Book IV

They came to Lacedaemon’s hollow land, a realm of ravines, and drove to the palace of glorious Menelaus. They found him within, holding a wedding feast for many kinsmen, for his son and his faultless daughter in his own great hall. His daughter he was sending to the son of Achilles, breaker of armies; for at Troy he first had promised and bowed his head in pledge to give her, and now the gods brought their marriage to fulfillment. With horses and chariots he was sending her on her way to the famed city of the Myrmidons, whose king was her lord. And for his son he brought a bride from Sparta, Alector’s daughter, for mighty Megapenthes, his late-born, stalwart son, born of a slave; for to Helen the gods granted no more offspring after she first had borne her lovely child, Hermione, who held the beauty of golden Aphrodite.

So they were feasting all through the great high-roofed hall, the neighbors and kinsmen of glorious Menelaus, lost in delight; and among them a divine bard was singing to the lyre, while two tumblers through their midst, as his song led the measure, spun and whirled.

Then the two travelers halted in the forecourt of the palace, they and their horses— the hero Telemachus and Nestor’s brilliant son. Lord Eteoneus, coming forward, saw them, the ready attendant of glorious Menelaus, and went through the halls to announce them to the shepherd of the people. Standing close, he spoke to him with winged words: “Two strangers are here, O Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, two men who seem sprung from the line of great Zeus. But say the word—shall we unharness their swift horses, or send them onward to another who might host them kindly?”

Then fair-haired Menelaus, deeply angered, spoke to him: “You were no fool before, Eteoneus, son of Boethous, but now you babble nonsense like a child. Surely we two ate the bread of hospitality from many men before we came home, hoping that Zeus someday might grant us rest from our misery. No, unyoke the strangers’ horses, and lead the men themselves inside to share our feast.”

So he spoke, and the man rushed through the great hall, calling out to the other ready attendants to come and help him. They unyoked the sweating horses from beneath the harness, and tied them at the mangers in the stable, and beside them cast down spelt, mixing in white barley. They leaned the chariot against the gleaming entrance walls, and led the men into the divine palace. The two looked on, and wonder filled them as they gazed through the Zeus-cherished king’s domain; for a radiance like the sun’s or the moon’s own shimmer filled the high-roofed house of glorious Menelaus. But when their eyes had drunk their fill of wonder, they went to the polished tubs and bathed themselves. And when the maids had bathed them and anointed them with oil, and cast about them woolen cloaks and tunics, they took their seats on thrones beside Menelaus, son of Atreus. A handmaid brought water in a beautiful golden pitcher and poured it out over a silver basin for their hands, and beside them drew up a polished table. The revered housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, adding many delicacies, giving freely of her stores. A carver lifted platters of meat of every kind and set them down, and placed golden cups beside them. Then, with a gesture of welcome, fair-haired Menelaus spoke: “Now take this food and be glad. And after you have shared our supper, we will ask you who you are. For in you, the lineage of your fathers is not lost; you are the sons of sceptered kings, cherished by Zeus. Base men could never father sons like you.”

So he said, and taking in his hands the roasted chine of an ox, a rich portion set aside as his own prize of honor, he gave it to them. They stretched out their hands to the good food spread before them. But when they had put aside their desire for food and drink, Telemachus then spoke to the son of Nestor, holding his head close, so the others could not hear: “Consider this, son of Nestor, delight of my heart: the flash of bronze through these echoing halls, the gleam of gold, of electrum, of silver and of ivory. Surely the court of Olympian Zeus must be like this within, all this measureless treasure. Awe seizes me as I look.”

Fair-haired Menelaus overheard him speaking, and raising his voice, he addressed them with winged words: “Dear children, no mortal man could ever vie with Zeus. His halls and his possessions are immortal. But among men, one might contend with me in wealth, or perhaps not. For I suffered much and wandered far to bring it back in my ships, arriving only in the eighth year. I wandered to Cyprus, Phoenicia, and to the Egyptians; I reached the Ethiopians, the Sidonians, the Erembi, and Libya, where the lambs are born with horns at once. There the flocks give birth three times in a single year, and no lord or shepherd ever lacks for cheese or meat or sweet fresh milk, for the ewes give milk to be drawn year-round. While I was wandering in those lands, gathering great wealth, another man murdered my brother, all by stealth, unexpectedly, through the guile of his accursed wife. So you see, I take no joy in being lord of all this treasure. You must have heard this from your fathers, whoever they may be, for I have suffered greatly, and I lost a house that was fair-built and filled with many fine things. I wish I lived here with only a third of my possessions, if the men were safe who perished then at Troy, so far from Argos, the land that pastures horses. And yet, though I mourn them all and grieve for them, often sitting here in my own halls, one moment I find solace for my heart in weeping, and the next I stop; for a man soon has his fill of chilling grief. But for all of them I do not mourn so much, despite my pain, as for one man, who makes me loathe my sleep and food when I remember him, for no Achaean bore as many trials as Odysseus bore and won. And yet for him, it seems, the end was to be sorrow for himself, and for me, a grief forever inconsolable for him, so long gone now, and we know nothing, whether he is alive or dead. Surely they mourn him now—the old man Laertes, and prudent Penelope, and Telemachus, whom he left a newborn babe within his house.”

So he spoke, and in the boy he stirred a deep desire to weep for his father. A tear fell from his eyelids to the ground as he heard his father’s name, and with both hands he raised his purple cloak to shield his eyes. Menelaus saw, and his mind and heart were torn with doubt: should he let the boy first speak his father’s name himself, or should he question him and draw the story out?

While he was pondering this in mind and heart, Helen emerged from her high-roofed, fragrant chamber, in form like Artemis of the golden spindle. With her came Adreste, who set out a well-wrought chair for her, while Alcippe brought a rug of softest wool, and Phylo carried a silver basket, a gift from Alcandre, wife of Polybus, who lived in Thebes of Egypt, where the houses are piled high with treasure. He had given Menelaus two silver bathing tubs, a pair of tripods, and ten talents of gold. And apart from these, his wife gave Helen beautiful gifts: a golden spindle, and a basket that ran on wheels, all of silver, with its rims finished in gold. This was the basket her attendant Phylo brought and placed beside her, piled high with finely spun yarn; and across it lay the spindle, holding wool of violet-darkness. She sat down in her chair, a footstool underneath her feet, and at once she questioned her husband on each detail: “Do we know yet, Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, who these men claim to be, who have come into our house? Shall I speak what is false, or the truth? My heart urges me on. For I declare I have never seen anyone so like another, neither man nor woman—awe seizes me as I look— as this man is like the son of great-hearted Odysseus, Telemachus, whom that man left a newborn in his house, that time you Achaeans came to the gates of Troy, waging your reckless war for the sake of me, the shameless one.”

Answering her, fair-haired Menelaus said: “Now I see it too, my wife, just as you surmise. Such were his feet, his hands, the cast of his eyes, his head, and the hair that grew upon it. And just now, as I was remembering Odysseus and telling of all the bitter hardships he endured for my sake, the boy let a salt tear fall from beneath his brow, holding his purple cloak up to hide his face.”

Then Peisistratus, son of Nestor, spoke up in reply: “Menelaus, son of Atreus, cherished by Zeus, leader of armies, this is indeed his son, just as you say. But he is prudent, and in his heart feels it would be unseemly, on this first visit, to make a show of ready speech before you, in whose voice we delight as in a god’s. The Gerenian horseman, Nestor, sent me forth to be his guide and companion, for he longed to see you, so you might offer him some word or course of action. For a son whose father is gone has many troubles in his halls, when there are no other men to be his helpers. So it is with Telemachus: his father is gone, and there are no others in the land who might ward off this evil from him.”

Answering him, fair-haired Menelaus said: “By the gods! The son of a man so dear has come into my house, one who for my sake endured so many struggles. And I, I swore that if he returned I would love him beyond all other Argives, if Olympian, far-seeing Zeus had granted us a homecoming together over the sea in our swift ships. I would have cleared a city in Argos for him, and built him a house, bringing him from Ithaca with his goods and his child and all his people, emptying out a single town of those that lie around here, and are ruled by me. And here we would have met so often; nothing could have parted us, loving and delighting in each other, until the black cloud of death at last had covered us. But the god himself must have grudged us this, I think, who made that wretched man the only one who did not return.”

So he spoke, and in them all he stirred a longing for lament. Argive Helen wept, the child of Zeus; Telemachus wept, and Menelaus, son of Atreus, nor could Nestor’s son keep his eyes free from tears. For he remembered in his heart the faultless Antilochus, whom the glorious son of shining Dawn had killed. Remembering him, he spoke these winged words: “Son of Atreus, the old man Nestor used to say that you were wisest among men, whenever we would speak of you in his halls and question one another. And now, if it is possible, be guided by me. For my part, I find no joy in weeping after supper; besides, the Dawn will soon be born. I do not at all begrudge the weeping for a mortal who has died and met his fate. This is the only tribute left to wretched mortals: to cut one’s hair and let the tears fall from one’s cheeks. For my own brother died, and he was not the worst of the Argives. You must have known him. I myself never met him or saw him, but they say he was supreme among others, Antilochus, a champion runner and a man of war.”

Answering him, fair-haired Menelaus said: “My friend, since you have spoken all that a man of sense would say and do, even one who was your elder— for you are of such a father, and so you speak with wisdom. Easily known is the line of a man for whom the son of Cronos spins a thread of fortune at his marriage and his birth, as he has granted Nestor, through all his days, to grow old in comfort in his own great halls, while his sons in turn are wise and masters of the spear. So let us put aside the weeping that arose just now, and think again of supper. Let them pour water on our hands. In the morning there will be time for talk, for Telemachus and me to speak together at length.”

So he spoke, and Asphalion poured water on their hands, the ready attendant of glorious Menelaus. And they stretched out their hands to the good food spread before them.

But then Helen, daughter of Zeus, had another thought. At once she cast a drug into the wine they were drinking, a drug to soothe all pain and anger, and bring oblivion to all sorrows. Whoever should drink this down, once it was mixed in the bowl, for a whole day would not let a tear fall down his cheeks, not even if his mother and his father died, not even if right before his eyes his brother or his own dear son were slain by the bronze, and he was there to see it. Such were the cunning drugs the daughter of Zeus possessed, precious things, which Polydamna, wife of Thon, had given her, a woman of Egypt, where the grain-giving earth bears herbs in greatest plenty, many that are healing in the mixture, many that are deadly. There every man is a physician, skilled beyond all other peoples; for they are of the lineage of Paeon, the healer. When she had cast the drug in and ordered the wine to be served, she once again took up the thread of speech and said: “Menelaus, son of Atreus, cherished by Zeus, and you also, sons of noble men—though the god, Zeus, gives good and evil to this man and that as he wills, for he can do all things— for now, at least, sit feasting in our halls and take your pleasure in stories, for I will tell one that is fitting. I could not tell or name them all, of course, all the many trials of steadfast Odysseus. But what a thing this was that the powerful man did and endured in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered pains. After disfiguring himself with humiliating stripes, he threw shabby rags around his shoulders, and like a slave, he slipped into the wide-wayed city of his enemies. He disguised himself, appearing as a different man, a beggar, one who was nothing like himself at the Achaean ships. In this guise he entered the city of the Trojans, and they were all deceived. I alone recognized him for who he was, and I questioned him, but in his cunning he evaded me. But when at last I was bathing him and anointing him with oil, and had dressed him in fresh clothes and sworn a binding oath not to reveal Odysseus to the Trojans before he reached the swift ships and the shelters, only then did he tell me the whole plan of the Achaeans. And after killing many Trojans with the long-honed bronze, he went back to the Argives, bringing much intelligence. Then the other Trojan women wailed aloud, but my own heart rejoiced, for my spirit had already turned to go back home, and I mourned the madness Aphrodite sent me, when she led me there from my own dear native land, forsaking my child, my bridal chamber, and my husband, a man who lacked for nothing, neither in mind nor in form.”

Answering her, fair-haired Menelaus said: “Yes, all this, my wife, you have told as it should be told. I have come to know the counsel and the mind of many heroic men, and I have traveled over much of the earth, but my eyes have never yet looked upon a man with a heart like that of steadfast Odysseus. What a thing he did and endured, that powerful man, inside the polished horse, where all we best of the Argives sat, bringing slaughter and doom to the Trojans. You came there then; some divinity must have compelled you, one who wished to grant the Trojans glory, and godlike Deiphobus followed as you went. Three times you circled our hollow hiding place, stroking its surface, and you called out by name the leaders of the Danaans, mimicking the voice of the wife of every Argive. Now I and the son of Tydeus and godlike Odysseus, sitting in the middle, heard you as you called out. And we two, Diomedes and I, were stirred by a driving urge either to leap out or to answer you at once from within. But Odysseus held us back and checked our desire. Then all the other sons of the Achaeans stayed in silence, but Anticlus alone wanted to answer you in words. Yet Odysseus clamped his powerful hands on the man’s jaws, relentlessly, and saved all the Achaeans. He held him so, until Pallas Athena led you away.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus spoke up in reply: “Menelaus, son of Atreus, cherished by Zeus, leader of armies, all the more bitter. For none of these things kept him from grim destruction, not even if he had a heart of iron inside him. But come now, turn us toward our beds, so that at last we may lie down and take our pleasure in sweet sleep.”

So he spoke, and Argive Helen told her maids to place bedsteads in the portico, and to lay upon them fine purple blankets, and spread rugs on top, and to put woolen cloaks on the very top for covering. The maids went from the hall, holding torches in their hands, and spread the bedding. A herald led the strangers out. So they lay down to sleep there, in the forecourt of the house, the hero Telemachus and Nestor’s brilliant son. But the son of Atreus slept in the recess of his high-roofed palace, and beside him lay Helen of the flowing robes, divine among women.

When the early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, Menelaus, master of the war-cry, rose from his bed, put on his clothes, slung a sharp sword on his shoulder, and under his smooth-skinned feet he bound his handsome sandals. He went from his chamber, in presence like a god, and sat down beside Telemachus, and spoke his name and said: “What need, hero Telemachus, has brought you here to shining Lacedaemon, over the sea’s broad back? Is it public business or your own? Tell me the honest truth.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus spoke up in reply: “Menelaus, son of Atreus, cherished by Zeus, leader of armies, I came to see if you could tell me any news of my father. My house is being devoured, my rich estates are ruined, my home is filled with hostile men, who all day long slaughter my thronging sheep and my shambling, horn-curved cattle. They are the suitors for my mother, and their pride is past all bounds. For this I have come now to your knees, if you might be willing to tell me of his grim destruction, if you saw it anywhere with your own eyes, or heard the story from another wanderer; for his mother bore him to a life of sorrow. Do not soften your words for me out of pity or respect, but tell me truly whatever you chanced to see. I beg you, if ever my father, noble Odysseus, in word or deed made a promise and fulfilled it for you in the land of the Trojans, where you Achaeans suffered, remember that now, I pray, and tell me the honest truth.”

Then fair-haired Menelaus, deeply angered, spoke to him: “By the gods! So they want to lie in the bed of a man with a mighty heart, they who are weaklings themselves. Just as when a doe has put her newborn, suckling fawns to sleep in the den of a powerful lion, and then goes roaming the mountain slopes and grassy valleys, seeking pasture; but the lion returns to his own lair and brings an ugly fate upon them both— so will Odysseus bring an ugly fate on these men. Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo, if only he were as he was that time in well-built Lesbos, when he rose up and wrestled Philomeleides in a contest and threw him down mightily, and all the Achaeans rejoiced— if only Odysseus, as he was then, would meet the suitors, they would all find a swift doom and a bitter wedding. But as for what you ask and implore me to tell, I will not swerve from the truth or deceive you with other tales. What the unerring old man of the sea told me, of that I will not hide or conceal a single word.

“The gods were holding me in Egypt, though I was eager to sail home, because I had not offered them perfect hecatombs. And the gods always wish that their commands be remembered. Now, there is an island in the stormy sea, out in front of Egypt, and they call it Pharos, as far offshore as a hollow ship can sail in a full day when a shrill wind blows fair from behind it. In it is a fine harbor, from which they launch their balanced ships out to sea, after drawing fresh black water. There the gods held me for twenty days, and never did the sea-winds that drive the ships over the sea’s broad back appear. And now all my provisions would have been gone, and the men’s spirit with them, if one of the gods had not pitied and saved me: Eidothea, daughter of mighty Proteus, the old man of the sea. For I moved her heart most deeply. She met me as I was wandering alone, away from my companions, who were always roaming the island, trying to fish with bent hooks, for hunger was gnawing at their bellies. She stood near me and spoke and said these words: ‘Are you a fool, stranger, so very slack and weak-willed, or do you give in on purpose and enjoy your suffering? You have been trapped on this island for so long, and can find no way out, and the hearts of your companions are wasting away.’

“So she spoke, and I answered her in turn and said: ‘I will tell you, whichever of the goddesses you are, that I am not held here by my own will at all. I must have sinned against the immortals who hold the wide heavens. But you must tell me—for the gods know everything— which of the immortals chains me here and blocks my path, and tell me of my return, how I may cross the fish-filled sea.’

“So I spoke, and the divine goddess answered at once: ‘Then I will tell you, stranger, the honest truth. There is one who haunts this place, an unerring old man of the sea, immortal Proteus of Egypt, who knows the depths of all the seas, a servant of Poseidon. They say he is my father, that he begot me. If you could somehow lie in wait and seize him, he would tell you your way and the measure of your journey, and of your return, how you may cross the fish-filled sea. And he would tell you too, O cherished of Zeus, if you should wish it, what evil and what good has been done in your own halls while you have been away on your long and painful journey.’

“So she spoke, and I answered her in turn and said: ‘Then you yourself must devise the ambush for this divine old man, lest he see me first, or know my plan, and escape me. For a god is a hard thing for a mortal man to master.’

“So I spoke, and the divine goddess answered at once: ‘Then I will tell you, stranger, the honest truth. When the sun has climbed to the middle of the sky, then the unerring old man of the sea comes out of the salt water, hidden by the dark ripple of the West Wind’s breath, and coming out, he lies down to sleep under the hollow caves. And around him the seals, the brood of the fair sea-goddess, sleep in a drove, emerging from the gray salt sea, breathing out the sharp, salt smell of the deep ocean. There I will lead you at the coming of the dawn and lay you down in a row. You must choose carefully three companions, the best you have beside your well-benched ships. And I will tell you all the old man’s crafty wiles. First, he will count the seals and go along their line. Then, when he has tallied them all on his fingers and seen them, he will lie down in their midst, like a shepherd among his flocks. The moment you see him settled down to rest, then you must summon up your courage and your strength, and hold him there, for all his striving and struggling to escape. He will try to change into all things, all creatures that crawl on the earth, and into water, and into god-kindled fire. But you must hold him steadfastly and squeeze him all the harder. But when at last he questions you himself in words, in the same form you saw him in when he lay down to sleep, then, hero, you must cease your force and set the old man free, and ask him which of the gods is angry with you, and ask of your return, how you may cross the fish-filled sea.’

“So saying, she plunged beneath the surging sea. But I went back to my ships, where they stood on the sands, and my heart was a dark storm of thoughts as I walked. But when I had come down to my ship and to the sea, we prepared our supper, and ambrosial night came on. Then we lay down to sleep on the breaking surf of the shore. When the early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, I walked along the shore of the wide-wayed sea, praying earnestly to the gods. I took with me three companions, those I trusted most for any undertaking. Meanwhile, she had plunged into the sea’s broad gulf and brought back from the deep the skins of four seals, all freshly flayed; she was plotting a trick for her father. She had scooped out beds for us in the sea-sands and sat there waiting. We came up very close to her, and she laid us down in a row, throwing a skin over each man. Then our ambush would have been most terrible, for the foul stench of the sea-nurtured seals oppressed us terribly— who would choose to lie down beside a monster of the sea? But she herself saved us, and devised a great remedy: she brought ambrosia and placed it under each man’s nose, and its sweet fragrance killed the monster’s stench. All morning long we waited with enduring hearts. The seals came thronging from the sea. Then they lay down in rows along the breaking surf of the shore. At midday the old man came from the sea and found his plump seals. He went along them all and counted their number. Among the beasts he counted us first, and his heart never suspected a trick. Then he lay down himself. With a shout we rushed him, throwing our arms around him. But the old man did not forget his treacherous arts. First he became a lion with a shaggy mane, and then a serpent, a panther, and a giant boar. He became flowing water, and a tree with soaring branches. But we held on steadfastly, with enduring hearts. But when at last the old man, master of wiles, grew weary, then at last he questioned me and spoke to me in words: ‘Which of the gods, son of Atreus, conspired with you to ambush and seize me against my will? What do you need?’

“So he spoke, and I answered him in turn and said: ‘You know, old man. Why do you ask me this, trying to put me off? I am trapped on this island for so long, and can find no way out, and my heart is wasting away within me. But you must tell me—for the gods know everything— which of the immortals chains me here and blocks my path, and tell me of my return, how I may cross the fish-filled sea.’

“So I spoke, and he answered me at once and said: ‘But you should have made fine offerings to Zeus and the other gods before you embarked, so you might reach your homeland all the sooner, sailing over the wine-dark sea. For it is not your fate to see your friends and reach your well-built house and your own native land, until you have gone again to the waters of the Aegyptus, the river that falls from Zeus, and offered sacred hecatombs to the immortal gods who hold the wide heavens. And then the gods will grant you the journey you desire.’

“So he spoke, and my own spirit was shattered within me, that he ordered me back again over the misty sea to Egypt, a long and difficult journey. But even so, I answered him and spoke these words: ‘I will do all this, old man, just as you command. But come, tell me this, and tell me the honest truth: did all the Achaeans whom Nestor and I left behind when we sailed from Troy return unharmed with their ships? Or did any die a wretched death on his own ship, or in the arms of his friends, after the war was wound up?’

“So I spoke, and he answered me at once and said: ‘Son of Atreus, why do you question me on this? You do not need to know or to learn my mind. I tell you, you will not be long without tears, once you have heard it all. For many of them were lost, and many were left. But of the leaders, only two of the bronze-clad Achaeans perished on their journey home—and you yourself were at the fighting. One man is still alive, held captive on the wide sea. Ajax was lost with his long-oared ships. Poseidon first drove him onto the great rocks of Gyrae and saved him from the sea. And he would have escaped his doom, though Athena hated him, if he had not thrown out a boastful word in his great folly. He claimed that in spite of the gods he had escaped the sea’s great gulf. Poseidon heard his loud-mouthed boast. At once he took his trident in his powerful hands and struck the Gyraean rock and split it apart. One part of it remained there, but the fragment fell into the sea, the part on which Ajax had first been sitting in his great folly. It carried him down into the vast, surging sea. So he perished there, after he had drunk the salt water.

“‘Your brother, however, did escape his doom and fled in his hollow ships, for queenly Hera saved him. But just as he was about to reach the steep peak of Malea, a storm snatched him up and carried him over the fish-filled sea, groaning heavily, to the far edge of the country where Thyestes had his home in former times, but where Thyestes’ son, Aegisthus, was then living. But when from there a safe return at last seemed possible, the gods turned the wind back, and they reached home. And he, Agamemnon, stepped on his native land with joy, and he clung to his country and kissed it. And from him many hot tears poured, as he saw his land with gratitude. But a watchman saw him from a lookout point, one whom wily Aegisthus had led there and posted, promising a reward of two talents of gold. He had kept watch for a year, lest the king pass by unseen and remember his furious might. He went to the palace to give the news to the shepherd of the people. At once Aegisthus devised a treacherous plan. He chose the twenty best men in the land and set an ambush, and on the other side of the hall ordered a feast prepared. Then he went with horses and chariots to summon Agamemnon, shepherd of the people, all the while pondering ugly things. He led him up, unsuspecting of his doom, and feasted him, and then he killed him, as a man kills an ox at the manger. Not one of Agamemnon’s followers who were with him was left, nor one of Aegisthus’s. All were killed in the palace.’

“So he spoke, and my own spirit was shattered within me. I sat down on the sands and wept, nor did my heart wish any longer to live and see the light of the sun. But when I had my fill of weeping and rolling on the ground, the unerring old man of the sea then spoke to me: ‘No longer, son of Atreus, weep so long and so hopelessly. We will find no remedy in it. Instead, try as quickly as you can to get back to your own native land. For either you will find him alive, or Orestes will have killed him first, and you may chance upon the funeral feast.’

“So he spoke, and my heart and my proud spirit were warmed again in my chest, for all my grief. And raising my voice I spoke to him with winged words: ‘These men I know of now. But name the third man, the one who is still alive, held captive on the wide sea, or is dead. I wish to hear it, though I grieve.’

“So I spoke, and he answered me at once and said: ‘It is the son of Laertes, whose home is in Ithaca. I saw him on an island, shedding great tears, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who holds him there by force. And he cannot reach his own native land. For he has no ships with oars, and no companions who might escort him over the sea’s broad back. But for you, Menelaus, cherished by Zeus, it is not fated to die and meet your end in horse-pasturing Argos. Instead, the immortals will send you to the Elysian Plain and the world’s end, where golden-haired Rhadamanthus dwells. There life is easiest for mankind. There is no snow, nor heavy winter, nor ever any rain, but always the shrill, moist breath of the West Wind, Oceanus sends it up to cool and refresh the people, because you have Helen, and are the son-in-law of Zeus.’

“So saying, he plunged beneath the surging sea. But I went back to my ships with my godlike companions, and my heart was a dark storm of thoughts as I walked. But when we had come down to our ship and to the sea, we prepared our supper, and ambrosial night came on. Then we lay down to sleep on the breaking surf of the shore. When the early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, first of all we dragged our ships to the divine sea, and we set the masts and sails in the balanced ships, and the men themselves embarked and sat down at the oarlocks. Sitting in rows, they struck the gray sea with their oars. Back to the Aegyptus, the river that falls from Zeus, I brought my ships and offered perfect hecatombs. And when I had appeased the anger of the ever-living gods, I heaped up a mound for Agamemnon, so his fame might be unquenched. Having done all this, I sailed for home. The immortals gave me a fair wind and sent me swiftly to my own dear native land. But come now, stay here in my halls until the eleventh or the twelfth day comes. Then I will send you off well, and give you glorious gifts: three horses and a polished chariot. And then I will give you a beautiful cup, so you may pour libations to the immortal gods, and remember me all your days.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus spoke up in reply: “Son of Atreus, do not keep me here for a long time. Truly, I could bear to sit beside you for a year and feel no longing for my home or parents, for I take such wondrous pleasure in hearing your stories and your words. But my companions are already growing restless in sacred Pylos, and you are keeping me here a long while. As for the gift you would give me, let it be a keepsake. Horses I will not take to Ithaca, but leave them here as a glory for you. For you are lord of a wide plain, where clover is plentiful, and galingale, and wheat and spelt and broad-bladed white barley. But in Ithaca there are no wide-running tracks, no meadows. It is a land for goats, and more lovely than a land for horses. None of the islands that lean upon the sea are fit for driving horses or rich in meadows, and Ithaca least of all.”

So he spoke, and Menelaus, master of the war-cry, smiled, and stroked him with his hand, and spoke his name and said: “You are of good blood, dear child, to speak such things. Therefore I will change these gifts for you; for I can. Of all the gifts that lie as treasures in my house, I will give you the one that is most beautiful and most prized. I will give you a well-wrought mixing bowl. It is all of silver, but its rims are finished with gold. It is the work of Hephaestus. The hero Phaedimus, king of the Sidonians, gave it to me, when his house sheltered me on my journey home. And now I wish to give it to you.”

While they were speaking such things to one another, the feasters came to the palace of the divine king. They drove up sheep and brought life-giving wine, and their wives with beautiful headbands sent bread for them. So they were busy with their supper in the halls.

But in front of the palace of Odysseus, the suitors were taking their pleasure with the discus and the javelin, on the leveled ground where they always showed their insolence. Antinous sat there, and godlike Eurymachus, the leaders of the suitors, who were by far the best in prowess. To them Noemon, son of Phronius, came up and questioning Antinous, he spoke to him and said: “Antinous, do we have any idea in our minds, or not, when Telemachus will be back from sandy Pylos? He has taken my ship and gone, and I have need of it to cross to wide-pastured Elis, where I have twelve mares, and under them are hardy, unbroken mules. I’d like to drive one off and break it in.”

So he spoke, and they were stunned in their hearts. They did not think he had gone to Neleian Pylos, but was somewhere on his lands, either with the flocks or with the swineherd. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: “Tell me the truth. When did he go, and what young men went with him? The chosen men of Ithaca, or his own hired hands and slaves? He could manage that as well. And tell me this for a fact, so I may know for sure: did he take your black ship from you by force, against your will, or did you give it willingly, because he begged you in his speech?”

Then Noemon, son of Phronius, answered him: “I gave it willingly myself. What else could anyone do when such a man, with such troubles on his mind, comes begging? It would be hard to refuse the gift. The young men who are the best among us in the land, they are the ones who follow him. And I saw their leader embarking, Mentor, or a god who looked exactly like him. But this is what I marvel at: I saw the divine Mentor here yesterday at dawn, yet he was on the ship that sailed for Pylos.”

So speaking, he went off to his father’s house, and the proud hearts of the two suitors were dismayed. They made the suitors sit down together and stop their games. Among them Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke, deeply troubled. His dark heart was filled with immense rage, and his eyes were like blazing fire. “By the gods! A great deed has been brazenly accomplished by Telemachus, this journey! We said it would not happen. Against the will of so many, a mere boy goes off, just like that, dragging away a ship and choosing the best in the land. He will begin to be a greater evil still. But may Zeus destroy his strength before he reaches the measure of his manhood. Come, give me a swift ship and twenty companions, so I can lie in wait for him as he returns, and watch in the strait between Ithaca and rugged Samos, so his sailing in search of his father will end in misery.”

So he spoke, and they all praised his words and urged him on. Then at once they rose and went to the house of Odysseus.

But Penelope was not long without news of the plans the suitors were plotting deep in their hearts. For the herald Medon told her, who had heard their counsel from outside the courtyard, while they wove their scheme within. He went through the palace to bring the news to Penelope, and as he crossed the threshold, Penelope addressed him: “Herald, why have the noble suitors sent you? Was it to tell the maids of divine Odysseus to stop their work and prepare a feast for them? May this be the last and final time they ever dine here, this wooing, this consorting with each other. You who gather here so often and lay waste to so much of our livelihood, the wealth of thoughtful Telemachus—did you never hear from your fathers, when you were children, what sort of man Odysseus was among your parents? Never doing or saying anything unjust in the land, which is the way of divine kings: one man they may hate among the people, another they may love. But he never once committed an outrageous act against any man. But your own spirit and your ugly deeds are clear to see. There is no gratitude for good deeds done in the past.”

Then Medon, who knew her prudence, answered her: “If only, my queen, this were the greatest of the evils. But the suitors are planning another, much greater and more grievous, which may the son of Cronos never bring to pass. They are bent on killing Telemachus with the sharp bronze as he sails for home. He went for news of his father to sacred Pylos and to shining Lacedaemon.”

So he spoke, and her knees gave way and her own heart melted. For a long time a speechlessness of words seized her. Her two eyes filled with tears, and her rich voice was checked. At last, answering him in words, she said: “Herald, why has my son gone? He had no need to board the swift-sailing ships, which serve as horses for men on the sea and cross the great wet ways. Was it so that not even his name would be left among men?”

Then Medon, who knew her prudence, replied: “I do not know if some god stirred him, or if his own heart drove him to go to Pylos to find out about his father’s return, or what fate he has met.”

So speaking, he went back down through the house of Odysseus. But a soul-destroying grief washed over her, and she could not bear to sit on a chair, though there were many in the house. Instead she sank down on the threshold of her ornate chamber, weeping piteously. And around her all her handmaids whimpered, all who were in the house, the young and the old. To them, sobbing heavily, Penelope spoke: “Listen, my friends. For the Olympian has given me sorrows beyond all other women who were born and raised with me. First I lost my noble, lion-hearted husband, who excelled in all virtues among the Danaans, a noble man, whose fame is wide through Hellas and mid-Argos. And now the stormwinds have snatched my beloved son from my halls without glory, and I did not even hear of his going. You cruel women, not one of you took it to heart to rouse me from my bed, though you knew full well in your minds the moment he went aboard the hollow black ship. For if I had learned he was planning this journey, then he would surely have stayed, for all his eagerness to go, or he would have had to leave me dead in my own halls. But let someone quickly call the old man Dolius, my slave, whom my father gave me when I came here, who tends my orchard of many trees, so he can go at once and sit beside Laertes and tell him all these things. Perhaps he can weave some plan in his mind and come out and appeal to the people, who are eager to destroy his line and that of godlike Odysseus.”

Then her dear nurse, Eurycleia, answered her: “My dear child, you can kill me now with the pitiless bronze or let me live in the palace, but I will not hide the truth from you. I knew all this. I gave him everything he asked for, bread and sweet wine. But he took a great oath from me not to tell you before the twelfth day came, or until you missed him yourself and heard he had gone, so that you would not mar your beautiful skin with weeping. But wash yourself, and put on clean clothes, and go up to your chamber with your attendant women and pray to Athena, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus. For she could then save him even from death. And do not trouble an old man who is already troubled. I do not think the line of Arcesius’s son is so utterly hated by the blessed gods. Surely someone will yet remain to hold the high-roofed halls and the rich fields far away.”

So she spoke, and she lulled her mistress’s grief and checked her eyes from weeping. Penelope washed herself, put on clean clothes, went up to her chamber with her attendant women, placed barley grains in a basket, and prayed to Athena: “Hear me, child of aegis-bearing Zeus, Atrytone! If ever resourceful Odysseus in his own halls burned the fat thigh-bones of an ox or a sheep for you, remember that now, I pray, and save my beloved son, and ward off the suitors in their evil arrogance.”

So speaking, she cried aloud, and the goddess heard her prayer. But the suitors broke into an uproar through the shadowy halls, and one of the arrogant young men would say: “It seems the long-wooed queen is preparing for her marriage to one of us. She does not know that murder has been arranged for her son.”

So one of them would say, but they did not know how things were arranged. Then Antinous addressed them and spoke among them: “You fools, avoid all arrogant talk of any kind, lest someone report it inside as well. Come now, in silence, let us get up and carry out this plan of ours, which has pleased the hearts of us all.”

So saying, he chose the twenty best men, and they went to their swift ship and the shore of the sea. First of all, they dragged the ship down into the deep water, and set the mast and sail in the black ship, and fitted the oars in their leather straps, all in due order, and spread the white sails. Their high-spirited squires brought them their weapons. They moored the ship well out in the channel, and disembarked. There they took their supper and waited for evening to come.

But in her upper chamber, the prudent Penelope lay there, without food, tasting neither meat nor drink, wondering whether her blameless son would escape death, or whether he would be brought down by the arrogant suitors. As a lion caught in a crowd of men will fret and fear when they draw a treacherous circle around him, so she was pondering when a deep sleep came upon her. She lay back and slept, and all her joints were loosened.

Then the bright-eyed goddess Athena had another thought. She made a phantom, and it took the form of a woman, Iphthime, daughter of great-hearted Icarius, whom Eumelus, who lived in Pherae, had married. She sent it to the house of divine Odysseus, so that Penelope, who was weeping and wailing, might cease from her tears and her sorrowful lamenting. It entered the chamber by the strap of the door-latch, stood above her head, and spoke a word to her: “Are you sleeping, Penelope, your dear heart so afflicted? The gods who live at ease will not let you weep or suffer, since your son is still fated to return; for he is not a sinner in the eyes of the gods.”

Then prudent Penelope answered her, slumbering very sweetly at the gates of dreams: “Why have you come here, sister? You have not been a frequent visitor before, since you live in a home so far away. And you tell me to cease from my sorrow and the many pains that vex my mind and heart. First I lost my noble, lion-hearted husband, who excelled in all virtues among the Danaans, a noble man, whose fame is wide through Hellas and mid-Argos. And now my beloved son has gone on a hollow ship, a mere boy, who knows nothing of hardships or assemblies. For him I grieve even more than for that other one. For him I tremble and I fear, lest something happen to him, either in the land where he has gone, or on the sea. For many enemies are plotting against him, eager to kill him before he can reach his native land.”

The dim phantom spoke and answered her in turn: “Take heart, and do not be so very fearful in your mind. For such a guide goes with him as other men have prayed to have beside them, for she has the power— Pallas Athena. And she pities you in your sorrow. It is she who has sent me now to tell you these things.”

Then prudent Penelope spoke to her again: “If you are truly a god and have heard a god’s own voice, come, tell me also of that other wretched man, whether he is still alive and sees the light of the sun, or if he is already dead and in the house of Hades.”

The dim phantom spoke and answered her in turn: “Of him I will not speak at length, whether he is alive or dead. It is a bad thing to speak of empty wind.”

So saying, it slipped away by the bolt of the doorpost into the blowing winds. And the daughter of Icarius started up from sleep, and her own heart was warmed, so clear was the dream that had rushed upon her in the dead of night.

But the suitors, embarking, sailed the watery paths, pondering steep murder for Telemachus in their hearts. There is a rocky island in the middle of the sea, midway between Ithaca and rugged Samos, Asteris, not a large place, but in it are harbors where a ship can lie, with an entrance on either side. There the Achaeans waited, in ambush for him.