Book XXII

Then Odysseus of many wiles stripped off his rags, and sprang to the great threshold, holding the bow and quiver brimming with arrows. He poured the swift shafts out in a rush before his feet and spoke among the suitors: “This contest, this ruinous game, is now concluded. Now for another target, one no man has yet struck down— I will know if I can hit it, and if Apollo grants me glory.”

He spoke, and aimed a bitter arrow straight at Antinous. The man was about to raise a handsome goblet, a two-eared cup of gold, and was turning it in his hands to drink the wine. No thought of slaughter troubled his mind. For who, among men at a banquet, could imagine that one man, alone against so many, however powerful, would fashion for him an evil death and a black doom? But Odysseus took aim and struck him in the throat with an arrow, and the point passed clean through his tender neck. He slumped to one side, and the cup fell from his hand as he was struck. At once a thick jet of human blood gushed from his nostrils. With a kick of his foot he thrust the table from him, spilling the feast onto the floor; bread and roasted meats were fouled in the dust. The suitors roared in the hall when they saw the man fall; they sprang from their thrones, surging in turmoil through the hall, gazing everywhere at the well-built walls. But nowhere was there a shield or a mighty spear to seize. They railed at Odysseus with words of fury: “Stranger, you shoot at men to your own ruin! No other contests will you ever face. Now your steep destruction is sure. For you have just now killed the man who was by far the best of all the young lords in Ithaca. For that, vultures will eat you here.”

So each man spoke, for they thought he had not intended to kill the man; the fools, they did not understand that the cords of destruction were now drawn tight on them all. But looking down on them with a dark glare, Odysseus of many wiles said: “You dogs! You never thought I would return home from the land of Troy. So you devoured my house, and you forced yourselves on my serving women, and while I was still alive, you courted my wife, fearing neither the gods who hold the wide heavens, nor any retribution that might come from men. Now the cords of destruction are cinched on you all.”

As he spoke, a pale green fear took hold of them all. Each man scanned the room for a way to escape sheer death. Only Eurymachus found his voice and answered him: “If you are truly Odysseus of Ithaca, returned at last, then what you have said is just—all that the Achaeans have done, so much reckless outrage in your halls, so much on your lands. But the man who was the cause of it all now lies dead, Antinous. He is the one who drove on these deeds, not so much from a need or a longing for marriage, but with other designs, which the son of Cronos did not fulfill: that he himself might be king in the land of well-built Ithaca, after he had ambushed your son and killed him. Now he has been slain as his fate decreed. So spare your own people. And we, in turn, will appease you publicly for all that has been drunk and eaten in your halls. We will pay a price, each man assessed at twenty oxen, and we will give back bronze and gold until your heart is satisfied. Till then, no one can blame you for your anger.”

But looking down on him with a dark glare, Odysseus of many wiles said: “Eurymachus, not even if you gave me all your father’s wealth, all that you have now and whatever you could add from elsewhere, not even then would I stay my hands from this slaughter until the suitors have paid in full for their transgression. Now the choice lies before you: either fight me face to face or run, if any of you can flee from death and doom. But I do not think a single one will escape his steep destruction.”

He spoke, and their knees gave way and their hearts dissolved. But Eurymachus spoke out to them a second time: “My friends, this man will not hold back his unstoppable hands! Now that he has the polished bow and the quiver, he will shoot from that smooth threshold until he has killed us all. So let us think of battle! Draw your swords, and hold up the tables to block his death-swift arrows! Then let us charge him all together as one, to see if we can shove him from the threshold and the doors. Then we could run through the city, and a cry could be raised at once. And this man would soon have shot his very last arrow.”

So he spoke, and drew his sharp sword of bronze, honed on both edges, and he sprang at Odysseus with a terrifying cry. But at that same moment, godlike Odysseus let fly an arrow and struck him in the chest beside the nipple, and the swift shaft lodged itself deep in his liver. The sword dropped from his hand to the ground. He doubled over the table, convulsing, and fell, spilling the food and the two-handled cup onto the floor. He beat the earth with his forehead in his agony of spirit, and with both his feet he kicked and shook his chair, and a mist descended over his eyes.

Then Amphinomus charged straight at glorious Odysseus, rushing him, his sharp sword drawn, to see if he could force him from the doors. But Telemachus was too quick, striking from behind, he cast his bronze-tipped spear between the man’s shoulders and drove it through his chest. He fell with a thud, and his whole forehead struck the ground. Telemachus sprang back, leaving the long-shadowed spear stuck there in Amphinomus, for he feared that one of the Achaeans, as he pulled out the long spear, might rush him with a sword and stab him, or strike him as he stooped. He ran, and quickly reached his dear father, and standing close beside him, spoke these winged words: “Father, I will go now and bring you a shield and two spears, and a helmet all of bronze that fits well on the temples. I will arm myself as well, and give more armor to the swineherd and the cattleman. It is better to be armed.”

And Odysseus of many wiles answered him in turn: “Run and bring them, while I still have arrows to defend myself, so they do not drive me from the doorway while I am alone.”

He spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his dear father. He went to the storeroom where the fine armor was kept. From there he took four shields, and eight spears, and four bronze helmets crested with horsehair. He ran with them, and quickly reached his dear father. First, he himself put the bronze armor on his own body. In the same way the two servants armed themselves in the fine gear, and they stood beside Odysseus, the wise and subtle-minded.

As for him, so long as he had arrows to defend himself, he kept aiming and striking the suitors one by one in his own house, and they fell in heaps. But when the arrows failed the archer king, he leaned his bow against a post of the well-built hall, by the shining entrance wall. Then he himself slung a four-ply shield across his shoulders, and on his mighty head he placed a well-wrought helmet with a horsehair crest, and the plume nodded grimly from above. He grasped two powerful spears tipped with bronze.

Now there was a side-door in the well-built wall, high up, near the edge of the great hall’s threshold, that led to a passage, closed by well-fitted planks. Odysseus ordered the godlike swineherd to stand guard there, close by it, for it was the only way out. Then Agelaus spoke out among the suitors, addressing them all: “Friends, could not one of you climb up through that side-door and tell the people, so a cry could be raised at once? Then this man would soon have shot his very last arrow.”

But Melanthius the goatherd answered him in turn: “It cannot be done, Agelaus, nurtured by Zeus. The great door to the courtyard is terribly near, and the mouth of the passage is narrow. One man, if he were brave, could hold it against us all. But come, let me bring you armor to put on from the storeroom. For inside, I think, and nowhere else, Odysseus and his glorious son have stored the weapons.”

So speaking, Melanthius the goatherd went up to the storerooms of Odysseus through the passages of the hall. From there he took twelve shields, and as many spears, and as many bronze helmets crested with horsehair. He went back, and quickly brought them and gave them to the suitors. Then Odysseus’s knees gave way and his own heart faltered when he saw them putting on armor and brandishing long spears in their hands. The task ahead now seemed immense. Quickly he spoke to Telemachus with winged words: “Telemachus, surely one of the women in the palace is stirring up this evil war against us—or it is Melanthius.”

And the wise Telemachus answered him in turn: “Father, the fault is mine, and no one else is to blame. I am the one who left the well-fitted door of the storeroom ajar. Their lookout was better than mine. But go now, godlike Eumaeus, and shut the door to the storeroom, and see if it is one of the women doing this, or the son of Dolius, Melanthius, as I suspect.”

While they were speaking to one another in this way, Melanthius the goatherd went again to the storeroom to bring back more fine armor. But the godlike swineherd saw him, and at once he spoke to Odysseus, who was standing near: “Zeus-born son of Laertes, Odysseus of many devices, that same destructive man, the one we suspected, is again on his way to the storeroom. Tell me truly now, should I kill him, if I can prove the stronger man, or should I bring him here to you, so he can pay for all the many transgressions he has plotted in your house?”

And Odysseus of many wiles answered him in turn: “Telemachus and I will hold the noble suitors here inside the hall, no matter how they rage. You two, twist his feet and hands behind him and throw him into the storeroom, and lash a plank to his back. Then tie a plaited rope around him and hoist him high up a tall pillar, to leave him near the roof-beams, so he may live a long time and suffer grievous pains.”

So he spoke, and they listened to him carefully and obeyed. They went to the storeroom, and he, being inside, did not see them. He was in a corner of the room, searching for armor, while the two men stood waiting on either side of the doorposts. Just as Melanthius the goatherd was crossing the threshold, carrying a fine helmet in one hand, and in the other a broad old shield flecked with mold— the shield of the hero Laertes, which he carried in his youth, but it had long been lying there, and the stitching of its straps had come undone— the two men sprang upon him, seized him, and dragged him inside by the hair. They threw him to the floor, his heart in anguish, and bound his hands and feet together with a spirit-crushing bond, wrenching them tightly behind his back, just as he had ordered, the son of Laertes, much-enduring, godlike Odysseus. Then they tied a plaited rope around him and hoisted him high up a tall pillar, and brought him close to the roof-beams. And you, swineherd Eumaeus, taunted him, saying: “Now, Melanthius, you can keep watch through the whole night, lying on a soft bed, as is fitting for you. Nor will the golden-throned Dawn, rising from Ocean’s streams, escape your notice when she comes, at the hour you drive the goats to the suitors in the hall to prepare their feast.”

So he was left there, stretched in the deadly bonds. The two men put on their armor, shut the shining door, and went to join Odysseus, the wise and subtle-minded. There they stood, breathing fury, four of them on the threshold, while those inside the hall were many and brave. But close to them came Athena, daughter of Zeus, in the form of Mentor, in both her shape and her voice. Odysseus was glad when he saw her and spoke a word to her: “Mentor, ward off ruin, and remember your dear companion, who always did good things for you. You are of my own age.”

So he spoke, though he guessed it was Athena, rouser of armies. But on the other side, the suitors in the hall shouted at her, and the first to threaten her was Agelaus, son of Damastor: “Mentor, do not let Odysseus persuade you with his words to fight against the suitors and to help him. For this is how I think our purpose will be fulfilled: when we have killed these two, the father and the son, you will be killed along with them for what you intend to do in this hall. You will pay for it with your own head. And when we have taken away your lives with the bronze, all the possessions you have, both inside and out, we will mix with those of Odysseus. We will not allow your sons to live in your halls, nor your daughters, nor your faithful wife to walk about in the city of Ithaca.”

So he spoke, and Athena grew even more enraged at heart, and she berated Odysseus with words of anger: “No longer, Odysseus, is your spirit steadfast, nor is your courage the same as when, for the sake of white-armed Helen of noble birth, you fought the Trojans for nine years, relentlessly, and you killed many men in the dreadful combat, and by your counsel Priam’s wide-streeted city was taken. How is it now, when you have come to your own home and possessions, you whine about your lack of courage before the suitors? But come here, my friend, stand by my side and watch my work, so you may know how, in the midst of enemy men, Mentor, son of Alcimus, repays his debts of kindness.”

She spoke, but she did not yet grant him a decisive victory, for she still wished to test the strength and courage of both Odysseus and his glorious son. She herself, in the form of a swallow, darted up and sat on a roof-beam of the smoke-blackened hall.

Then the suitors were spurred on by Agelaus, son of Damastor, by Eurynomus and Amphimedon and Demoptolemus, by Peisander, son of Polyctor, and by wise Polybus. For these were by far the best in valor of the suitors who were still alive and fighting for their lives. The bow and the thick-flying arrows had already laid the others low. Then Agelaus spoke among them, making his plan clear to all: “Friends, now at last this man will hold back his unstoppable hands. See how Mentor has gone, after speaking empty boasts, and they are left alone at the front doors. So now, do not all cast your long spears at once, but come, let six of you throw first, to see if Zeus will somehow grant that Odysseus be struck and we win the glory. Of the others there is no concern, once this man has fallen.”

So he spoke, and they all cast their spears as he commanded, eagerly. But Athena made all their throws go wide. One man’s spear struck a post of the well-built hall, another’s hit the tightly-fitted door. Another’s ash spear, heavy with bronze, fell into the wall. But when they had dodged the spears of the suitors, much-enduring, godlike Odysseus began to speak to his men: “Friends, now it is my turn to say that we too should cast our spears into the crowd of suitors, who are eager to slaughter us, on top of all their previous wrongs.”

So he spoke, and they all took aim and cast their sharp spears. Odysseus struck Demoptolemus; Telemachus hit Euryades; the swineherd hit Elatus; and the cattleman killed Peisander. Then all of them at once bit the vast floor with their teeth, and the suitors retreated to a corner of the hall. But the others rushed forward and pulled their spears from the corpses.

Again the suitors cast their sharp spears, eagerly. But Athena made most of their throws go wide. One man’s spear struck a post of the well-built hall, another’s hit the tightly-fitted door. Another’s ash spear, heavy with bronze, fell into the wall. But Amphimedon grazed Telemachus on the wrist, a glancing blow, and the bronze tore the surface of the skin. And Ctesippus, with his long spear, over the shield scraped the shoulder of Eumaeus; but the spear flew past and fell to the ground.

Then again the party of Odysseus, the wise and subtle-minded, cast their sharp spears into the crowd of suitors. This time the sacker of cities, Odysseus, struck Eurydamas; Telemachus hit Amphimedon; the swineherd, Polybus. And then the cattleman struck Ctesippus in the chest, and spoke, exulting over him: “Son of Polytherses, you lover of insults, never again give way to folly and speak so grandly, but leave judgment to the gods, since they are so much stronger. This is my guest-gift to you, in return for the cow’s hoof you once gave to godlike Odysseus, when he was begging through the house.”

So spoke the herder of crooked-horned cattle. Then Odysseus, at close quarters, stabbed Damastor’s son with his long spear. And Telemachus wounded Leocritus, son of Evenor, with his spear in the middle of the groin, and the bronze drove all the way through. He fell face-forward and struck the ground with his whole forehead.

Then at that moment Athena held up her man-destroying aegis from high up on the roof, and the suitors’ minds were thrown into panic. They fled through the hall like a herd of cattle that a shimmering gadfly attacks and scatters in the season of spring, when the days are long. But the others, like vultures with crooked talons and hooked beaks that come down from the mountains to attack flocks of birds— the smaller birds fly low over the plain, cowering under the clouds, but the vultures swoop down to destroy them, and there is no defense and no escape, and the men who watch the hunt rejoice— so Odysseus and his men, rushing the suitors through the hall, struck them down, turning on them. A hideous groaning arose as heads were smashed, and the whole floor ran with blood.

Then Leodes rushed forward and clasped the knees of Odysseus, and pleading with him, spoke these winged words: “I clasp your knees, Odysseus. Respect me and have pity. For I declare that I have never said or done anything reckless to any of the women in your halls. In fact, I tried to stop the other suitors, whoever did such things. But they would not listen to me and keep their hands from evil; and so for their recklessness they have met a hideous fate. But I, their diviner, who has done nothing, will lie among them, for there is no gratitude for good deeds done.”

But looking down on him with a dark glare, Odysseus of many wiles said: “If you declare that you were their diviner, you must have often prayed in my halls that the day of my sweet return would be far off, and that my dear wife would go with you and bear your children. For that, you will not escape a grievous death.”

So speaking, he seized in his thick hand the sword that was lying on the ground, which Agelaus had dropped when he was killed. With it he struck Leodes square in the neck, and while he was still speaking, his head was mixed with the dust.

But the bard, the son of Terpis, still sought to escape black doom, Phemius, who sang for the suitors out of necessity. He stood with the clear-toned lyre in his hands near the side-door, and his mind was torn in two, whether he should slip out of the hall to the great altar of Zeus of the Courtyard, a well-built thing where Laertes and Odysseus had often burned the thigh-bones of oxen, or whether he should rush forward and clasp the knees of Odysseus. As he considered, this seemed to him the better course: to grasp the knees of Laertes’ son, Odysseus. So he set his hollow lyre down on the ground between the mixing bowl and the silver-studded throne, and he himself rushed forward, clasped the knees of Odysseus, and pleading with him, spoke these winged words: “I clasp your knees, Odysseus. Respect me and have pity. It will be a grief to you afterwards if you kill a bard, one who sings for gods and for men. I am self-taught, and a god has breathed into my mind all kinds of song-paths. I am fit to sing for you as for a god. Therefore, do not be eager to cut my throat. And Telemachus, your own dear son, could tell you this: that I did not come to your house willingly or for my own gain to sing for the suitors after their feasts, but they, being many more and stronger, brought me by force.”

So he spoke, and the sacred might of Telemachus heard him, and at once he spoke to his father, who was standing near: “Stop. Do not strike this man, who is guiltless, with the bronze. And let us also save the herald, Medon, who always cared for me in our house when I was a child, unless Philoetius or the swineherd has already killed him, or he ran into you as you raged through the hall.”

So he spoke, and Medon, a man of understanding, heard him. For he was lying huddled under a chair, and had wrapped himself in a freshly flayed ox-hide, trying to escape black doom. At once he sprang out from under the chair, quickly shed the hide, then rushed to Telemachus and clasped his knees, and pleading with him, spoke these winged words: “My friend, here I am! Hold back, and tell your father not to harm me with the sharp bronze in his great power, enraged as he is at the suitors who devoured his possessions in his halls and, like fools, paid you no honor.”

And Odysseus of many wiles smiled at him and said: “Take heart. He has rescued you and saved you, so that you may know in your spirit, and tell other men, how much better good deeds are than evil-doing. But go out of the hall and sit down outside in the courtyard, away from the slaughter, you and the famous bard, while I finish the work in the house that I must do.”

So he spoke, and the two went out of the hall and sat down by the great altar of Zeus, gazing about them everywhere, constantly expecting death. Odysseus scanned his own house, to see if any man was still alive, hiding, trying to escape black doom. But he saw them all, the whole crowd of them, lying in the blood and the dust, like fish that fishermen have dragged from the gray sea onto the curving shore in a net of many meshes; and they all lie heaped on the sand, longing for the sea’s waves, but the blazing sun takes the life from them. So then the suitors lay heaped on one another. Then at last Odysseus of many wiles spoke to Telemachus: “Telemachus, go now and call the nurse, Eurycleia, so I may tell her the word that is in my heart.”

So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his dear father. He shook the door and spoke to the nurse, Eurycleia: “Get up and come here, old woman, born long ago, you who are the overseer of the serving women in our halls. Come. My father is calling you, to tell you something.”

So he spoke, and her word to him was wingless. She opened the doors of the well-appointed hall and went, with Telemachus leading the way. There she found Odysseus among the slaughtered corpses, spattered with blood and gore, like a lion that has just come from devouring a farmyard ox; its whole chest and its jaws on both sides are bloody, a terrible sight to behold. So was Odysseus spattered, on his feet and his hands above. And when she saw the corpses and the endless blood, she was ready to raise a cry of triumph, seeing so great a deed. But Odysseus held her back and checked her eagerness, and speaking to her, he said these winged words: “Rejoice in your heart, old woman, but hold back; do not cry out. It is an unholy thing to exult over slain men. These men the doom of the gods has overcome, and their own reckless deeds. For they honored no one among men on this earth, neither the bad man nor the good, whoever came to them. And so for their recklessness they have met a hideous fate. But come now, list for me the women in the halls, those who dishonor me, and those who are blameless.”

And his dear nurse, Eurycleia, answered him in turn: “Then I will tell you the truth, my child. There are fifty women in your halls, serving maids, whom we have taught their tasks, to card the wool and to endure their servitude. Of these, twelve in all have taken the path of shamelessness, honoring neither me nor Penelope herself. Telemachus was but newly grown, and his mother would not allow him to give orders to the serving women. But come, let me go up to the shining upper rooms and tell your wife, on whom some god has sent down sleep.”

And Odysseus of many wiles answered her in turn: “Do not wake her yet. But you, tell the women to come here, the ones who before were plotting their shameful deeds.”

So he spoke, and the old woman went out through the hall to deliver the message to the women and to urge them to come. Then he called Telemachus and the cattleman and the swineherd to his side, and spoke to them with winged words: “Begin now to carry out the dead, and order the women to help. Then, the handsome chairs and the tables you must clean with water and porous sponges. And when you have set the whole house in order, lead the serving maids out of the well-built hall, between the roundhouse and the fine wall of the courtyard, and strike them with your long swords, until you have taken the life from them all, and they have forgotten Aphrodite, the love they had under the suitors, when they lay with them in secret.”

So he spoke, and the women came all in a group, weeping terribly, shedding thick tears. First they carried out the bodies of the dead, and set them down under the portico of the well-fenced courtyard, propping them against each other. Odysseus himself gave the orders, driving them on, and they carried them out under compulsion. Then, the handsome chairs and the tables they cleaned with water and porous sponges. Then Telemachus and the cattleman and the swineherd with scrapers cleaned the floor of the well-made house, and the maids carried the refuse out and put it by the door. But when they had set the whole great hall in order, they led the serving maids out of the well-built hall, between the roundhouse and the fine wall of the courtyard, and penned them in a narrow space, from which there was no escape. Then wise Telemachus was the first to speak among them: “I would not grant a clean death to these women, who heaped such shame upon my head, and on my mother, and who slept beside the suitors.”

So he spoke, and looping the cable of a dark-prowed ship to a tall pillar, he cast it around the roundhouse, stretched high, so none could touch the ground with her feet. And just as long-winged thrushes or doves, flying home to their roost, become entangled in a snare set in a thicket— a hideous bed receives them—so the women stood in a line, their heads held fast, and a noose around every neck, so they would die the most pitiful death. They kicked with their feet for a little while, but not for long.

Then they dragged Melanthius out through the forecourt and the yard. With pitiless bronze they sliced off his nose and his ears, they ripped out his genitals to feed raw to the dogs, and in their seething anger, they lopped off his hands and his feet.

Then, when they had washed their own hands and feet, they went into the house to Odysseus, and the work was done. And he himself spoke to his dear nurse, Eurycleia: “Bring sulfur, old woman, a cure for these evils, and bring me fire, that I may purge the great hall. And you, tell Penelope to come down here with her attendant women; and rouse all the serving maids to come to the hall.”

And his dear nurse, Eurycleia, answered him in turn: “Yes, my child, what you have said is right and proper. But come, let me bring you a cloak and a tunic for clothing, and do not stand here in your halls with your broad shoulders wrapped in rags. That would be a cause for shame.”

But Odysseus of many wiles answered her in turn: “First let a fire be made for me in the hall.”

So he spoke, and his dear nurse, Eurycleia, did not disobey. She brought fire and sulfur, and Odysseus thoroughly purged the great hall, the house, and the courtyard.

Then the old woman went back through the fine halls of Odysseus to deliver the message to the women and to urge them to come. They came from their quarters, holding torches in their hands. They thronged around Odysseus, embracing him, and lovingly they kissed his head and his shoulders and clasped his hands. A sweet longing for tears and for sorrowful cries overcame him, for in his heart he knew them all.