Book XVII

Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, sprang into brightness, the beloved son of godlike Odysseus, Telemachus, bound under his feet his beautiful sandals and seized up that stout spear which fit so well his grip. Eager for the city, he stood and spoke his word to the swineherd: “Old father, truly I am going to the town so that my mother may see me for herself.

I think there is no stopping her bitter grief or the sound of her tear-drenched lament before she sees my face. But here is my command for you: lead this unlucky stranger into the city so he can beg his supper; and whoever has the will will give him a loaf and a cup of drink. As for me, I cannot shoulder the burden of every man, with such heartache already.

Besides, if the stranger is truly angered by this, the worse it will be for him; I happen to love plain truths.” Then Odysseus of the many wiles answered him: “Friend, I myself have no desire to be kept back here. For a beggar it is far better to beg his food in the city streets than among the open fields; whoever has the will will give to me there. My age is past the point of lingering at the farmstead and obeying every command an overseer gives. But you go on; this man here whom you bid will lead me as soon as I have warmed myself at the fire and the sun climbs hot. For the clothes I wear are wretched; let not the morning frost overpower me. Besides, you said yourself the city lies far away.

” So he spoke, and Telemachus walked out through the steading, striding with swift feet, planting seeds of doom for the suitors. But when his path reached the well-appointed halls, he stood the spear he carried upright against a tall pillar, and he himself went inward and crossed the threshold of stone. By far the first to see him was his nurse, Eurycleia, spreading fleeces over the intricately carved chairs.

Weeping openly, she went straight toward him, and all around the other handmaids of much-enduring Odysseus gathered close, kissing his head and both shoulders in welcome. Then from her upper chamber came the prudent Penelope, looking like Artemis or like golden Aphrodite. She threw her arms around her dear son and wept, and kissed his head and both his beautiful eyes, and through her tears addressed him with winged words: “You have come home, Telemachus, sweet light of my eyes.

I thought I would never see you again after you sailed in secret to Pylos—against my will—to seek word of your dear father. But come now, tell me what your own eyes have witnessed.” Then in turn the thoughtful Telemachus gave answer: “My mother, do not rouse me to weeping now or stir my heart in my chest, when I have just fled an absolute ruin.

No, go and wash, put clean clothes on your body, and climb to the upper rooms with your attendant women, and vow to all the gods that you will offer perfect hecatombs, if ever Zeus should grant us deeds of vengeance in return. But I myself will go to the assembly to summon the stranger-guest who followed me from abroad when I came. I sent him on ahead with my godlike companions, and I instructed Peiraeus to lead him home and treat him with kindness and honor, until I should come.

” So he spoke, and his words, unwinged, fell dead upon her. She washed with water, put clean clothes upon her body, and prayed to all the gods to offer perfect hecatombs, if ever Zeus should grant them deeds of vengeance in return. But Telemachus went on out through the great hall, holding his spear, and a pair of swift hounds went with him.

Athena shed a surpassing grace upon his body, and all the people marveled at him as he approached. The overbearing suitors gathered around him, speaking smooth words of friendship while hiding wounds in their hearts. But he eluded the thick crowd of these men and went straight to where Mentor sat, and Antiphus, and Halitherses— the men who from the very start were his father’s friends.

He sat down there, and they asked him the full story. Then Peiraeus, the famous spearman, came near, leading the stranger through the city toward the assembly; and Telemachus did not stand aside from the man but came right up to greet him. It was Peiraeus who spoke the first word in that meeting: “Telemachus, send your women to my house at once, so I may forward to you the gifts Menelaus gave you.” But thoughtful Telemachus gave him this answer: “Peiraeus, neither of us knows how these things will end. If the insolent suitors murder me in secret inside this hall and divide my father’s estate, I would rather you enjoy those treasures yourself than any of them. But if I plant death and fate for these men, then bring the gifts home with joy to one who rejoices.

” So he spoke, and led the much-traveled stranger to his house. And when they reached the well-appointed halls, they laid their cloaks upon the chairs and couches, and stepped into the polished baths and washed. After the house-maids had bathed them and rubbed them with oil and wrapped them in thick wool cloaks and fresh tunics, they stepped out of the baths and sat down upon the chairs.

A handmaid brought fresh water in a golden pitcher— a beautiful golden jug—and poured it over a silver basin so they might wash their hands; then drew up a polished table. The trusted housekeeper arrived and set out bread for them, then heaped up many relishes, giving freely of what was stored. But Telemachus’s mother sat opposite him at a pillar of the hall, leaning against a chair, and she twisted fine wool on her distaff.

They reached their hands out to the ready feast laid before them, and when they had driven away all craving for food and drink, the prudent Penelope began their talk, saying: “Telemachus, truly I am going to climb to my high room and lie down on that bed which has become for me a bed of sighs, always drenched by my tears, from the day Odysseus sailed off with the sons of Atreus to Ilion.

And you did not dare, before the overbearing suitors overran this house, to tell me clearly of your father's return, if indeed you had heard any news.” Thoughtful Telemachus answered her and said: “Then I, mother, will tell you the entire truth. We went to Pylos and to Nestor, the shepherd of the people, and he received me in his towering halls and treated me with the same attentive kindness a father shows a son who has come home at last after long years abroad;

so he cared for me with care, he and his shining sons together. But of much-enduring Odysseus, he said he had never heard a word from any mortal walking the earth, whether the man was alive or dead. But he sent me on with horses and a joined-up chariot to Menelaus, Atreus’s son, the famous spearman. There I saw Argive Helen, for whose sake so many Argives and Trojans, by the will of the gods, were broken.

And Menelaus, good at the war-cry, asked me straight out what need had brought me to rich Lacedaemon. So I told him the whole truth of my errand, and in his turn he answered me and said: ‘So all cowards, desiring to lie down in a brave man’s bed! As when a doe has dropped her newborn suckling fawns, still weak, in the thicket of a powerful lion, and goes out roaming the spurs and grassy glades to graze—then the lion stalks back into his own lair and unleashes a hideous fate on both fawns— so Odysseus will unleash a hideous fate on those men.

O Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo! If only he might come, in the same form he had in well-built Lesbos when he rose up and wrestled Philomeleides in anger and slammed him down with brutal force, and all the Achaeans cheered! If Odysseus, in such form, could meet the suitors face to face, they would all find a swift death and bitter wedlock.

But as for what you ask and beg of me, I will not swerve aside into other stories, nor deceive you. Of the things the unerring Old Man of the Sea told me, I will hide not a single word from you nor conceal it. He said he had seen Odysseus on an island, suffering intense pains, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who holds him by force; and the man cannot reach his own fatherland, for he has no ships with oars, and no companions to send him safely over the wide back of the sea.’ So spoke Atreus’s son, Menelaus, famous spearman. Having finished that, I started home, and the immortals gave me a following wind that sent me swiftly to my native land.

” So he spoke, and he stirred the heart within her breast. Then among them spoke Theoclymenus, the godlike: “O honored wife of Odysseus, Laertes' son, he truly does not know clearly; but listen to my word, for I will prophesy to you exactly, without hiding. Let Zeus be my witness, first of the gods, and this table of strangers, and the hearth of blameless Odysseus to which I have come: Odysseus is already in his own native land, sitting still or moving in secret, learning of these evil deeds, and he is planting the seed of ruin for every suitor.

Such was the bird of omen that I, sitting on the well-benched ship, marked and clearly declared to Telemachus.” Then prudent Penelope spoke to him again: “Stranger, if only this word of yours could find fulfillment, then you would quickly know my friendship and receive many gifts from me, so any man who met you would call you blessed.”

So they talked in this way to one another, while before the palace of Odysseus the suitors were making sport, throwing the discus and the hunting spear on the hard-packed level ground, where they usually ran riot. But when the dinner hour drew near, and the flocks came up from all sides out of the fields—the same men who always drove them— then Medon addressed those suitors; he was the herald who pleased them most, and always sat alongside them at feast: “Young lords, now that you have all enjoyed your games, go to the halls, so we can make the dinner ready. It is no worse a thing to take your meal in season.

” So he spoke, and they rose and went, obeying his word. And when they reached the well-appointed halls, they tossed their cloaks over the chairs and couches, and sacrificed great sheep and plump goats, sacrificed fattened hogs and a heifer from the herd, all to make the dinner ready. Meanwhile, Odysseus and the noble swineherd were making haste to leave the fields for the city.

It was the swineherd, captain of men, who began their talk and said: “Stranger, since you are so determined to go into town today—as my master ordered; though I myself would rather have you stay here as a warden of the farmsteads— still, I stand in awe of him, and I am afraid he will scold me afterward. And harsh are the scoldings of a master.

So come, let us go now. The day is mostly spent; soon toward evening the cold will come upon you.” Then Odysseus of many wiles answered him and said: “I understand, I see it clearly. You are giving orders to one who knows. Let us go, and from here on you guide me. But give me a staff, if you have one cut and ready somewhere, to lean on, because you said the path was truly slippery.”

He spoke, and slung around his shoulder his battered satchel, dense with tears and holes, with a twisted strap for hanging. Eumaeus gave him a staff suited to his liking. Then the two of them stepped forward, leaving behind the stead the dogs and herdsmen to guard it. And the swineherd led his king toward the city, disguised as a squalid beggar and an old man, stooped on a staff, wearing miserable rags about his body.

But as they walked the rough-beaten road and neared the city, they arrived at a public well— a flowing fountain of worked stone, where the townsfolk drew water, which Ithacus had built, with Neritus and Polyctor. All around it there was a grove of poplars fed by water, planted in a circle, and cold water cascaded down from the high rock overhead.

An altar stood above it, dedicated to the Nymphs, where every traveler made offerings. There the son of Dolius, Melanthius, met them, driving fine goats, the best of all the herds, for the suitors’ feast, and two herdsmen followed with him. When he saw the pair, he hurled an insult that cut deep, a shocking, hideous thing, and it stirred the heart of Odysseus: “Now truly trash leads trash.

True as ever, the god brings like to like. Where are you dragging this glutton, you loathsome swineherd—this sickening beggar, a killjoy at every feast? He’ll stand at many doorposts and rub his shoulders against the wood, begging for crusts, never for swords or cauldrons. Now if you gave this man to me to watch my steading, to sweep out the pens and bring fresh green fodder to the kids, he might drink whey and put a thigh of meat on his bones.

But since his only skill is in mischief, he won’t care to set his hand to real work; no, he’d rather crouch his way through the parish, begging and cramming his belly that knows no limits. But I will say this, and it will come to pass: if he goes near the halls of godlike Odysseus, a storm of footstools thrown by the hands of men will fly at his head and crack his ribs across that house.

” So he spoke, and strolling past in his stupidity, he lashed out his foot and kicked Odysseus on the hip. But he could not drive him clean off the path. The man stood planted utterly still. Then Odysseus pondered hard whether he should leap on him and beat the life from him with his staff, or lift him by the head and smash his skull on the ground.

But he endured it all, held his soul in check. Yet the swineherd stared him in the face, cursed him aloud, and lifting his hands, prayed a great prayer: “Nymphs of the spring, daughters of Zeus, if ever Odysseus burned the thigh-bones for you, wrapped in rich fat of lambs and tender kids, grant me this wish now: let that man come back, brought home by a god’s hand.

Then he would scatter all the swagger you flaunt, you poor fool, roaming always through the city, while worthless herdsmen ruin the flocks!” Then Melanthius, the goatherd, answered him: “Ah, what words this spiteful dog has uttered! I will take him one day on a black, well-benched ship far from Ithaca, so he can earn me a hefty price.

If only Apollo of the silver bow would shoot down Telemachus today in the hall, or let the suitors slaughter him, as surely as the day of Odysseus’s homecoming has perished far away.” With that, he left the pair trudging slowly along and went striding swiftly right into the king’s house. Stepping in, he sat down among the suitors, opposite Eurymachus, because he loved him most.

The table-servants set a portion of meat beside him, and the trusted housekeeper came bearing bread and set it down for him to eat. Just then, Odysseus and the noble swineherd came to a halt outside; they stood, and around them floated the sound of the hollow lyre, for Phemius was striking up to sing among the suitors. Then Odysseus seized the swineherd’s hand: “Eumaeus, truly this must be the beautiful house of Odysseus.

It is easy to recognize, even among many others. Its building rises nobly, the courtyard is exquisitely finished with wall and cornice, and the double doors are perfectly made—no man could find fault with it. I can tell that many men are feasting inside it now, for the smell of meat goes up, and the lyre sings out, that thing the gods made the companion of the feast.”

Then you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him and said: “You know it easily enough, for you are no fool in other things either. But come now, let us figure out how this business will go. Either you go in first into the well-appointed halls, among the suitors, while I stay behind here a moment; or stay here if you wish, while I go in before you.

But do not linger; someone might spot you outside and hit you or drive you off. I warn you, think well.” Then much-enduring, noble Odysseus answered him: “I understand, I see it clearly. You are giving orders to one who knows. But you go on ahead; I will wait here, for I am not untrained in beatings, nor in flying stones.

My heart is hardened, because I have suffered much evil among the waves and in war. Let this come among those other sorrows. As for the belly, it is impossible to hide its aching craving— that accursed thing which gives so many ills to men, and for its sake well-benched ships are made ready to sail the barren sea and carry destruction to enemies.”

Those were the words they spoke to one another; and a dog, lying there, lifted his head and ears. This was Argos, the hound of much-enduring Odysseus, whom he himself had raised once, but got no joy of him, before he sailed away to sacred Ilion. In earlier times the young men used to take him out after the wild goats, and deer, and hare;

but now he lay abandoned, his master gone, on the deep pile of mule and cattle dung that spread before the courtyard gates— there it lay, until the slaves of Odysseus should cart it away to manure the great estate. There lay the dog Argos, crawling with fleas. Yet even so, when he sensed Odysseus standing near, he wagged his tail and let both ears drop back, but could not drag himself an inch toward his master.

And Odysseus, turning his face aside, wiped away a tear, easily hiding it from Eumaeus. Then he carefully questioned him: “Eumaeus, it is a wonder, this dog lying on the dung heap. His build is magnificent, but I cannot tell for certain whether he had speed to match this beauty of form, or was just a lapdog of the kind that men keep at their tables for the sake of looks and which their masters pamper for the pride of it.”

Then you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him and said: “This is the hound of a man who died far away. If he had the same body and the same drive for action that Odysseus left behind in him when he went to Troy, you would be stunned at the sight of his speed and fierceness. No beast he started in the dense depths of the forest ever escaped him, for he was outstanding at the track.

But now he suffers in misery. His master has perished far from his homeland, and the careless women take no care of him. For slaves, when their masters no longer rule over them, no longer wish to do honest work. For far-seeing Zeus takes away half a man’s worth the day the yoke of slavery seizes him.” So speaking, he went inside the well-appointed halls, and walked straight through the great room to the proud suitors.

But upon Argos fell the dark fate of death, the very moment he had seen his master again in the twentieth year. Now by far the first to see the swineherd entering the hall was godlike Telemachus. He quickly gave a nod and called the man to him. Glancing around, Eumaeus took a stool lying near by, where the carver sat slicing plenty of meat for the suitors as they feasted the length of the hall.

He carried this over and set it right opposite Telemachus's table, and sat on it. A herald lifted out a portion of meat from the basket and set it before him, and bread as well. Close behind him, Odysseus entered his own house, disguised as a squalid beggar and an old man, stooped on a staff, wearing miserable rags about his body.

He sat down on the ash-wood threshold inside the doors, leaning against the cypress doorpost, which a carpenter had once smoothed with expert skill and trued to the plumb-line. Telemachus beckoned the swineherd over and said to him, taking a whole loaf from the beautiful bread-basket and meat, as much as his two hands could hold: “Take this and give it to the stranger, and tell him to go around and beg outright from every suitor. Shame is no good companion for a needy man.

” So he spoke, and the swineherd went, once he had heard his order, and standing close, addressed him with winged words: “Stranger, Telemachus gives you these things, and tells you to go around and beg outright from every suitor. Shame, he says, is no good companion for a begging man.” Then Odysseus of many wiles answered him and said: “Lord Zeus, let Telemachus be blessed among all men, and let everything he longs for in his heart come true.”

He spoke, and took the gifts in both hands, setting them down right there before his feet, on top of his miserable satchel. And he ate on, while the bard sang throughout the hall. When he finished his meal, the divine bard stopped his song. But the suitors broke into an uproar through the hall. Then Athena drew near to Laertes’ son, Odysseus, and urged him to go and beg crusts from each suitor, to test which ones were just and which were lawless.

Yet even so, she meant to save not one of them from ruin. So he went up to beg from each man, moving right to left, reaching everywhere with his hands, as though he had been a beggar all his life. And the suitors, pitying him, gave him bread, and marveled at him, asking one another who he was and where he came from. Then Melanthius the goatherd spoke among them: “Listen, you suitors of our glorious queen, about this stranger. I have seen his face before. I know the swineherd brought him here to us, but who the man himself claims to be in lineage, I cannot say.

” So he spoke, and Antinous swore at the swineherd: “O famous swineherd, why did you bring this man to town? Aren’t there enough wandering beggars here already, deathly nuisances, ruiners of every feast? Or have you grown weary that so many gather here and eat up your master’s substance, so you had to invite this one as well?”

Then you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him and said: “Antinous, you speak poorly for a man so noble. Who goes out of his way to invite a stranger from abroad, unless he is one of those who serve the public good— a prophet, or a healer of ills, or a shipwright, or a divinely inspired singer who gives pleasure with his song?

These are the men they welcome across the boundless earth. Nobody would ever call in a beggar to bleed himself dry. But you are the hardest of all the suitors, always on the backs of Odysseus’s servants, and most of all on me. Though I do not care at all, as long as prudent Penelope is alive within these halls, and godlike Telemachus.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus spoke in answer to him: “Silence. Do not trade sharp words with this man. Antinous has a vicious habit of always provoking with cruel taunts, and goading the others into it too.” That said, he turned and addressed Antinous with winged words: “Antinous, you are a fine guardian of my interests, like a father to his son, when you tell me to drive this stranger out of the hall with a harsh command.

May a god never bring such a thing to pass. Take and give him something. I don’t begrudge it; I myself am telling you to do it. And do not hold back out of deference to my mother, or to any other servant in the house of godlike Odysseus. But no, you have no such thought within your chest. You would far rather eat it all yourself than give it to another.”

Then Antinous answered him and said in turn: “Telemachus, you high-blown brawler, your fury has no check. What sort of thing to say! If all the suitors would hand him as much as I, his home would keep him away for three whole months.” He spoke, and reaching under the table, seized the footstool he used to prop his sleek feet while he feasted, and brandished it.

But all the others gave gifts to the beggar, and filled his satchel with bread and meat. Soon Odysseus was about to go back to his threshold and taste the bounty of the Achaeans without cost. But first he stood beside Antinous and addressed him: “Give something, friend. You do not seem to be the lowest man among the Achaeans, but the best;

you have the look of a king. So you should give me a better portion even than the others. Then I will make your name famous over the boundless earth. For I too once lived in a rich house among men, a man of wealth, and many times I gave gifts to a wanderer, whatever kind of man he was, in whatever need he came. I had serving men by the thousand, and all the other things by which men live well and are called prosperous.

But Zeus, son of Cronus, ruined it all—such was his will, I suppose— he who set me astray with far-roving pirates to go down into Egypt, a long voyage, so I would be destroyed. I anchored my curved ships inside Egypt’s Nile River. Then I gave the command to my trusty companions to stay stationed by the ships and guard the vessels, while I sent out scouts to go into the lookouts.

But my men gave way to reckless daring, following their own impulse, and right away began ransacking the gorgeous fields of the Egyptian men, and carried off the women and the small children, and killed the men. Soon cries for help rang through the city. Those in the town heard shouting at break of day, and charged out: the whole plain filled with infantry and chariots and the flash of bronze.

And Zeus who delights in thunder cast a foul panic among my comrades, and not one of them dared to stand and fight, for evil surrounded us on every side. There they struck down so many of my men with sharp bronze, and dragged the rest back alive, to work for them as forced slaves. But they gave me to a stranger they met, to take to Cyprus— Dmetor, son of Iasus, who ruled in mighty Cyprus.

From there I have come here now—still suffering.” Then Antinous answered him and shouted back: “What god has sent us this misery, this nuisance of a dinner? Stand off like that, there in the center, away from my table, or you will soon find a bitter Egypt and a bitter Cyprus! What an insolent and shameless beggar you are!

You stand beside every man in turn, and they give to you with an open hand, for there is no restraint or pity in giving another man’s goods, when each of these men has plenty beside him.” Then Odysseus of many wiles drew back and said to him: “Ah, the wits within you do not match your outward beauty! You would not give even one grain of salt to a suppliant out of your own house, seeing that, sitting among another man’s goods, you could not bring yourself to break off a piece of bread and give it to me. And yet it is not in short supply.

” So he spoke, and Antinous raged even deeper in his heart, and glaring out from his brows, addressed him with winged words: “Now I can tell you will not get yourself out of this hall as sweetly as you came in, if you are going to talk such insults.” He spoke, and seizing the footstool, he hurled it and struck Odysseus square on the right shoulder, right at the base of the spine.

But Odysseus stood firm as a rock does, and the blow from Antinous did not unbalance him. In silence he shook his head, pondering the depth of evil to come. Then he went back to his threshold and sat himself down, and set down his well-filled satchel, and spoke among the suitors: “Listen to me, you suitors of our glorious queen, so I may say what the heart within my chest commands.

There is no true pain in a man’s spirit, and no grief, when someone is struck fighting for his own possessions— for his cattle or his shining white sheep. But Antinous struck me for the sake of my wretched belly, that accursed thing which gives so many ills to men. So if somewhere there are gods and Furies for the poor, let the end of death come upon Antinous before his wedding.” Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: “Sit still and eat in peace, stranger, or go somewhere else, before the young men drag you through the halls by hand or foot for such words, and your skin is peeled clean off your body.

” So he spoke, but all the suitors there felt deep disgust. And somewhere among the overweening young men, one would say: “Antinous, it was a foul thing to strike a wretched wanderer. You are doomed, if somewhere in heaven there is a god. For the gods do walk among us, disguised as strangers from distant places, taking on every shape, visiting cities, to oversee the hubris of men—and their justice.”

So the suitors spoke, but Antinous paid no heed to their words. Yet Telemachus nursed a towering sorrow deep in his heart for the man who was downed, though he let no tear fall to the earth from his eyelids. He just shook his head in silence, pondering the depth of evil to come. But when prudent Penelope heard that the stranger had been struck in the hall, she said among her serving women: “So may Apollo, the famed archer, strike you just the same, Antinous!”

Then the housekeeper, Eurynome, answered her in kind: “If only our prayers could find fulfillment, not one of these men would see the fair-throned Dawn.” Then prudent Penelope answered her once more: “Good nurse, they are all hateful, because they plot such evil, but Antinous is the worst—he is like black death itself. Some wretched stranger goes wandering through this house, begging from the men, his poverty compelling him; and all the others gave him his fill of the feast, but this man hurled a stool and struck him on the right shoulder.

” So she spoke among her serving women, sitting in her chamber, while the noble Odysseus took his dinner. Then she called the noble swineherd to her and said to him: “Go, noble Eumaeus, tell that stranger to come here, so I may welcome him myself, and ask him if he perhaps has heard the news of much-enduring Odysseus or seen him with his own eyes.

For he looks like a man who has been wandering far.” Then you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered her and said: “If only, O queen, the Achaeans would keep silent! Such are the stories he tells, he would enchant your heart. For three nights I kept him and three days I stayed him in my hut—he came to me first after jumping ship— and still he has not finished his long tale of suffering.

As a man stares at a singer, who by the gods’ gift sings beautiful, heart-tugging verses for mortals, and they desire him to sing on, endlessly, without measure— so he enchanted me, seated beside me in my halls. He says he is Odysseus’s guest-friend, a man from long ago, and his home is in Crete, where the race of Minos is.

From there he came here now, still writhing in pain, battered and beaten. He insists he has heard of Odysseus nearby, in the rich land of the Thesprotian men, alive, and bringing many treasures home.” Then prudent Penelope addressed him once again: “Go, call him here to me, so he may speak face to face. Let the suitors sit outside at the gates and entertain themselves, or here in the hall, since their own spirits are cheerful;

for their goods lie untouched within their homes, their bread and sweet honeyed wine. The servants eat that, but these men hang about our house every day, slaughtering our oxen, and sheep, and fat goats, and they make merry and drink up our gleaming wine as if it would never run out. For there is no man left like Odysseus, once, to ward off ruin from this house. But if Odysseus should come and reach his native land, he and his son would quickly avenge the violence of these men.

” So she spoke, and Telemachus let out a mighty sneeze, which rang terribly through the entire hall. And Penelope laughed out loud, and quickly addressed Eumaeus with winged words: “Go now, please, call that stranger face to face right here. Do you not see that my son sneezed a blessing over all my words? So a death that will not miss its mark will come upon the suitors, every single last one, nor will any escape his destiny and doom. And I will tell you another thing, and lay it to your heart: if I find that he speaks the whole unerring truth, I will dress him in a fresh cloak and tunic, fine clothes.

” So she spoke, and the swineherd went, after he had heard her words, and standing close, addressed him with winged words: “Friend and father, prudent Penelope calls for you, the mother of Telemachus. Her heart drives her to question you about her husband, though she is full of sorrows. If she finds you speak the whole unerring truth, she will dress you in a cloak and tunic, the things you need most of all.

And as for bread, you can beg it through the parish to feed your belly, for whoever has the wish will give.” Then much-enduring, noble Odysseus answered him: “Eumaeus, I would be quick to tell the whole exact truth to the daughter of Icarius, prudent Penelope— I know that man’s story thoroughly, for both of us have suffered through the same grinding misery.

But I am afraid of the mob of brutal suitors, whose reckless violence climbs to the iron sky. Just now, as I was walking through the hall doing no harm, this man struck me and gave me over to pain, and neither Telemachus nor anyone else stepped in to shield me. So now, tell Penelope to wait for me inside the hall, however much she hurries, until the sun goes down. Then let her question me, sitting me down close to the fire, about her husband’s day of return. For the clothes I wear are wretched; you know it yourself, since I came begging to you first.

” So he spoke, and the swineherd went, after he had heard his words. But as he stepped over the threshold, Penelope addressed him: “You are not bringing him, Eumaeus. What makes the wanderer behave like this? Is he in terror of someone, overly afraid, or is he just skulking shamefully through the house? A shamefast wayfarer is a sorry sight.”

Then you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered her and said: “He speaks within what is proper, just as another man might think, who would shrink away from the violence of overweening men. But he asks you to wait until the sun goes down. And for you yourself, O queen, it is so much better to speak your words to the stranger alone and hear what he says.” Then prudent Penelope addressed him in reply: “The stranger is not a fool. He sees things for what they are. For nowhere else among mortal men on this earth do men in their pride plot such reckless things.

” So she spoke her thought, and the noble swineherd went on back into the mob of suitors, having told her everything. And straight away he spoke winged words to Telemachus, holding his head close, so the others could not hear: “Friend, I am leaving now, to watch over the swine and our other stock, my livelihood and yours. Everything here, let it be your care. First, save yourself, and keep it fixed in your mind not to suffer harm. Many Achaeans here are plotting evil; may Zeus utterly destroy them before they bring it down on us.” Then thoughtful Telemachus gave him his answer: “So it shall be, old father. Go now after your evening meal, and at dawn come back, bringing the finest beasts for sacrifice. All these things here will be my concern, and the gods’ too.

” So he spoke. Eumaeus sat back down on the polished stool, and when he had filled up his heart with food and drink, he got up to go back to the swine, leaving the courtyard and the hall crowded with feasters—feasters who now gave themselves to dancing and loud song. For evening had already fallen.