Book XIV

But he, Odysseus, left the port and climbed the rugged path up through the wooded land, across the ridges, where Athena had shown him the godlike swineherd, who cared the most of all the house-thralls godlike Odysseus owned for his estate. He found him seated in his forecourt, where a high-walled yard was built on a rise with a sweeping view, a fine, great court with a clear path running round it. The swineherd had built it himself for the pigs of his long-gone master, unknown to his mistress or to the old man, Laertes, with stones he had hauled, and crowned it with a wild-pear hedge. Outside he drove a line of stakes, set close and deep, split from the dark heartwood of an oaken log. And inside the yard he made twelve sties, side-by-side, as sleeping pens for sows. In each of these, fifty wallowing swine that bed on the ground were penned, all breeding sows. The boars, however, slept outside, far fewer now, for they were diminished by the feasting of the godlike suitors; the swineherd always sent the finest of all his fatted hogs for them to eat— three hundred and sixty was their tally then. And beside them slept four dogs as savage as wild beasts, hounds that the swineherd, a leader of men, had raised himself. He at that moment was fitting sandals to his own feet, cutting a hide of fine-colored ox-leather. The others, his men, had gone their separate ways with the herds of swine— three of them; the fourth he had been forced to send to town, driving a hog for the overbearing suitors, so they, by slaughtering it, could glut their hearts with meat.

All at once, the baying hounds caught sight of Odysseus. Shrieking, they charged him. But Odysseus, with cunning, sat down on the ground, and the staff dropped from his hand. There, at his own steading, he might have suffered a shameful hurt, but the swineherd, quick on his rapid feet, came rushing out through the gateway, the leather falling from his hand. With a great shout he scattered the dogs, driving them off with a thick shower of stones. Then he addressed his master: “Old man, the dogs almost tore you limb from limb in a flash, and you would have heaped disgrace upon me. As it is, the gods have given me other pains and sorrows. For I sit here, grieving and mourning for my godlike master, while I fatten his hogs for other men to eat. And he, meanwhile, perhaps starved for a taste of food, wanders through the lands and towns of foreign-speaking men, if he is still alive and sees the light of the sun. But follow me; let us go to the hut, old man, so you too, when you have filled your heart with bread and wine, can tell me where you come from and what griefs you have endured.”

So saying, the godlike swineherd led him to his hut, and bringing him in, he sat him down on a heap of thick brushwood, and over it he spread the great, shaggy hide of a wild goat, his own thick pallet for a bed. And Odysseus rejoiced to be so welcomed, and he spoke aloud and said: “May Zeus and the other immortal gods, my friend, grant you your heart’s desire, for this kind welcome you have shown.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him in turn: “Stranger, it is not right for me to slight a guest—not even one more wretched than yourself. All guests and beggars are from Zeus, and any gift from us, though small, is welcome. For this is the way of servants, to live always in fear when new and younger masters hold the power. And the gods have surely blocked the homecoming of him who would have loved me well and given me possessions— a house, a plot of land, a wife much sought-after— all that a kindly master gives a loyal man who toils for him, whose work a god makes prosper, just as my own work prospers here, the work I keep. My lord would have enriched me, had he grown old here. But he is lost—as I wish Helen’s whole line had been lost, brought to its knees, for she unstrung the knees of many men. For my master too went for Agamemnon’s honor to Ilium, land of fine horses, to fight against the Trojans.”

So saying, he swiftly belted his tunic and went out to the sties where the herds of young pigs were penned. From there he took two, brought them in, and sacrificed them both, then singed and jointed them and pierced them with the spits. When all was roasted, he brought it and set it before Odysseus, hot on the spits themselves, and sprinkled white barley on top. Then in an ivy bowl he mixed a honey-hearted wine, and sat down opposite his guest, urging him on: “Eat now, stranger. This is what we servants have to offer, these suckling pigs. The fatted hogs are eaten by the suitors, who have no fear of judgment in their hearts, no pity. But the blessed gods do not love reckless deeds; they honor justice and the righteous acts of men. Even hostile, ruthless men who raid a foreign shore, whom Zeus allows to plunder, who fill their ships and sail for home—even in their hearts a powerful fear of retribution falls. But these men here know something, they have heard some word from a god of his grim death, and so they will not court the queen in justice or go home. Instead, they calmly devour his estate, outrageously, and there is no restraint. For every day and every night that comes from Zeus, they sacrifice not one beast, nor just two, and draw off wine and drain his cellars, wastefully. His wealth was truly immense. No other hero on the dark mainland or in Ithaca itself had so much. Not twenty men together could match his fortune. Let me give you the full account: twelve herds of cattle on the mainland; as many flocks of sheep, as many droves of swine, as many wide-flung herds of goats, all tended by his hirelings and his own herdsmen. And here, eleven wide-flung herds of goats graze at the island’s edge, with good men watching over them. And from these herds, each man, each day, must drive the best goat he can find for the suitors. As for me, I guard and keep these swine, and carefully select the best among them to send to them.”

So he spoke. Odysseus ate the meat and drank the wine ravenously, in silence, planting evils for the suitors. But when he had dined and satisfied his heart with food, Eumaeus filled the cup from which he drank himself and gave it to him, brimming full of wine. He took it, glad at heart, and spoke to him with winged words: “My friend, who was this man who bought you with his wealth, so powerful and rich as you describe? You say he died for the sake of Agamemnon’s honor. Tell me his name. Perhaps I might know such a man. Zeus and the other immortal gods must know if I can say I’ve seen him, for I have wandered over many lands.”

The swineherd, a leader of men, replied to him: “Old man, no wandering traveler who comes here with news of him could win his wife and son to his belief. Vagrants in need of care tell lies for sport; they have no wish to tell a truthful tale. Any wanderer who makes his way to Ithaca’s shores goes to my mistress and reports his fantasies. She welcomes him and shows him kindness, asks him everything, and as she weeps, the tears fall from her eyelids, as is the way of a woman whose husband dies abroad. And you, old man, would quickly fabricate a story if someone gave you a cloak and tunic, clothes to wear. But as for him, by now the swift dogs and the birds have surely stripped the hide from off his bones; his soul has fled. Or fishes in the sea have eaten him, and his bones now lie on some mainland shore, wrapped in a thick coat of sand. That is how he perished, and for his friends he left behind a world of grief, for me most of all. For I will never find another master so gentle, no matter where I go, not even if I should return to my own father’s house and mother’s, where I was born and they themselves once raised me. Nor do I mourn for them so much, though I still long to see them with my eyes in my own native land, as much as longing for the absent Odysseus seizes me. That man, my friend, though he is gone, I am ashamed to name aloud, for he loved me and cared for me in his heart. So I will call him ‘my elder,’ even though he is far away.”

Then much-enduring, godlike Odysseus spoke to him again: “My friend, since you deny it all, and say he will not come, and your own heart is ever unbelieving, I will not just make a statement, but swear an oath: Odysseus will return. And let my reward for the good news be given then, the moment he comes home to his own house. Clothe me in a cloak and tunic, handsome garments. But before that, however great my need, I will take nothing. For that man is as hateful to me as the gates of Hades who, yielding to his poverty, tells deceitful tales. Let Zeus be my first witness among the gods, and this, your table of hospitality, and the hearth of faultless Odysseus I have reached: all this will be fulfilled just as I say. Within this very cycle of the moon Odysseus will come here. As one month wanes and the next one is beginning, he will return home, and he will take revenge on any man who dishonors his wife and his illustrious son.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him in turn: “Old man, I will not pay that reward for good news, nor will Odysseus ever come home again. But drink in peace, and let us turn our minds to other things. Do not remind me of these sorrows, for the heart inside my chest is filled with pain whenever someone mentions my good lord. As for your oath, we will let it be. But may Odysseus come, just as I wish it, and Penelope, and old Laertes, and godlike Telemachus. But now I grieve endlessly for the boy Odysseus fathered, Telemachus. The gods had raised him like a sapling, and I thought he would become a man no lesser than his own dear father, a marvel in his form and handsome looks. But some immortal, or some man, has warped the good sense in his mind, and he has gone in search of news about his father, to sacred Pylos. And now the noble suitors lie in wait for his return, so that the line of godlike Arcesius may be wiped out from Ithaca, without a name. But let us leave him be, whether he’s caught or he escapes and the son of Cronos holds a shielding hand above him. Come now, old man, tell me of your own sorrows, and tell me this in truth, so I may know it well: Who are you? Where are you from? What is your city and your parents? On what kind of ship did you arrive? And how did sailors bring you to Ithaca? Who did they claim to be? For I do not suppose you came here on your feet.”

And Odysseus of many wiles replied to him: “Then I will tell you all these things with perfect honesty. If we had time enough, and food and sweet wine here in your hut, to feast on in peace while others went about their work, I could easily spend a whole year recounting all the sorrows of my heart, and never finish all the hardships I have suffered by the will of the gods. I claim my birth from the wide land of Crete, the son of a wealthy man. And many other sons were born and raised as well within his halls, legitimate, born of his wife. But a bought slave, a concubine, was the mother who bore me. Yet I was honored equally with the true-born sons by Castor, son of Hylax, he whose lineage I claim. In his day, he was honored like a god among the Cretans for his fortune, his wealth, and his glorious sons. But the fates of death came carrying him down to the house of Hades. And then his arrogant sons divided up his property and cast lots for the shares. To me they gave a pittance and a tiny house. But I married a wife from a family of great estates, all on account of my own valor, for I was no weakling, nor a shirker in a fight. That strength is all gone now, but still, I think, by looking at the stubble you can guess the harvest. A world of trouble has me in its grip. Ares and Athena gave me courage, and the power to shatter ranks. Whenever I would pick the best men for an ambush, planting evils for the enemy, my proud heart never saw my own death looming. I was always first to leap down, and with my spear I took the life of any enemy whose feet gave way before me. Such was I in war. But farming was not dear to me, nor household life, which rears such splendid children. What I always loved were ships with oars, and wars, and well-polished spears and arrows—grim things that make other men shudder. But what I loved was what some god had put inside my heart. Different men take joy in different kinds of work. Before the sons of the Achaeans ever set foot upon Troy, nine times I led my men and swift-sailing ships against foreign peoples, and I won great spoils. From these I would choose what pleased me, and much more I won by lot. My household quickly prospered, and I became a man of fear and honor among the Cretan people. But when far-seeing Zeus devised that dreadful voyage which unstrung the knees of many men, they charged me and renowned Idomeneus to lead the ships to Ilium. There was no way to refuse; the people’s voice was too strong. There for nine years we sons of the Achaeans fought our war, and in the tenth we sacked the city of Priam and set out for home in our ships, but a god scattered the Achaeans. For me, poor man, Zeus the counselor planned more misery. For only one month I stayed home, enjoying my children, my wedded wife, and my possessions. But then my heart compelled me to sail for Egypt, with my ships well-fitted and with my godlike comrades. I outfitted nine ships, and the men gathered quickly. For six days then my loyal comrades feasted, and I provided many victims to sacrifice to the gods and for them to prepare their feast. On the seventh day we embarked and sailed from the wide land of Crete with a fine, fresh North Wind blowing briskly, gliding with ease, as if downstream. Not one of my ships came to any harm, but we sat, safe and sound, while wind and helmsmen kept them on their course. On the fifth day we came to the fair-flowing river of Egypt, and I moored my curved ships in the river Aegyptus. Then I ordered my loyal comrades to stay there by the ships and guard them, and I sent out scouts to find high lookout points. But they gave way to arrogance, following their own impulses, and at once they began to plunder the beautiful fields of the Egyptian men, carrying off the women and the helpless children, and killing the men. The cry soon reached the city. Hearing the shouts, the people came at the break of dawn. The whole plain was filled with footmen and with chariots and the flashing of bronze. And Zeus who loves the thunderbolt cast a vile panic on my men, and none of them dared to stand and fight, for evil surrounded them on all sides. There they killed many of us with the sharp bronze, and others they led away alive, to work for them as slaves. But as for me, Zeus himself put this thought in my heart— though I wish I had died and met my fate right there in Egypt, for more suffering was waiting for me— at once I took the well-made helmet from my head, the shield from my shoulders, and I cast the spear from my hand. I went to meet the horses of the king himself and clasped and kissed his knees. He spared me and he pitied me, and seating me in his chariot, he took me home in tears. Indeed, many men rushed at me with their ash spears, eager to kill me—for they were enraged beyond measure— but he held them back, for he feared the wrath of Zeus, the god of guests, who above all resents evil deeds. There I remained for seven years, and I gathered much wealth among the Egyptian people, for they all gave me gifts. But when the eighth year came rolling around, a Phoenician arrived, a man who knew deceitful tricks, a swindler, who had already done much harm to men. He won me over with his cunning and took me with him to Phoenicia, where his house and his possessions lay. There I remained with him for a full and circling year. But when the months and days had come to their fulfillment, as the year wheeled round and the seasons came again, he put me on a sea-bound ship for Libya, hatching a lie that I was to help him carry cargo, but his plan was to sell me there and take a handsome price. I followed him aboard, suspecting him, but by necessity. The ship ran on before a fine, fresh North Wind, on a course over the middle of the sea, past Crete. But Zeus was planning their destruction. When we had left Crete behind, and no other land appeared, but only sky and sea, the son of Cronos set a dark blue cloud above our hollow ship, and the sea grew dark beneath it. And Zeus thundered and at the same time struck the ship with lightning. The whole vessel shuddered, struck by the bolt of Zeus, and it was filled with sulfur. All the men were thrown overboard. Like crows they were tossed about around the black ship on the waves; the god had cut off their return. But as for me, though my heart was full of pain, Zeus himself placed in my hands the massive mast of the dark-prowed ship, so I might yet escape the evil. Clinging to this, I was carried along by the deadly winds. For nine days I was carried, and on the tenth dark night a great rolling wave washed me ashore in the land of Thesprotians. There the king of the Thesprotians, the hero Pheidon, took me in without a price. His own dear son found me, worn out with cold and exhaustion, and led me to the house, taking my hand, until he reached his father’s halls. They clothed me in a cloak and tunic, garments for me to wear. It was there I heard of Odysseus. The king said he had hosted him and shown him friendship on his way to his native land, and he showed me all the treasure Odysseus had gathered, bronze and gold and intricately-worked iron. It would truly feed another man for ten generations, so great were the treasures lying in the king’s halls. He said Odysseus had gone to Dodona, to hear the will of Zeus from the god’s high-crested oak, on how he should return to the rich land of Ithaca after so long an absence— openly, or in secret. And the king swore an oath to me, as he poured libations in his own house, that a ship was launched and a crew was standing ready to convey him to his own dear native land. But he sent me off before, for a ship of Thesprotian men was chancing to sail for Doulichion, rich in wheat. He ordered them to convey me to King Acastus with all due care. But an evil plan took hold in their hearts concerning me, so I might be plunged into the depths of misery. When the sea-faring ship was far from land, they at once began to plot my day of slavery. They stripped me of my cloak and tunic, my own clothes, and threw about me another wretched rag and tunic, tattered things, which you yourself see with your own eyes. At evening they reached the fields of clear-seen Ithaca. There they bound me fast in the well-benched ship with a well-twisted rope, and they themselves went ashore and hastily took their supper by the sea’s edge. But the gods themselves easily untwisted my bonds. Covering my head with the rag, I slipped down the smooth loading-plank and breasted the sea, and then with both hands I rowed myself away, swimming, and very quickly I was clear of them. I came ashore where there was a thicket of flowering shrubs, and lay there huddled down. They, with great groans, prowled about. But since it seemed no profit to them to search any further, they went back on board their hollow ship. The gods themselves concealed me with ease, and led me and brought me to the steading of a man of knowledge. For it is still my fate to live.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him in turn: “Ah, you poor wretch of a guest, you have truly stirred my heart, telling me all these things, all you have suffered and have wandered. But that part, I think, is not right, nor will you persuade me, what you said about Odysseus. Why must a man like you tell such pointless lies? I myself know very well about my master’s homecoming, that he was hated by all the gods, utterly, since they did not let him be struck down among the Trojans or in the arms of his friends, after he had wound down the war. Then all the Panachaeans would have built a tomb for him, and he would have won great glory for his son hereafter. But now the Harpies have snatched him away without a trace. I live secluded here among the swine; I do not go to the city, unless, perhaps, the prudent Penelope summons me to come, when some news arrives from somewhere. Then they all sit around and question the messenger, both those who grieve for their long-absent lord, and those who rejoice in devouring his substance without payment. But I have no love for questioning and asking, not since an Aetolian man deceived me with his story. He had killed a man, and after wandering over much of the earth, he came to my steading. I welcomed him with all my heart. He claimed he’d seen him in Crete, at Idomeneus’s court, repairing his ships, which the storms had smashed to pieces. And he said he would come, either by summer or by autumn, bringing much wealth with him, and his godlike companions. And you too, old man of many sorrows, since a spirit brought you to me, do not try to please me with lies or cast a spell on me. It is not for that reason that I will respect or love you, but from fear of Zeus, the god of guests, and from pity for you.”

And Odysseus of many wiles replied to him: “Truly, the heart in your breast is an unbelieving one, since even with an oath I could not move you or persuade you. But come now, let us make a bargain. And hereafter let the gods who hold Olympus be witnesses for us both. If your master should return to this house, you will give me a cloak and tunic and send me on my way to Doulichion, where my heart desires to be. But if your master does not come as I have said, you will set your slaves on me to throw me from a great cliff, so that the next beggar will beware of telling lies.”

And the godlike swineherd answered him and said: “Stranger, that is how my fame and honor among men would be secured, both now and in the time to come— if I, who brought you to my hut and gave you guest-gifts, should then turn around and kill you and take your own dear life. With a ready heart then I could pray to Zeus, son of Cronos! But now it is time for supper. I hope my comrades will be home soon, so we can prepare a savory supper in the hut.”

As they were speaking these things to one another, the swine and the swineherds arrived close by. They drove the sows into their customary pens to sleep, and a tremendous noise arose from the pigs being stabled. Then the godlike swineherd called out to his comrades: “Bring the best of the hogs, so I can sacrifice it for my guest from a distant land. And we ourselves will have some profit, too, we who have long endured this misery for the sake of these white-tusked swine, while others eat our labor without payment.”

So he spoke, and began to split wood with the pitiless bronze, and the others brought in a very fat, five-year-old boar. They stood it before the hearth. And the swineherd did not forget the immortals, for his heart was filled with righteous thoughts. As a first offering, he threw hairs from the head of the white-tusked boar into the fire, and prayed to all the gods that wise Odysseus might return to his own home. Then raising himself up, he struck it with a piece of split oak that he had left aside from the cleaving. The boar’s life left it. The others then slit its throat and singed it, and quickly they jointed the carcass. The swineherd laid down raw pieces from the beginning of all the limbs, into the rich fat, and some of these he threw in the fire, sprinkled with barley meal. The rest they sliced up and pierced with spits, and roasted it all carefully, and then drew it off, and piled it all together on the platters. The swineherd stood up to carve, for his heart knew what was fair and just. He divided it all and carved it into seven portions. One portion he set aside for the Nymphs and for Hermes, son of Maia, with a prayer; the others he distributed to each man. But he honored Odysseus with the long cut of the chine of the white-tusked boar, and so gladdened his master’s heart. And Odysseus of many wiles spoke to him and said: “Eumaeus, may you be as dear to Father Zeus as you are to me, for honoring a man like me with such a noble portion.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him in turn: “Eat, my god-sent guest, and enjoy what is here before you. A god will give one thing and withhold another, just as he wishes in his heart, for he has power over all.” He spoke, and sacrificed the first cuts to the gods who are forever, and pouring a libation of dark wine, he placed the cup in the hands of Odysseus, sacker of cities, who sat by his own portion. Mesaulius served them bread, a slave the swineherd had acquired himself, alone, while his master was away, without the knowledge of his mistress or the old man Laertes. He had bought him from the Taphians with his own resources. Then they put forth their hands to the good food spread before them. When they had put aside their desire for food and drink, Mesaulius cleared the bread away, and they, sated with bread and meat, made haste to go to their beds.

Then a bad night came on, with the dark of the moon. Zeus rained the whole night through, and a great, wet West Wind always blew. And Odysseus spoke among them, to test the swineherd, to see if he might take off his own cloak and give it to him, or urge one of his comrades to, since he cared for him so much. “Listen to me now, Eumaeus and all you other comrades. I will tell a story with a boast. The wine commands me, witless wine, that urges even a very prudent man to sing, and to laugh softly, and sets him up to dance, and brings forth a word that was better left unspoken. But since I have cried out, I will not hold it back. If only I were as young and my strength as firm as when we led an ambush and laid it under Troy’s walls. Our leaders were Odysseus and Menelaus, son of Atreus, and I was the third in command with them; they ordered it themselves. When we had come up to the city and its steep wall, we lay down around the town in the thick brushwood, among the reeds and marsh, huddled under our armor. A bad night came on, with the North Wind falling, freezing cold. And snow came down on us like frost, bitterly cold, and ice formed hard around our shields. All the others there had cloaks and tunics, and they slept soundly, with their shields pulled over their shoulders. But I had foolishly left my cloak with my companions when I set out, not thinking I would be so cold, and so I had come along with only my shield and my shining loincloth. But when the night was a third of the way through, and the stars had shifted, I spoke then to Odysseus, who was near me, nudging him with my elbow. He listened at once. ‘Son of Laertes, seed of Zeus, Odysseus of many wiles, I will not be among the living much longer. This cold is killing me, for I have no cloak. Some spirit tricked me into coming with only a tunic. Now there is no escape.’ So I spoke, and at once this plan formed in his heart— such a man he was for planning, as for fighting. Speaking in a low voice, he answered me and said: ‘Be quiet now, so no other Achaean hears you.’ He spoke, and propping his head on his elbow, he said: ‘Listen, friends, a divine dream has come to me in my sleep. We have come too far from the ships. Let someone go and tell Agamemnon, son of Atreus, shepherd of the people, to see if he might urge more men to come out from the ships.’ So he spoke, and Thoas, son of Andraemon, rose up at once, threw off his crimson cloak, and started running for the ships. And I, in his garment, lay down gratefully, until golden-throned Dawn appeared. If only I were that young now, and my strength as firm. Some swineherd in these farm sheds would give me a cloak, both out of friendship and for respect of a good man. But now they scorn me because I wear these wretched clothes.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him in turn: “Old man, the tale you have told is a flawless one, and not a word you have said is out of place or without profit. So you will not lack for clothing, or for anything else that a long-suffering suppliant deserves upon meeting, at least for now. But in the morning you will have to flap your own rags again. For we do not have many cloaks or spare tunics here to change into, but only one for each man. But when the dear son of Odysseus comes, he himself will give you a cloak and tunic, clothes to wear, and send you wherever your heart and spirit bid you go.”

So saying, he sprang up and made a bed for him near the fire, and in it he threw the skins of sheep and goats. There Odysseus lay down. And over him the swineherd threw a thick, great cloak, which he kept as a change of clothing, to wear whenever a terrible winter storm should rise. So there Odysseus slept, and beside him the young men slept as well. But the swineherd had no mind to make his bed there, to sleep so far from his boars. He armed himself to go outside, and Odysseus was glad that he took such care of his property while he was away. First he slung a sharp sword over his sturdy shoulders, then wrapped himself in a thick cloak to keep the wind out, and took up the fleece of a large, well-fed goat, and grasped a sharp spear, to ward off dogs and men. Then he went to lie down where the white-tusked boars were sleeping under a hollow rock, sheltered from the North Wind.