Book XXIV

# THE ODYSSEY — BOOK 24

Then Hermes of Cyllene began to summon forth the souls of the slaughtered suitors; in his hand he held the wand, beautiful and golden, that casts a spell upon the eyes of men, lulling whomever he wills to sleep, or waking them from slumber. He stirred them with its touch, and gibbering they followed in his wake. As bats within the recess of a hallowed cave flit gibbering when one of them has fallen from the chain clinging to the rock, where each one holds to each, so did these souls flock shrieking, and before them all Hermes the Guide led them down the pathways of decay. They passed the streams of Ocean and the sun-bleached Leucadian stone, they passed the Gates of Helios and the country of the Dream, and swiftly came upon the asphodel meadow, that final home for souls, the shades of men whose work is done.

There they found the soul of Achilles, Peleus' great son, with Patroclus and blameless Antilochus at his side, and Ajax, who in beauty and in build surpassed all other Danaans, save for Peleus' peerless heir. While these heroic shades conversed, another drew nearby— the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, steeped in grief, and ringed by all the souls who in his company had met their doom and died within Aegisthus' halls. The soul of Peleus' son was the first to speak to him:

And the soul of Atreus' son replied to him in turn: "Fortunate son of Peleus, Achilles like the gods, who died in Troy, so far from Argos. Around your body fell the best of Troy's and Achaea's sons, battling over you. But you, in a whirlwind of dust, lay there, great in your greatness, your horsemanship forgotten. All day long we fought, and we would not have stopped the war at all, if Zeus himself had not halted it with a storm. But when we had carried you from the battle to the ships, we laid you on a bier and cleansed your handsome flesh with warm water and with oil. And around you, many Danaans shed hot tears and sheared their hair in mourning. Your mother rose up from the sea with her immortal sea-nymphs when she heard the news. A divine cry swept across the water, and trembling seized every last Achaean. They would have sprung up and fled to the hollow ships if a man had not restrained them, one who knew so much of old, Nestor, whose counsel had always seemed the best. With all good will, he rose and spoke among them: 'Hold back, Argives! Do not flee, you sons of the Achaeans! It is his mother, coming from the sea with her immortal nymphs to be with her dead son.' So he spoke, and the great-hearted Achaeans mastered their fear. And around you stood the daughters of the Old Man of the Sea, wailing pitifully, and they dressed you in immortal robes. Then all nine Muses, singing in sweet antiphonal voice, began the dirge. You would not have seen a single Argive there with tearless eyes, so deeply did the clear-voiced Muse stir their hearts. For seventeen days, both day and night, we mourned you, immortal gods and mortal men alike. On the eighteenth day we gave you to the fire, and around you we slaughtered many fatted sheep and cattle with curving horns. You were burned in the clothing of the gods, with plentiful oil and sweet honey. And a host of Achaean heroes in full armor, both on foot and in chariots, moved around your burning pyre, and a great clamor arose. But when the flame of Hephaestus had consumed you, at dawn, Achilles, we gathered your white bones in unmixed wine and oil. Your mother gave to us a golden, two-handled urn, a gift, she said, from Dionysus, and the work of the famed Hephaestus. In this, your white bones lie, glorious Achilles, mingled with those of dead Patroclus, son of Menoetius, but apart from those of Antilochus, whom you honored more than all your other comrades after Patroclus had died. And over these remains we, the sacred host of Argive spearmen, heaped up a great and flawless tomb, on a jutting headland by the broad Hellespont, so it might be seen from far out on the sea by men who live now, and by those who are yet to be. Then your mother, having asked the gods, set out magnificent prizes in the midst of the games for the Achaean champions. You have been present before at the funerals of many heroes, when, after a king has died, the young men gird themselves and prepare for the contests. But you would have marveled in your heart to see the prizes that the goddess, silver-footed Thetis, set out in your honor. For you were very dear to the gods. And so, even in death, you did not lose your name. Forever, among all mankind, your glory will be true, Achilles. But as for me, what joy was this, to have wound up the war? For on my return, Zeus plotted a miserable end for me, at the hands of Aegisthus and my own accursed wife."

So they spoke these things to one another. And now the messenger, the slayer of Argus, drew near, leading down the souls of the suitors slain by Odysseus. The two heroes, amazed, went straight toward them when they saw them. And the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, recognized the son of Melaneus, renowned Amphimedon, who had been his guest-friend, dwelling in his house in Ithaca. The soul of Atreus' son was the first to speak to him: "Amphimedon, what has happened that you have entered this dark land, all of you, chosen men and all of an age? One could not pick out better men if he were to search through a whole city. Did Poseidon strike you down upon your ships, raising harsh winds and towering waves? Or did hostile men destroy you on the mainland while you were cutting out their cattle or their fine flocks of sheep, or while you were fighting for their city and their women? Tell me what I ask; I claim to be your guest-friend. Do you not remember when I came down to your house there, to urge Odysseus, with godlike Menelaus, to follow us to Ilium on the well-benched ships? It took a whole month for us to cross the wide sea, after we had, with great effort, persuaded the city-sacker Odysseus."

And the soul of Amphimedon answered him in turn: "Most glorious son of Atreus, king of men, Agamemnon, I remember all these things, Zeus-nurtured lord, just as you say. And I in turn will tell you, clearly and truly, the evil end of our death, just as it came to pass. We were wooing the wife of Odysseus, so long departed. She neither refused the hateful marriage nor would she bring it to pass, for she was planning death and black doom for us. And this was another trick she devised in her mind: she set up a great loom in her halls and began to weave, a fabric fine and vast, and she spoke to us at once: 'Young men, my suitors, since godlike Odysseus is dead, wait, though you are eager for my hand, until I finish this shroud—so my weaving may not be wasted— a funeral garment for the hero Laertes, for that time when the ruinous fate of long-suffering death shall take him. I fear one of the Achaean women in the land might blame me if he, who won so much, should lie without a winding-sheet.' So she spoke, and our own proud hearts were persuaded. And so by day she would weave at the great loom, but by night she would unravel it, holding torches beside her. For three years she deceived the Achaeans with her trick. But when the fourth year came and the seasons turned, as the months waned and the many days were fulfilled, then one of her women, who knew the truth, told us, and we found her unraveling the splendid web. So she finished it, against her will, by necessity. When she displayed the shroud, having woven the great web and washed it, it shone like the sun or the moon. And it was then that some evil spirit brought Odysseus from somewhere to the edge of his estate, where the swineherd had his home. There the dear son of godlike Odysseus also came, sailing in his black ship from sandy Pylos. The two of them, plotting a grim death for the suitors, came to the famous city—Odysseus came later, while Telemachus led the way before him. The swineherd brought him, dressed in wretched clothes, looking like a miserable beggar and an old man, leaning on a staff, and the rags he wore were pitiful. None of us could recognize him for who he was when he appeared so suddenly, not even the older men among us. Instead, we assailed him with evil words and with blows. For a time he endured it in his own halls, being struck and insulted, with a patient heart. But when the will of aegis-bearing Zeus roused him, he and Telemachus gathered up the beautiful armor, carried it to a storeroom, and bolted the doors. Then, with his great cunning, he instructed his wife to set out the bow and the gray iron for the suitors— for us ill-fated men, a contest and a start of slaughter. Not one of us was able to string the mighty bow; we fell far short of the strength required. But when the great bow came into Odysseus's hands, all of us shouted at once, telling them not to give him the bow, no matter how much he insisted. Only Telemachus, urging him on, commanded it be done. Then long-suffering, godlike Odysseus took it in his hands, and he easily strung the bow and shot through the iron axes. He went and stood on the threshold, and poured out the swift arrows, glancing around him terribly, and he struck King Antinous. Then upon the others he let fly his pain-filled shafts, aiming straight, and they fell one on top of another. It was clear that some god was their ally. For at once, following their fury, they stormed through the hall, killing men left and right. A hideous groaning arose as heads were struck, and the whole floor steamed with blood. That is how we perished, Agamemnon, and even now our bodies lie uncared for in the halls of Odysseus. For our kinsmen in each of our homes do not yet know, and cannot wash the black blood from our wounds and lay us out and mourn us—which is the honor due the dead."

And the soul of Atreus' son replied to him in turn: "Fortunate son of Laertes, Odysseus of many wiles, truly you have won a wife of great excellence. How good was the heart of flawless Penelope, daughter of Icarius! How well she remembered Odysseus, her wedded husband. And so the glory of her virtue will never die, and the immortals will fashion for mortal men a song of grace for wise Penelope. Not like the daughter of Tyndareus, who devised evil deeds, killing her wedded husband. A hateful song about her will spread among mankind, and she will give a harsh report to all of womankind, even to one who does good deeds."

So they spoke these things to one another, standing in the house of Hades, deep in the hollows of the earth.

Meanwhile, Odysseus and the others, having left the city, quickly reached the beautiful, well-tended farm of Laertes, which Laertes himself had acquired after much hard labor. There was his house, with a lean-to running all around it, where the indentured servants, who did his bidding, would eat and sit and sleep. Inside was an old Sicilian woman, who diligently cared for the old man at his farm, far from the city. There Odysseus spoke a word to his son and his servants: "You go now into the well-built house, and quickly slaughter the best of the pigs for our meal. But I will go to test my father, to see if he will recognize me and know me by sight, or if he will fail to know me, gone for so long a time."

So saying, he gave the servants his battle gear. They went quickly toward the house, while Odysseus drew near the fruitful vineyard, to put his father to the test. He did not find Dolius as he went down into the great orchard, nor any of the servants or Dolius's sons. They had all gone to gather stones for the vineyard's walls, and the old man was leading them on their way. He found his father alone in the well-tended orchard, hoeing around a plant. He wore a filthy tunic, patched and unsightly. Around his shins he had tied stitched leggings of oxhide to protect from scratches, and he wore gloves on his hands against the thorns. Upon his head he had a goatskin cap, nursing his sorrow. When long-suffering, godlike Odysseus saw him, worn down with old age and bearing a great grief in his heart, he stood beneath a tall pear tree and let a tear fall. Then he debated in his mind and in his spirit whether to kiss and embrace his father, and tell him everything— how he had returned and come to his native land— or whether he should question him first and test him in every way. And as he pondered, this seemed to him the better course: to test him first with words of gentle mockery. With this in mind, godlike Odysseus went straight toward him. His father kept his head down, digging around the plant, and his glorious son, standing beside him, addressed him: "Old man, you show no lack of skill in tending this orchard; it is well cared for. There is nothing at all, no plant, no fig tree, no vine, no olive, no pear, no garden bed in this whole plot that lacks your care. But I will say something else, and do not be angry in your heart: you yourself are not well cared for. You bear a harsh old age, and you are squalid and dressed in wretched clothes. It is not for laziness that your master neglects you, nor is there anything of the slave in your appearance or your stature. You look like a man who is a king. You seem the sort of man who, after bathing and eating, should sleep on a soft bed, for that is the right of the old. But come now, tell me this, and tell me truly: Whose servant are you? Whose orchard do you tend? And tell me this in truth, so I may know for sure, if this is truly Ithaca we have reached, as that man I just met on my way here told me— not a very clear-headed man, since he had no patience to speak or to listen to my words when I asked him about my own guest-friend, whether he still lives and is here, or is already dead and in the house of Hades. For I will tell you, so listen and take it to heart: I once hosted a man in my own dear native land who came to our house, and no other mortal man among far-off guests has ever been more welcome to my home. He claimed to be a native of Ithaca, and said his father was Laertes, son of Arcesius. I brought him into my house and hosted him well, treating him kindly from the abundance in my home, and I gave him guest-gifts, as was fitting. I gave him seven talents of well-wrought gold, and a solid silver mixing-bowl, embossed with flowers, twelve single-folded cloaks, and as many blankets, as many fine robes, and as many tunics to go with them. And besides these, I gave him four beautiful women, skilled in flawless handiwork, whom he himself wished to choose."

Then his father answered him, shedding tears: "Stranger, you have indeed come to the land you ask about, but insolent and reckless men now hold it. And the gifts you gave, those countless gifts, you gave in vain. If you had found him alive in the land of Ithaca, he would have sent you on your way with fine return-gifts and good hospitality, for that is the custom when one begins a friendship. But come now, tell me this, and tell me truly: how many years has it been since you hosted that man, your luckless guest—my son, if he ever truly was— that ill-fated man? Somewhere far from his friends and his country, either the fish have eaten him in the sea, or on the land he has become prey for beasts and birds. His mother did not weep for him and wrap him in his shroud, nor did his father, we who begot him. Nor did his wife of many gifts, wise Penelope, wail for her husband on his deathbed, as was fitting, or close his eyes—which is the honor due the dead. And tell me this in truth, so I may know for sure: Who are you and from where? Where is your city and your parents? Where is the swift ship moored that brought you here with your godlike companions? Or did you come as a passenger on another's ship, and they set you ashore and departed?"

Then Odysseus of many wiles answered him and said: "Then I will tell you all these things most truly. I am from Alybas, where I live in a famous house, the son of Apheidas, the son of King Polypemon. My own name is Eperitus. But a god drove me off course from Sicania, to come here against my will. My ship is moored down by the fields, away from the city. As for Odysseus, this is now the fifth year since he departed from there and left my country, that ill-fated man. And yet the birds were favorable for him as he left, on the right hand side. I rejoiced in this as I sent him off, and he rejoiced as he went. Our hearts still hoped that we would meet again in friendship and exchange glorious gifts."

So he spoke, and a black cloud of grief enveloped Laertes. With both his hands he scooped up the grimy dust and poured it over his gray head, groaning ceaselessly. And Odysseus's heart was stirred, and a sharp pang shot up through his nostrils as he watched his dear father. He sprang forward, flung his arms around him, and kissed him, and said: "I am that man, father, I myself, the one you ask about. I have come in the twentieth year to my native land. But stop your weeping and your tearful lamenting. For I will tell you—and we must act with great haste— I have killed the suitors in our halls, avenging their soul-grieving outrage and their evil deeds."

Then Laertes answered him and spoke in turn: "If you who have come here are truly Odysseus, my son, give me now some clear sign, so that I may believe."

And Odysseus of many wiles answered him and said: "First, look with your own eyes upon this scar, the one a boar gave me with its white tusk on Parnassus when I went there. You and my honored mother sent me to her father Autolycus, to collect the gifts that he promised and confirmed when he visited here. And come, let me also tell you the trees in the well-tended orchard that you once gave me, when I, just a boy, asked you for each one, following you through the garden. We walked among them, and you named them and told me what each one was. You gave me thirteen pear trees and ten apple trees, and forty fig trees. And you promised to give me fifty rows of vines, each one ripening at a different time. And there are grapes of every kind upon them, whenever the seasons of Zeus weigh them down from above."

So he spoke, and his father's knees gave way and his own heart melted, recognizing the sure signs that Odysseus had shown him. He threw his arms around his dear son, and long-suffering, godlike Odysseus caught him to his chest as his spirit failed him. But when he revived and his spirit returned to his mind, he answered again and spoke to him with words: "Father Zeus, you gods still do exist on high Olympus, if the suitors have truly paid for their reckless pride! But now I am terribly afraid in my heart that soon all the Ithacans will come against us here, and will send messengers everywhere to the cities of the Cephallenians."

And Odysseus of many wiles answered him and said: "Take heart, and let these things not trouble your mind. But let us go to the house that lies near the orchard. I sent Telemachus there ahead, with the cowherd and the swineherd, so they could prepare our meal as quickly as possible."

So the two of them spoke, and went toward the fine house. When they came to the well-situated dwelling, they found Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd carving much meat and mixing the gleaming wine. During that time, the great-hearted Laertes was bathed in his own house by the Sicilian handmaid, and anointed with oil, and she put a fine cloak around him. Then Athena, standing close beside him, enhanced the limbs of the shepherd of the people, and made him taller and broader to behold than before. He stepped out from the bath, and his dear son marveled when he saw him, for he looked face to face like an immortal god. And speaking to him, he uttered winged words: "Father, surely one of the everlasting gods has made you better to behold in your form and stature."

Then the wise Laertes answered him in turn: "Ah, if only, by Father Zeus and Athena and Apollo, I were the man I was when I took Nericus, that well-built citadel on the mainland coast, as king of the Cephallenians— if I had been like that yesterday in our own halls, with armor on my shoulders, standing by your side to fight against the suitors! Then I would have loosened the knees of many of them in our halls, and you would have rejoiced in your heart."

So they spoke these things to one another. And when the others had finished their work and prepared the feast, they sat down in order on the chairs and high-backed seats. Then they set their hands to the meal. But drawing near came old Dolius, and with him the old man's sons, tired from their work, for their mother, the old Sicilian woman, had gone to call them—she who raised them and cared for the old man diligently, since old age had taken hold of him. When they saw Odysseus and understood who he was, they stood in the hall, astonished. But Odysseus addressed them, speaking with gentle, soothing words: "Old man, sit down to your dinner, and put aside your wonder. For we have been eager for a long time to begin our meal, waiting here in the hall, always expecting you."

So he spoke, and Dolius ran straight to him with both arms outstretched. He took Odysseus's hand and kissed it on the wrist, and speaking to him, he uttered winged words: "Dear master, since you have returned to us who longed for you so much, and no longer expected you, and the gods themselves have brought you back, hail and be welcome, and may the gods give you blessings. And tell me this in truth, so I may know for sure: does the wise Penelope already know for certain that you have returned here, or should we send a messenger?"

And Odysseus of many wiles answered him and said: "Old man, she already knows. Why do you need to trouble yourself with this?"

So he spoke, and Dolius sat down again on the polished stool. And in the same way, the sons of Dolius gathered around famous Odysseus, welcoming him with words and clasping his hands, and they sat down in order beside Dolius, their father.

So they busied themselves with their meal in the hall. But Rumor, the messenger, went swiftly through the whole city, telling of the suitors' grim death and final doom. And the people, hearing it, came from all directions with moans and groans to the front of Odysseus's palace. They carried the dead out from the halls and buried each one, and those from other cities they sent home, placing them on swift ships for the fishermen to take. Then they themselves went to the assembly, all together, grieving at heart. When they were gathered and had come to one place, Eupeithes rose up and spoke among them, for an unforgettable grief for his son lay upon his heart, Antinous, the first whom godlike Odysseus had killed. Shedding tears for him, he addressed the assembly and said: "My friends, this man has done a monstrous thing against the Achaeans. Some he took with him on his ships, many good men, and he lost the hollow ships and lost the men entirely. And others, the very best of the Cephallenians, he has killed on his return. So come, before he can escape quickly to Pylos or to sacred Elis, where the Epeians rule, let us go. Or else we will be shamed forever after. For this will be a disgrace for future generations to hear, if we do not avenge the murder of our sons and brothers. For me, at least, there would be no more sweetness in living; I would rather die at once and be with the departed. So let us go, before they can get across the sea."

So he spoke, weeping, and pity seized all the Achaeans. But Medon and the divine bard drew near to them, coming from Odysseus's halls, since sleep had released them. They stood in the midst of the assembly, and amazement seized every man. And Medon, a man of sound understanding, spoke among them: "Hear me now, Ithacans. For Odysseus did not devise these deeds without the will of the immortal gods. I myself saw an immortal god, who stood close by Odysseus, and in all ways he resembled Mentor. And this immortal god at one moment appeared before Odysseus, giving him courage, and at another, he drove the suitors in a frenzy, storming through the hall, and they fell one on top of another."

So he spoke, and pale green fear seized them all. And the old hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, also spoke among them, for he alone could see both before and after. With all good will, he addressed the assembly and said: "Hear me now, Ithacans, and what I have to say. Through your own cowardice, my friends, these deeds have come to pass. For you would not listen to me, or to Mentor, shepherd of the people, to make your sons stop their foolishness. They committed a great crime in their evil recklessness, wasting the possessions and dishonoring the wife of a great hero, whom they said would never return. So now let it be thus. Listen to what I say: let us not go, lest someone find a disaster he has brought upon himself."

So he spoke, but they sprang up with a great war cry, more than half of them. But the others remained there together, for his words did not please their hearts. They were persuaded by Eupeithes, and at once they rushed for their armor. When they had clothed their bodies in gleaming bronze, they gathered together before the wide-wayed city. And Eupeithes, in his folly, led them. He thought he would avenge his son's murder, but he was not destined to return, but to meet his own doom there.

Then Athena spoke to Zeus, the son of Cronos: "Our Father, son of Cronos, highest of all rulers, tell me what I ask, what does your mind now hold in secret? Will you bring about more evil war and the dreadful din of battle, or will you establish friendship between both sides?"

Then Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her and said: "My child, why do you question and ask me these things? Was it not you yourself who devised this plan, that Odysseus should indeed return and take vengeance on those men? Do as you wish. But I will tell you what is fitting. Since godlike Odysseus has taken his revenge on the suitors, let them swear faithful oaths, and let him be king forever. And let us bring about a forgetting of the slaughter of their sons and brothers. Let them love one another as before, and let there be wealth and peace in abundance."

So speaking, he spurred on Athena, who was already eager, and she went darting down from the peaks of Olympus.

When Odysseus's party had satisfied their desire for honey-sweet food, long-suffering, godlike Odysseus was the first to speak among them: "Let someone go out and see if they are drawing near."

So he spoke, and a son of Dolius went out, as he commanded. He went and stood on the threshold and saw them all close by. At once he spoke winged words to Odysseus: "They are here, close by. Let us arm ourselves quickly."

So he spoke, and they rose up and put on their armor: the four men with Odysseus, and the six sons of Dolius. And among them, Laertes and Dolius also put on armor, gray-haired though they were, warriors out of necessity. When they had clothed their bodies in gleaming bronze, they opened the doors and went out, and Odysseus led them.

Then the daughter of Zeus, Athena, came near to them, in the likeness of Mentor, in both her form and her voice. Seeing her, long-suffering, godlike Odysseus rejoiced, and at once he spoke to Telemachus, his own dear son: "Telemachus, now you will learn this for yourself, when you enter the battle where the best men are tested: not to bring any shame on the lineage of your fathers, we who in times past have been distinguished for our strength and courage over all the earth."

And the wise Telemachus answered him in turn: "You will see, if you wish, dear father, that in my spirit I will bring no shame on your lineage, as you say."

So he spoke, and Laertes was filled with joy and said: "What a day this is for me, dear gods! I am truly happy. My son and my grandson are competing in excellence."

Then gray-eyed Athena, standing beside him, spoke: "Son of Arcesius, by far the dearest of all my comrades, pray to the gray-eyed girl and to Father Zeus, then swing back your long-shadowed spear and let it fly at once."

So she spoke, and Pallas Athena breathed great strength into him. And praying then to the daughter of great Zeus, he swung back his long-shadowed spear and let it fly at once, and he struck Eupeithes through his bronze-cheeked helmet. The bronze did not stop the spear, but the point went straight through, and he fell with a thud, and his armor clattered upon him. Then Odysseus and his glorious son fell upon the front ranks, striking with their swords and with their double-pointed spears. And now they would have killed them all and left them with no return, if Athena, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, had not cried out with a great voice, and held back the entire host: "Hold back from harsh war, men of Ithaca, so that you may be parted at once, without more bloodshed."

So Athena spoke, and pale green fear seized them. The weapons flew from their terrified hands and all fell to the ground as the goddess's voice rang out. They turned back toward the city, desperate to save their lives. But long-suffering, godlike Odysseus gave a terrible cry, and gathering himself, he swooped down like a high-flying eagle. And at that moment, the son of Cronos let fly a flaming thunderbolt, and it fell before the gray-eyed daughter of the mighty sire. Then gray-eyed Athena spoke to Odysseus: "Zeus-born son of Laertes, Odysseus of many wiles, hold back, and stop this strife of all-consuming war, lest the son of Cronos, wide-seeing Zeus, grow angry with you."

So Athena spoke, and he obeyed, and was glad in his heart. And then a pact for all the years to come, between both sides, was sworn by Pallas Athena, daughter of aegis-bearing Zeus, in the likeness of Mentor, in both her form and her voice.