Book XXI

Then the goddess, bright-eyed Athena, put the thought into the mind of Icarius’ daughter, the ever-prudent Penelope, to set before the suitors the bow and the axes of gray iron in Odysseus’ halls—a contest, and the prelude to their slaughter. She climbed the high stair that led to her own chamber, and took in her firm hand the finely-curved key, a handsome one of bronze, with a hilt of ivory upon it. She went with her serving-women toward the storeroom, the farthest one, where the treasures of her lord were kept— bronze and gold and iron, finely forged. There lay the great recurved bow and the quiver that held the arrows, and many groaning shafts were inside, gifts that a guest-friend gave him, meeting him in Lacedaemon— Iphitus, son of Eurytus, a man like the immortal gods. The two had met one another in Messene, in the house of the warrior Ortilochus. Odysseus, for his part, had come for a debt the entire populace owed him; for Messenian men had lifted from Ithaca three hundred sheep in their many-benched ships, and their shepherds with them. For their sake Odysseus came that long road on an embassy, though still a youth, sent forth by his father and the other elders. Iphitus, in his turn, was searching for horses he had lost— twelve brood mares, with their patient mule-foals beside them. Those same mares would prove to be his murder and his fate, when he came to the mighty-hearted son of Zeus, the hero Heracles, a master of tremendous deeds, who killed him in his own house, though he was his guest-friend— a savage act! He felt no awe for the gods’ wrath, nor for the table he himself had laid. He murdered him then and there, and kept the strong-hoofed mares for himself in his halls. While seeking them, he met Odysseus and gave him the bow that great Eurytus himself once carried, and on his deathbed had left to his son in his high-roofed halls. To him, Odysseus gave a sharp sword and a powerful spear, the start of a warm guest-friendship; yet they never came to know each other at the table, for the son of Zeus had killed Iphitus, son of Eurytus, a man like the immortal gods, the one who gave him the bow. But godlike Odysseus would never take that bow with him when he went to war on his black ships; instead, as a keepsake of his dear guest-friend, it lay in his great halls, and he carried it only on his own lands.

Now when that queen among women reached the storeroom, she stepped upon the oaken threshold, which a craftsman long ago had skillfully planed and trued to the line, fitting the doorposts in and hanging the shining doors. At once she swiftly loosed the thong from the handle, inserted the key, and with a sure aim shot back the bolts of the doors. They groaned deep, like a bull that bellows feeding in a meadow—so loud the great doors roared as the key struck, and they swung open before her. She stepped up to a high platform, where the chests stood holding fragrant clothing. Reaching from there, she took the bow from its peg, still in the gleaming case that covered it. Then sitting down, she laid it on her lap and wept with high, clear cries as she drew out her lord’s bow. But when she had her fill of soul-rending sorrow, she went her way to the great hall, to the haughty suitors, holding the recurved bow in her hand, and the quiver that held the arrows, and many groaning shafts were inside. With her, her serving-women carried a chest in which lay the store of iron and bronze, the prizes of her lord. When that queen among women reached the suitors, she stood beside a pillar of the well-built roof, drawing her shining veil across her cheeks. A loyal serving-woman stood on either side of her. At once she addressed the suitors, and spoke her word: “Listen to me, you arrogant suitors, who have plagued this house, eating and drinking endlessly, day after day, while its master is long gone. You could devise no other pretext for your conduct than your desire to marry me and make me your wife. So come now, suitors, since this is the prize before you. I shall set out the great bow of godlike Odysseus, and whoever can most easily string the bow in his hands and shoot an arrow through all twelve axes, with him I will go, leaving this house behind, this bridal home, so beautiful, so filled with all good things, a place I think I will remember, even in my dreams.”

So she spoke, and ordered Eumaeus, the good swineherd, to set the bow and the gray iron before the suitors. Weeping, Eumaeus took them and set them down. The cattleherd also wept nearby when he saw his master’s bow. But Antinous rebuked them, and spoke out, calling them by name: “You foolish rustics, who think only of the day! Wretched pair, why do you let your tears fall and stir the heart of this lady in her breast? Her heart already lies deep in sorrow, since she lost her beloved husband. Sit down and eat in silence, or else go outside and weep there, and leave the bow here where it is, a daunting trial for the suitors. For I do not think this polished bow will be easily strung. There is no man among all those present here such as Odysseus was. I saw him myself, and I remember him well, though I was just a witless child.”

So he spoke, but the heart in his chest was hoping to string the bowstring and shoot an arrow through the iron. In truth, he was to be the first to taste an arrow from the hands of flawless Odysseus, whom he now dishonored, sitting in his halls and urging on all his comrades. Then among them spoke the sacred might of Telemachus: “Oh, what a fool Zeus, son of Cronus, has made of me! My own dear mother, wise as she is, declares she will follow another man and leave this house behind, yet I laugh and rejoice with a witless heart. So come now, suitors, since this is the prize before you, a woman like none other now in the Achaean land, not in sacred Pylos, nor Argos, nor Mycenae, not in Ithaca itself, nor on the dark mainland. You know this yourselves. Why should I praise my mother? Come then, do not hold back with excuses or delay any longer from the drawing of the bow, so we may see. And I myself might even try this bow. If I can string it and shoot an arrow through the iron, my honored mother would not have to leave this house in sorrow, following another, while I am left behind, able at last to win my father’s noble prizes.”

He spoke, and springing to his feet, he cast the crimson cloak from his shoulders, and slung the sharp sword from them too. First he set up the axes, digging one long trench for all, and trued them to the line, and he stamped the earth down around them. Wonder seized all who watched how gracefully he set them, though he had never seen it done before. Then he went and stood on the threshold and began to try the bow. Three times he made it tremble, straining to draw it, three times he relaxed his grip, though hoping in his heart to string the bow and shoot an arrow through the iron. And he might have strung it on his fourth powerful attempt, but Odysseus gave a sign and checked him, for all his eagerness. Then again the sacred might of Telemachus spoke among them: “Oh, what a weakling and a coward I will be hereafter, or else I am too young and cannot yet trust my hands to defend myself from a man who provokes me first. But come, you who are far stronger than I am, try the bow, and let us finish this contest.”

With that, he set the bow down on the ground, leaning it against the well-joined, polished doors, and propped the swift arrow against the beautiful bow-tip, then went back and sat on the chair from which he had risen. And Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke among them: “Rise up in order, all my comrades, from left to right, starting from the place where the wine-pourer sits.” So spoke Antinous, and his word was pleasing to them. The first to rise was Leodes, son of Oenops, who was their seer; he always sat by the handsome mixing bowl at the far end of the hall. Outrageous violence was hateful to him alone, and he was angered by all the suitors. He was the first then to take the bow and the swift arrow. He went and stood on the threshold and began to try the bow, but could not string it. Before he could, his hands grew tired from the pulling, his soft, unworn hands. He spoke among the suitors: “My friends, I cannot string it. Let some other man take it. This bow will break the heart and spirit of many of our best men. It is far better to be dead than to live on and fail in the very thing for which we gather here each day, waiting, always waiting. Right now, a man hopes in his heart and longs to marry Penelope, the wife of Odysseus. But when he has tried the bow and seen his failure, let him then seek some other fair-robed Achaean woman, wooing her with gifts. And she may then marry the one who gives the most and is destined to be her husband.”

So he spoke, and set the bow aside from himself, leaning it against the well-joined, polished doors, and propped the swift arrow against the beautiful bow-tip, then went back and sat on the chair from which he had risen. But Antinous rebuked him, and spoke out, calling him by name: “Leodes, what a word has escaped the barrier of your teeth! A dreadful, painful word—it angers me to hear it— to say this bow will break the heart and spirit of our best men, just because you cannot string it. Your honored mother did not bear you to be a drawer of bows and shooter of arrows. But others, the noble suitors, will string it soon enough.”

So he spoke, and ordered Melanthius, the goatherd: “Come now, Melanthius, light a fire in the hall, and place a large stool beside it with a fleece upon it, and bring out the great wheel of tallow that is inside, so we young men can warm the bow and grease it with the fat, then try again and finish this contest.” So he spoke, and Melanthius quickly kindled the tireless fire, brought a stool and placed it near, with a fleece upon it, and brought out the great wheel of tallow from inside. The young men warmed the bow and tried, but could not string it; they were far too lacking in the strength required. But Antinous still held back, and godlike Eurymachus, the leaders of the suitors, who were by far the best in prowess.

Then the cattleherd and the swineherd of godlike Odysseus went out of the house together, and godlike Odysseus himself came out after them from the hall. And when they were outside the gates and the courtyard, he called out to them and spoke in gentle words: “Cattleherd, and you, swineherd, shall I tell you a certain word, or should I keep it to myself? My heart urges me to speak. What sort of men would you be, to defend Odysseus, if he came from somewhere, so suddenly, and some god brought him here? Would you defend the suitors, or Odysseus? Speak, as your heart and spirit command you.” Then the man who was foreman of the cattle spoke to him in turn: “Father Zeus, if only you would grant this wish, that the man might come, and a god might guide him home! Then you would know what power is mine, and how my hands obey.” And in the same way Eumaeus prayed to all the gods that resourceful Odysseus might return to his own home. And when he knew their true and unerring thoughts, he answered them again and spoke to them in words: “I am that man. Here I am, myself, home at last, after much suffering, in the twentieth year I have come to my own native land. And I know that I come to you two alone of all my servants who wished for my return. From the others I have not heard a single prayer that I might come back home again. To you two, I will tell the truth of how things will be. If a god brings down the noble suitors under my hand, I will find wives for you both, and grant you possessions, and houses built near my own. And you shall be to me the comrades and brothers of Telemachus. But come now, I will show you another, clearer sign, so you may know me well and trust me in your hearts— the scar, which a boar once gave me with its white tusk when I went to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus.”

So saying, he drew back the rags from the great scar. And when the two had seen it and marked every detail well, they threw their arms around the warrior Odysseus and wept, and kissed him lovingly on his head and shoulders. And in the same way Odysseus kissed their heads and hands. And the light of the sun would have set on their weeping, had not Odysseus himself restrained them, and said: “Stop this weeping and wailing, so that no one sees coming out from the hall, and tells them what is happening inside. Go back in one by one, not all together; I will go first, and you after me. Let this be the sign: all the others, the noble suitors, will not allow the bow and quiver to be given to me. But you, good Eumaeus, carry the bow through the hall and place it in my hands. Then tell the women to lock the solid doors of their chamber. And if any of them hears a groaning or a crash of men within our walls, she is not to venture out, but to stay where she is, in silence, at her work. And to you, good Philoetius, I entrust the courtyard gates. Lock them with the bolt, and lash the rope on quickly.”

So saying, he went into the well-settled halls and sat down on the stool from which he had risen. And the two servants of godlike Odysseus went in as well. Eurymachus was now handling the bow, warming it here and there in the glow of the fire, but even so he could not string it. His proud heart groaned aloud, and vexed, he spoke a word, and called out, and said: “Oh, what sorrow I feel for myself and for everyone! It is not for the marriage I mourn so much, though I am grieved; there are many other Achaean women, some here in sea-girt Ithaca, and some in other cities. But if we are so lacking in the strength of godlike Odysseus that we cannot even string his bow, it will be a disgrace for future generations to hear of.” Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him in turn: “Eurymachus, it will not be so, as you yourself well know. Today is a holy festival in the land, for the god. Who would be drawing bows? Set it aside, calmly. And what if we let all the axes stand? I do not think anyone will come into the hall of Odysseus, Laertes’ son, and take them away. Come, let the wine-pourer begin to fill the cups, so we may pour libations and put aside the curved bow. And in the morning, order Melanthius, the goatherd, to bring the best goats from all his herds, so we may lay the thigh-pieces before Apollo, the glorious archer, and then try the bow and finish the contest.”

So spoke Antinous, and his word was pleasing to them. The heralds poured water over their hands, and young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with drink, and served it to all, after pouring the first drops in each cup. Then, when they had poured libations and drunk as their hearts desired, resourceful Odysseus spoke among them, weaving a cunning plan: “Listen to me, suitors of the glorious queen, so I may speak what the heart in my chest commands me. I ask this especially of Eurymachus and godlike Antinous, since his word just now was so fittingly spoken: for now, put aside the bow and leave it to the gods, and in the morning, the god will grant victory to whom he will. But come, give me the polished bow, so that in your company I may test my hands and my strength, to see if I still have the power that once was in my supple limbs, or if wandering and neglect have destroyed it now.” So he spoke, and they all grew exceedingly angry, fearing he might string the polished bow. And Antinous rebuked him, and spoke out, calling him by name: “Ah, you wretched stranger, you have not a shred of sense! Are you not content to dine in peace among your betters, lacking for no part of the feast, and hearing our words and our speech? No other stranger or beggar gets to hear our talk. The honey-sweet wine has addled you, as it has others who gulp it down and do not drink in measure. Wine is what maddened the Centaur, the famous Eurytion, in the hall of great-hearted Peirithous, when he came to the Lapiths. When his mind was crazed with wine, he went on a rampage and did evil in the house of Peirithous. Sorrow seized the heroes, and springing up, they dragged him out through the forecourt and out the doors, and with pitiless bronze they sheared off his ears and his nose. And he, his mind still crazed, went on his way, bearing the burden of his folly in his witless heart. From that day, the feud between Centaurs and men began, but he brought disaster first upon himself, heavy with wine. So too I foretell great trouble for you, if you string that bow. You will find no kindness in our land, and we will send you at once in a black ship to King Echetus, the maimer of all mortals, from whom you will not escape. So drink your wine in peace, and do not try to compete with younger men.” Then the ever-prudent Penelope spoke to him in turn: “Antinous, it is not good or just to mistreat the guests of Telemachus, whoever comes to this house. Do you suppose that if this stranger, trusting in the might of his hands, should string the great bow of Odysseus, he would lead me home and make me his wife? Not even he, I think, harbors such a hope in his heart. Let none of you dine here with a troubled spirit on that account, for it is not in any way fitting.” Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered her in turn: “Daughter of Icarius, ever-prudent Penelope, we do not think he will lead you away; that would not be fitting. But we are ashamed of the talk of men and women, for fear that some lesser Achaean might one day say: ‘Look how far inferior are the men who woo the wife of a flawless man; they cannot even string his polished bow. But some other man, a wandering beggar, came along and strung the bow with ease, and shot through the iron.’ So they will say, and this would become a reproach to us.” Then the ever-prudent Penelope spoke to him in turn: “Eurymachus, there is no way for men to have good repute in the land when they dishonor and devour the house of a noble man. Why do you make this a reproach? This stranger is very tall and strongly built, and he claims to be the son of a noble father. Come, give him the polished bow, so we may see. For I will say this, and it will surely be fulfilled: if he strings it, and Apollo grants him that glory, I will dress him in a cloak and tunic, beautiful garments, and I will give him a sharp javelin, a defense against dogs and men, and a two-edged sword. I will give him sandals for his feet, and send him wherever his heart and spirit command him.” Then the wise Telemachus answered her in turn: “My mother, concerning the bow, no Achaean has a greater right than I to give it or deny it, to whomever I wish— not those who rule in rocky Ithaca, nor those on the islands toward horse-pasturing Elis. Not one of them will force my will, if I should choose to give this bow to the stranger, once and for all, to carry away. So go to your chamber and attend to your own work, the loom and the distaff, and direct your serving-women to go about their tasks. The bow will be the concern of men, of all men, but most of all for me. For mine is the power in this house.” She, in amazement, went back to her own chamber, for she took her son’s wise words to heart. Climbing to the upper room with her serving-women, she then wept for Odysseus, her beloved husband, until bright-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids. Meanwhile the good swineherd had taken the curved bow to carry it, but the suitors all shouted out in the halls. And one of the arrogant young men would say: “Where are you taking that curved bow, you miserable swineherd, you vagrant? Soon the swift dogs you raised yourself will tear you apart out there with your pigs, alone and away from men, if Apollo and the other immortal gods are gracious to us.” So they spoke, and he set down the bow where he stood, terrified, because so many were shouting at him in the halls. But from the other side Telemachus called out with a threat: “Father, bring the bow forward. You will soon find you cannot obey everyone. Or I, though younger than you, will chase you to the fields, pelting you with stones. I am stronger than you are. If only I were as much stronger in the might of my hands than all the suitors who are in this house; then I would soon send some of them on a sorry journey out of our home, for they are plotting evil.”

So he spoke, and all the suitors laughed heartily at him and let go of their bitter anger against Telemachus. The swineherd carried the bow through the hall, and standing beside the warrior Odysseus, he placed it in his hands. Then he called the nurse Eurycleia out and said to her: “Wise Eurycleia, Telemachus commands you to lock the solid doors of the women’s chamber. And if any of them hears a groaning or a crash of men within our walls, she is not to venture out, but to stay where she is, in silence, at her work.” So he spoke, and for her the word was unwinged. She locked the doors of the well-settled halls. In silence, Philoetius slipped out of the house and then locked the gates of the well-fenced courtyard. Under the portico lay the cable of a curved ship, made of papyrus, and with it he lashed the gates, then went back inside. He sat down on the stool from which he had risen, his eyes fixed on Odysseus. He was now handling the bow, turning it all around, testing it here and there, fearing that worms might have eaten into the horn while the master was away. And one man would look at his neighbor and say: “He must be a connoisseur, a collector of bows! Perhaps he has one like it lying at home, or he is keen to make one, the way he turns it over and over in his hands, this trouble-making vagrant.” And another of the arrogant young men would say: “May he have as much good fortune as he has chance of ever being able to string that bow!” So the suitors spoke. But resourceful Odysseus, as soon as he had lifted the great bow and looked it over, as when a man who is skilled with the lyre and in song stretches a string with ease around a new tuning peg, securing at both ends the well-twisted gut of a sheep, so without strain Odysseus strung the great bow. Taking it in his right hand, he tested the string, and it sang out with a beautiful sound, like a swallow’s cry. Great sorrow came upon the suitors, and the color of their skin all changed. And Zeus thundered loudly, showing his sign. Then the much-enduring, godlike Odysseus rejoiced that the son of crooked-counseling Cronus had sent him a portent. He picked up a swift arrow that lay bare on the table beside him; the others still lay inside the hollow quiver, the ones the Achaeans were soon to experience. He set it on the bow-grip, and drew the string and the arrow-notches, sitting right there on his stool. He shot the arrow, aiming straight, and did not miss the opening of a single axe, from the very first haft-hole. The bronze-heavy arrow flew clean through and out the other side. Then he spoke to Telemachus: “Telemachus, the guest who sits in your halls does not disgrace you. I did not miss my mark, nor did I toil long in stringing the bow. My strength is still intact, not as the suitors in their scorn dishonor me. But now is the time for the Achaeans’ dinner to be prepared, while it is still light. And afterward, there must be other entertainment, with song and with the lyre, for these are the crowns of a feast.”

He spoke, and nodded with his brow. Telemachus, the true son of godlike Odysseus, girt on his sharp sword, closed his hand around his spear, and took his place beside him, standing near his father’s throne, armed in flashing bronze.