering and the seats of the Pylian men, where Nestor sat among his sons, and his companions all around were making ready the feast, roasting some meats and piercing others on spits. When they saw the strangers, all came forward together, clasped their hands, and bade them be seated. First Nestor's son Peisistratus, coming close, took both by the hand and seated them at the feast on soft fleeces spread across the sea-washed sand, beside his brother Thrasymedes and his father. He gave them portions from the inner parts and poured wine into a golden cup. Then reverently he spoke to Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis: "Pray now, stranger, to the lord Poseidon— for it is his feast you have chanced upon in coming here. But when you have poured and prayed, as is the rite, give also to this young man a cup of honey-sweet wine, that he may pour in turn—for I think he too prays to the immortals. All men stand in need of the gods. But he is younger, closer in years to me; therefore I give the golden cup to you first."

So saying, he placed the cup of sweet wine in her hand. And Athena was glad at the just and thoughtful man, because he had given her the golden cup first. At once she prayed earnestly to the lord Poseidon: "Hear me, Poseidon, earth-encompasser, and be not angry that we bring these rites to their fulfillment. First grant glory to Nestor and his sons, and then grant a gracious recompense to all the Pylians for this splendid hecatomb. Grant also that Telemachus and I return, our mission done, for whose sake we have come here with our swift black ship."

So she prayed, and she herself fulfilled every word. Then she gave to Telemachus the beautiful double-curved cup, and the dear son of Odysseus prayed in turn. When they had roasted the upper cuts and drawn them off, they divided the portions and feasted on the glorious feast. But when they had their fill of food and drink, the Gerenian horseman Nestor opened the conversation: "Now it is better to inquire and ask these strangers who they are, now that they have enjoyed their meal. Strangers, who are you? From where do you sail the watery paths? Is it for some venture, or do you wander aimlessly like pirates across the sea, who roam risking their lives, bringing ruin to foreign peoples?"

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him, taking courage—for Athena herself had planted courage in his heart, so that he might ask about his absent father and so that he might win noble fame among men: "O Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, you ask where we come from, and I will tell you. We have come from Ithaca, beneath Mount Neion's ridge. Our errand is private, not public, that I declare. I come seeking wide-spread fame of my father, if I may hear of it— of divine Odysseus, the much-enduring man, whom they say fought at your side to lay waste the Trojans' city. For all the others who warred against Troy we have learned of—where each one perished by a grim death. But the son of Cronus has shrouded even his death in darkness. No one can say for certain where he died, whether he was overcome on the mainland by hostile men, or lost at sea among the waves of Amphitrite. Therefore I come now to your knees, if you are willing to tell me of his pitiful death—whether you saw it with your own eyes, or heard some wandering tale of him. For his mother bore him to sorrow. Do not soften the truth out of shame or pity for me, but tell me clearly how you encountered and beheld him. I beg you—if ever my father, noble Odysseus, made a promise to you of word or deed and fulfilled it among the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered so— remember these things now, and tell me truly."

Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him: "Dear friend, since you call to mind the misery we endured in that land—the sheer, unbridled fury of the sons of Achaea— all we endured with our ships upon the misty sea, roaming for plunder wherever Achilles led, and all we suffered around the great city of lord Priam, where our finest fell. There lies warlike Ajax; there lies Achilles; there Patroclus, skilled in counsel like the gods; there lies my own dear son, strong and blameless Antilochus—surpassing in speed of foot and fierce in battle. And many other evils we endured besides. Who of mortal men could tell it all? Not even if you stayed and questioned me for five or six years could you learn all the evils the noble Achaeans suffered there, before you finally reached your native land. For nine years we wove their ruin with every kind of cunning, and barely did the son of Cronus bring it to fulfillment. There no man ever dared match his wits against your father's— so greatly did divine Odysseus prevail with every kind of cunning, your father—if truly you are his son. Wonder takes me as I look at you. For your words are so like his, one would never think so young a man could speak so fittingly. While I and divine Odysseus were together, we never spoke apart in the assembly or in council, but with a single mind, in shrewd and prudent thought, we planned for the Argives how all might turn out best. But when we had sacked Priam's steep city, we boarded our ships, and a god scattered the Achaeans. Then Zeus devised a grim homecoming in his heart for the Argives, because they were not all wise and just. Therefore many drew down a wretched fate upon themselves, through the deadly wrath of the gray-eyed daughter of a mighty sire. She set a bitter quarrel between the two sons of Atreus. They called an assembly of all the Achaeans— rashly, out of order, toward sunset—and the sons of Achaea came, heavy with wine, and spoke the word for which they had gathered the host. There Menelaus urged all the Achaeans to think of returning across the broad back of the sea. This did not please Agamemnon at all; he wished to hold back the host and offer sacred hecatombs, to soothe the terrible wrath of Athena— fool! He did not know she would never be persuaded, for the mind of the eternal gods does not turn so swiftly. So the two stood exchanging bitter words, while the well-greaved Achaeans rose up with a wondrous clamor, and their counsel was divided. That night we slept, our hearts seething with resentment, planning against one another, for Zeus was spinning ruin. At dawn some of us dragged our ships to the salt sea and loaded our goods and deep-girdled women aboard. Half the army held back and stayed behind beside Agamemnon, son of Atreus, shepherd of the people. Half of us boarded and drove on. The ships sailed swiftly, and a god laid low the monstrous swells of the deep. We came to Tenedos and sacrificed to the gods, eager for home—but Zeus had not yet decreed our return, ruthless god, who stirred up a second evil quarrel. Some turned their curved ships about and went back, rallying around Odysseus, the battle-wise and many-counseled lord, to bring aid once more to Agamemnon, son of Atreus. But I with the ships that followed me fled— I knew what evil the god was devising. The warlike son of Tydeus fled too, and roused his men. Late came golden-haired Menelaus to join us. He found us at Lesbos, pondering the long voyage ahead— whether to sail above the crags of rugged Chios, past the isle of Psyria keeping it on our left, or below Chios, by wind-swept Mimas. We begged the god to show us a sign, and he revealed it: he bade us cut straight through the open sea toward Euboea, to flee the evil as swiftly as we could. A shrill wind rose and blew; the ships raced down the fish-teeming lanes, and that same night they came to Geraestus. There we heaped many thigh-pieces of bulls upon Poseidon's altar, having measured the great expanse of sea. It was the fourth day when the comrades of Diomede, son of Tydeus, horse-tamer, brought their ships to rest in Argos. And I came to Pylos— the fair wind never died from the moment the god first sent it. So I came home, dear child. I have no tidings of those Achaeans—who was saved and who was lost. But what I learn as I sit within my halls, as is fitting, you shall know—I will hide nothing from you. They say the spear-skilled Myrmidons came safely home, led by the splendid son of great-hearted Achilles. And well did Philoctetes, shining son of Poias, return. Idomeneus brought all his comrades safe to Crete— those who escaped the war; the sea took none from him. And the son of Atreus—you yourselves have heard, even far away— how he came home, and how Aegisthus plotted his grim death. But that man paid most terribly for what he did. A good thing it is when a man leaves behind a worthy son— so too Orestes took vengeance for his father's murder, killing Aegisthus the cunning, who killed his glorious father. And you, my friend—I see you are handsome and tall. Be brave, that men yet unborn may speak your name with praise."

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: "O Nestor, son of Neleus, great glory of the Achaeans, indeed Orestes took his vengeance, and the Achaeans will spread his fame far and wide for generations to learn. If only the gods would clothe me in such strength, to take vengeance on the suitors for their arrogant outrage— the reckless wrongs they devise against me in their insolence. But the gods have woven no such fortune for me, nor for my father. Now I must endure, whatever comes."

Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him: "Friend, since you have called this to mind and spoken of it— they say many suitors for your mother's hand devise evil against your will within your halls. Tell me: do you submit to this willingly, or do the people throughout the land hate you, swayed by the voice of a god? Who knows whether he may yet come and avenge their violence— whether alone or with all the Achaeans at his back? If only gray-eyed Athena would love you as she once cared for glorious Odysseus among the Trojans, where we Achaeans suffered so— for never have I seen the gods love anyone so openly as Pallas Athena stood beside him then, openly. If she would love you so and care for you in her heart, then some of those men might even forget their courtship."

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Old sir, I do not think this word can ever come to pass. You speak of things too great. Wonder overwhelms me. Such things could never happen to me, not even if the gods willed it."

The goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him again: "Telemachus, what word has slipped the fence of your teeth? A god can easily save a man, even from afar, if he wills it. I would rather endure a thousand sorrows and labor on and still come home at last to see the day of my return, than die beside my own hearth, as Agamemnon died by the treachery of Aegisthus and his own wife. But death comes alike for all—not even the gods can fend it off from a man they love, when the pitiless fate of piteous death lays hold."

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: "Mentor, let us not speak of these things, though we grieve. For him there is no true homecoming now; the immortals have already spun his death and black doom. But now I wish to ask another question of Nestor— for he knows justice and wisdom beyond other men. Three generations, they say, he has ruled; and looking on him he seems to me like one of the immortals. O Nestor, son of Neleus, tell me the truth: How did Agamemnon, wide-ruling son of Atreus, meet his end? Where was Menelaus? What treachery did Aegistus devise to kill a man so far his better? Was Menelaus away from Achaean Argos, wandering among other men, so Aegistus struck him down with boldness?"

Then the Gerenian horseman Nestor answered him: "Then I will tell you all the truth, my son. You yourself can guess how it would have gone if golden-haired Menelaus, returning from Troy, had found Aegisthus alive within the halls. Then in death they would not have even poured earth upon him— but dogs and birds of prey would have torn him as he lay in the open plain, far from the city. Not one Achaean woman would have wept for him, so monstrous was the deed he plotted. While we were there enduring countless ordeals, he sat at ease in the heart of horse-pasturing Argos, beguiling Agamemnon's wife with honeyed words. At first divine Clytemnestra refused the shameful deed— her nature was noble. And a singer was beside her, to whom the son of Atreus, departing for Troy, had given strict charge to guard his wife. But when the gods' decree bound her to submission, she carried the singer off to a deserted island and left him there as prey and sport for birds, then led her—willing she went—into his house. There he burned many thigh-pieces on the holy altars of the gods, there hung many offerings, woven cloths and gold, having accomplished the great deed he never dared to hope for. We sailed together from Troy, the son of Atreus and I, on friendly terms and well known to each other. But when we came to sacred Sunium, the headland of Athens, Phoebus Apollo, approaching with his gentle shafts, struck down Menelaus' helmsman— Phrontis, son of Onetor—who held the steering-oar in his hands as the ship sped on. He excelled the race of men in steering a ship when the storm-winds drove. So Menelaus stopped there, though eager for the journey, long enough to bury his comrade and pay the funeral rites. But when he too set out across the wine-dark sea in his hollow ships and came racing past the steep cape of Malea, then far-seeing Zeus devised a hateful course for him: he loosed the blast of shrill, howling winds, and the waves swelled monstrous, high as mountains. There the gale split his fleet and drove some ships to Crete, where the Cydones dwell along the streams of Iardanus. There is a smooth, steep rock that rises from the sea at the edge of Gortyn, in the misty deep. The South Wind drives a great wave against the left headland toward Phaestus—but a low reef holds off the mighty surge. Some ships came there, and the men barely escaped death— but the waves smashed the hulls against the jagged rocks. Five dark-proved ships the wind and water drove onward, driving them all the way to Egypt. So Menelaus wandered there, gathering stores of livelihood and gold, ranging with his ships among men of alien tongues— while all the while Aegisthus plotted these evils at home. For seven years he ruled over gold-rich Mycenae, having killed the son of Atreus, and the people were crushed beneath him. But in the eighth year ruin came upon him: divine Orestes returned from Athens and struck down his father's murderer, Aegisthus the cunning, who had killed his glorious father. When Orestes had killed them, he held a funeral feast for the Argives—for his hateful mother and for craven Aegisthus. That very day came Menelaus, good at the war-cry, bringing stores of wealth, as much as his ships could carry. So you, my friend—do not roam too long abroad, far from your home, leaving your possessions and men so overweening in your halls—lest they devour everything you own, and you return to nothing. I urge you and I bid you: go to Menelaus. For he has just returned from a far country, from a place whence he never hoped to come home alive— a place where storms first tore him from his course into a sea so vast that not even the birds that haunt it yearly cross it—it is so vast and terrible. Go now, with your ship and your companions. But if you would rather go by land, horses and chariot are here, and my sons will be your guides to shining Lacedaemon, where golden-haired Menelaus dwells. Beseech him yourself to tell you the truth— he will speak no falsehood, for he is very wise."

So he spoke, and the Sun went down and darkness came. Then the goddess, gray-eyed Athena, spoke among them: "Old sir, you have spoken all this fittingly and well. But come now—cut out the tongues and mix the wine, so that having poured to Poseidon and the other immortals we may think of rest. For it is the hour. Already the light has slipped beneath the darkness; it is not right to linger long at a feast of the gods, but to retire."

So spoke the daughter of Zeus, and they heard her words. The heralds poured water over their hands; the young men crowned the mixing-bowls with wine and served them all, after pouring the first cups in offering. They cast the tongues into the fire; then rising, they poured their libations. And when they had poured and drunk as much as their hearts desired, Athena and godlike Telemachus both set out to return to the hollow ship. But Nestor held them back, pressing them with words: "May Zeus and the other immortal gods forbid that you should go down to your swift ship from my house as if you were visiting a man utterly destitute and poor— a man with no cloaks or blankets in his halls, for himself or his guests to sleep in comfort. No—I have cloaks and fine coverings. The dear son of this man Odysseus shall never lay down to sleep upon a ship's bare deck while I am alive, and then my sons shall inherit the duty of welcoming whatever stranger comes to my doors."

The goddess, gray-eyed Athena, answered him again: "Well have you spoken, dear father, and it is right that Telemachus should heed you—far better so. He will go now with you and sleep beneath your roof. But I shall go down to the black ship, to encourage the crew and tell them everything. For I am the oldest among them; the others are younger men, following out of friendship, all of an age with great-hearted Telemachus. There I shall sleep beside the hollow black ship tonight. But at dawn I go to the proud Caucones, where a debt is owing to me—no small or recent one. As for this youth—since he has come to your house, send him on with chariot and your son. Give him horses, the fleetest you have and the strongest bred."

So speaking, gray-eyed Athena departed in the likeness of a sea-eagle. And wonder seized all who saw. The old man marveled when he saw it with his own eyes. He took Telemachus by the hand and spoke his name: "Dear friend, I do not think you will prove base or cowardly, if the gods attend you so in your youth. This is no other among those who hold the halls of Olympus— it is the daughter of Zeus, most glorious Tritogeneia, the same who honored your noble father among the Argives. Be gracious now, queen, and grant me glory— to me, my children, and my honored wife. And I shall sacrifice to you a broad-browed heifer, unbroken, that no man has ever yoked. Her I shall offer you, gilding her horns with gold."

So he spoke in prayer, and Pallas Athena heard him. The Gerenian horseman Nestor led the way with his sons and sons-in-law to his own beautiful halls. When they came to the glorious house of the king, they sat in order upon couches and chairs. The old man mixed wine in the bowl for them as they arrived— mellow wine that the housekeeper had broached in its eleventh year, opening the seal upon the jar. From this the old man filled the bowl, and poured many libations to Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis. When they had poured and drunk as much as their hearts desired, each man went to his own home to rest. And the Gerenian horseman Nestor himself laid down to sleep Telemachus, dear son of divine Odysseus, on a corded bed beneath the echoing portico. Beside him slept sound-limbed Peisistratus, leader of men, who was still the youngest of the sons in the halls. Nestor himself retired to the inner chamber of his high house, and his noble wife prepared his bed.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, the Gerenian horseman Nestor rose from sleep. He came out and sat upon the polished stones that stood before his lofty doors— white stones, gleaming as if with oil. On them once sat Neleus, in counsel like the gods. But he, overcome by fate, had gone down to the house of Hades. Now the Gerenian Nestor sat upon them, watchman of the Achaeans, holding his staff. His sons gathered about him, coming forth from their chambers—Echephron and Stratius, Perseus and Aretus and godlike Thrasymedes. And sixth came the hero Peisistratus, leading godlike Telemachus, and seated him beside them. The Gerenian horseman Nestor opened the conversation: "Quickly now, dear sons, fulfill my wish— that I may first propitiate the goddess Athena, who came to me openly at the gods' rich feast. Come—let one go to the plain for a cow; let him make haste and bring her; let the herdsman drive the cattle in. Let another go to the black ship of great-hearted Telemachus and summon all his companions—leave only two behind. Let another call the goldsmith Laerces to come, to overlay the cow's horns with beaten gold. The rest of you stay here together. Tell the maidservants within to prepare a glorious feast throughout the house, and bring out seats and firewood and bright water."

So he spoke, and they all bustled to obey. The cow came up from the plain; the comrades of great-hearted Telemachus came from the swift-balanced ship; the smith came too, bearing in his hands the tools of bronze, the master-craftsman's art— anvil and hammer and well-forged tongs, with which he worked the gold. And Athena came to receive the sacrifice. The old man, driver of horses Nestor, gave the gold; the smith then beat and poured it over the cow's horns, so the goddess might rejoice to see the offering. Stratius and noble Echephron led the cow by the horns. Aretus brought water in a flowered basin from his chamber, holding barley-grain in the other hand. Warlike Thrasymedes stood by, holding a sharp axe, ready to fell the cow. Perseus held the offering-bowl. The old man, driver of horses Nestor, began the rite with lustral water and scattered barley, and lifting the hairs from the cow's head, cast them in the fire, pouring many a prayer to Athena. When they had prayed and cast the barley grains, high-spirited Thrasymedes, son of Nestor, stepped close and struck. The axe sheared through the neck-tendons, and the cow's strength collapsed. The women raised the ritual cry—daughters, daughters-in-law, and the honored wife of Nestor, Euridice, eldest daughter of Clymenus. Then the men lifted the cow from the broad-wayed earth and held her fast. Peisistratus, leader of men, cut her throat. When the black blood flowed and life left her bones, they swiftly carved her open, cut out the thigh-bones all in due order, and wrapped them in folds of fat, laying raw cuts upon them. The old man burned them upon split wood and poured bright wine upon the flame, while the young men at his side held five-pronged forks. When the thigh-bones were consumed and they had tasted the inner parts, they carved the rest and skewered it on spits, holding the sharp forks in their hands, and roasted the meat. Meanwhile, beautiful Polycaste— youngest daughter of Nestor, son of Neleus—bathed Telemachus. And when she had bathed and anointed him with olive oil, she threw a beautiful cloak and tunic round his shoulders. He stepped from the bath, his body radiant as a god's. He went and sat beside Nestor, shepherd of the people. When they had roasted the upper cuts and drawn them off, they sat and feasted; and noble men rose to serve them, pouring wine in golden cups. But when they had their fill of food and drink, the Gerenian horseman Nestor opened the conversation: "My sons—come now. Yoke the fair-maned horses for Telemachus, hitch them to the chariot, that he may be on his way."

So he spoke, and they heard and obeyed with all speed. They swiftly yoked the strong horses to the chariot. The housekeeper stored bread and wine within it, and such food as god-nourished kings eat. Telemachus mounted the beautiful chariot. Beside him stepped Nestor's son Peisistratus, leader of men, who mounted and took the reins in his hands. He cracked the whip, and the two flew onward, eager, out across the plain, leaving behind the steep citadel of Pylos. All day long they held their course, the yoke swaying on their shoulders. The sun sank, and every road grew dim with shadow. They came to Pherae, to the house of Diocles, son of Ortilochus, whom the river Alpheus begot. There they spent the night, and he gave them gifts of hospitality.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, they yoked the horses and mounted the painted chariot. They drove out through the gateway and the echoing portico. He cracked the whip, and the two flew onward, eager. They came to the wheat-bearing plain, and there they held their course—so fast did the swift horses bear them. The sun sank, and every road grew dim with shadow.