Homer's Odyssey

Odyssey, One: Athena’s Advice A man famous for subtle stratagems— Muse, touch my tongue—he traveled so widely on distant voyages after torching sacred Ilion, that towering acropolis of the vast Troad— a wanderer skilled in tacking sudden gusts who tramped through a multitude of towns, and knew how men there thought about life while he suffered much grief in his heart, as he tried hard to bring back home his companions, though even he could not save them from their folly, for they butchered the sacred oxen of Helios that pull the chariot of the immortal Sun through the dark days we mortals inhabit. I, too, want to know how it all happened, how he breathed the same breeze we now inhale. All other Achaians, those who had survived the Troad war, were now snug in their homes, having sailed through tempests, but this one alone, longing for both wife and homecoming, was detained by the royal nymph Kalypso, a shinning goddess, in her secret cave, for she desired him as a love mate. Yet when the seasons had whirled their many returns, and the time spun by the gods arrived for his return to Ithaka, he endured such extreme ordeals among his own people that all the gods showered him with their sympathy, except for Poseidon, who remained bitter against Odysseus, until he accomplished the fulfillment of his homecoming. While Poseidon went to visit the far Aithiopians, most distant of men at the world’s end between two seasons, one at the setting of Hyperion, the other at its rising, to receive a great hecatomb of sheep and oxen where he enjoyed himself at their festivals, all the other gods met in the halls of Olympian Zeus to hear what was on the mind of Zeus, son of Kronos, who at that time was thinking of Aigisthos, killed by Agamemnon’s son, famed Orestes. This is what Zeus said to the assembled gods: “See how humans blame us gods for their own follies! Take the case of Aigisthos: he seduces Agamemnon’s wife and then to justify his lust, he kills Agamemnon, even though he knew it would bring about his own death! I had sent Hermes the Argos slayer to warn him not to attempt either act because it was plain Orestes would be sure to take quick revenge once he had grown to manhood and returned home. Hermes warned him with all good will, but he turned a deaf ear, and now has paid in full!” Athena then spoke: “Father Zeus, Aigisthos received justice and so may any other man, who did as he did, justly perish. Yet what bothers my heart most now is Odysseus: how he suffers on that wave-washed island far from men, far from friends and family—an island omphalos of pristine purity in the middle of the great ocean,

imprisoned by that goddess, a daughter of malevolent Atlas, who jealously guards the sea floor and shoulders the great columns that separate men and gods. This goddess has imprisoned Odysseus and tries to use her charms to make him forget his home, so that he grows tired of life and broods on nothing but longing to see the smoke from his own chimneys. Though you pay no attention to this, did not Odysseus honor you with many sacrifices when he was at Ilios? Why then do you persist in your anger toward him?” Zeus, son of Kronos, replied: “Don’t be silly, my daughter. Why hurl such blunt accusations beyond your teeth? How can I forget Odysseus, a most resourceful mortal, or how can I forget that among men he is the most pious? You must remember that Poseidon remains angry at him for blinding Polyphemos, lord of the Kyklopes, whose mother is the undulant nymph Thoösa, daughter of sea-king Phorycs who assures the sea of its salt fertility and uncountable swimming fish. Although my brother will not kill Odysseus, he will make his homecoming very difficult. But let us put our heads together and see how we can assist him with his homecoming. Poseidon will be content with making trouble, but he will not be able to defy all the other gods!” Turning to her father, the gray-eyed goddess Athena said: “Son of Kronos, father of us all and Lord most mighty, if it is the honest will of the gods that Odysseus return home, then we should send Hermes the Pathfinder to the primeval island and tell Kalypso of the lovely hair our decision. In the meantime, I myself will travel to Ithaka and instill confidence into Odysseus’ son Telemachos, emboldening him to call a general assembly of all long-haired Achaians and have him address the suitors with a statement about his mother Penelope. The suitors insist on devouring Odysseus’ curly sheep and his slow-moving cattle with curved horns. I will also guide Telemachos to Pylos and Sparta to ask for news about his father’s return, and so win a good reputation for him among the people.” Then she tied the thongs of her glittering gold sandals, immortal wings with which she surfs the wind currents over both dry land and bluest seas, and she took up her spear, stout of shaft with a forged bronze spearhead with which she subdues battalions of fierce fighters who oppose her, and down she leapt down from the peak of Mount Olympos to land in Ithaka at the gateway of Odysseus’ house, in disguise as Mentes, chief of the Taphians, a foreigner holding a remarkable, glinting bronze spear in hand. There she found the arrogant suitors amusing themselves with counters and board games as they sat on the flayed skins of Odysseus’ animals which they had butchered for pleasure, while about them their heralds and slaves attended them: some mixing water and wine in bowls while others cleared and sponged down the feasting tables, as others

carved up the moist meat in great heaping platters. Long before anyone else, Telemachos saw her. He was sitting among the suitors and sulking, thinking about the legendary bravery of his father, and how he would send the suitors running from the house if he were to come home and be honored by all. While brooding, he caught sight of Pallas Athena and made straight for the outer house gate, vexed that a visitor should be kept waiting. Taking her right hand in his and asking for her spear, he said: “Welcome to our household. First, sit down, eat, and only then tell me why you have come here.” As he spoke, he led the way with Athena following. Inside the spacious courtyard, he set her spear against a pillar by his father’s many spears, and took her over to a richly brocaded seat on which he placed a white damask cloth. There was also a small footstool for her feet, and he set another chair down beside hers some distance from where the suitors feasted, so she might not be annoyed by their raucous revelry, and he might ask her if she had any news of his father. A servant brought water in a golden ewer, pouring water into a silver basin for them to wash, while another wiped down the table. A headwaiter arrived with a basket of bread telling them of all the choice dishes available and the carver sliced the meats they requested while pages set gold goblets at their side and a bowl for mixing water and wine. While the wine was being mixed, the suitors entered with their heralds, taking their places at the cleaned tables. They all began to eat the appetizing food. As soon as everyone had their fill of food and drink, they all clamored for music and dancing, which properly concludes any good feast. A herald put the large lyre in the hands of Phemios, whom the suitors had forced to sing for them. Strumming his lyre, he plucked an immortal song as Telemachos spoke to gray-eyed Athena, leaning his head close to her scallop-shell ear, so that others might not overhear them. “Dear guest, would you be scandalized if I spoke truth? This is all these suitors think of—singing and dancing! That’s easy for them, since they consume another man’s food, a man whose bleached bones probably lie out in the rain somewhere on the mainland, or rattle in surf by some beach. If they were to see my father return home, they would pray for longer legs rather than the easy pickings they seek, for money would be of no importance to them, if he suddenly arrived. I fear my father has met an evil fate, yet often I hear rumors that he will return, but almost nobody believes that anymore.

“But now, my good sir, tell me and tell me true: who you are and who are your parents? Tell me of your town and where you come from, what kind of sailing rig you arrived in, the route by which your crew sailed to Ithaka, and what people or tribe the crew boasts of, for I’m sure you didn’t arrive here by foot! Tell me true: are you a stranger to this house or have you been here when my father was here? In the old days we had many guests and my father traveled about quite a bit.” The goddess Athena turned to him and answered: “I will truthfully answer all your queries. I announce myself as Mentes, son of Anchilos the wise, and I am king of the Taphain people. I’ve arrived with a full ship and crew, sailing smoothly over the wine-blue water, bound for Temese where I trade with barbarians— I’ve got cargo of iron to exchange for bronze. My ship is nearby, but anchored away from the city— at the Rheithron harbor under wooded Neritos. Our families were good friends before we were born, as old Laeteres will tell you, if you ask him. I hear he doesn’t much come to town nowadays— that he lives frugally in the upland hills with an old woman who cooks and looks after him when he comes back from working in the vineyard. But I stopped by here because I’d a rumor he returned— your father, I mean. But perhaps the gods delay him, for your father has not fallen in battle on dry land, but somewhere on the high seas is held captive— on an island held by savages who’ve imprisoned him. “I’m no prophet and I know very little about omens, but I speak as heaven urges me, and I assure you that he won’t be away from here much longer, for your father is a man of such resourcefulness that even if he was bound in chains of iron, he would find a way of getting home. But now you tell me and tell me true, can Odysseus really have such a good-looking son? You look very much like him about the head and eyes— your father and I were close friends before he sailed for Ilios where the best of all the Argives pursued glory. But since then, neither of us has seen the other.” “Penelope,” Telemachos answered, “says I am Odysseus’ son, but I don’t really know my father, and some say sons never really know who is their actual father. I wish I were son to a man who had grown old on his estate, and if you ask me, it seems there isn’t a man more cursed than the man whom they say is my father.” Athena replied: “There is no danger of your family’s fame dying out while Penelope has such a fine son as you. But tell me, and tell me true, what is the purpose of this feast?

And who are all these people? Just what is all this about? Is this a festival I know nothing of? A wedding? It can’t be a communal dinner since these people swagger about the house as if they own it. Any civilized man would be scandalized to see the disgraceful behavior that’s going on!” Telemachos paused for thought and replied: “Honored guest, since you ask such a question, I will say that there was a time that this house dwelt in prosperous moderation, living without reproach. But the gods, with evil intent, have willed it otherwise, and have caused my father to disappear in a way that no other man has. It’s quite peculiar! I would not have become so morose if I had heard he died before the walls of Ilios, or in the embrace of his family and friends, after the thread of war had wound down— then the Argives would have heaped up a mound over him and the question of his glory would have been settled. But now tempests have snatched him from sight and it’s this vague uncertainty that makes me melancholy. “But my grief is not for his fate alone, for the gods have afflicted me with another burden: all the most powerful men in the nearby islands, in Doulichion, Same, and wooded Zakynthos, and all those in rocky Ithaka who hold large estates, all these are after my mother for her hand in marriage. Their strategy is to party and impoverish our household. My mother does not announce she won’t marry anyone, nor is she able to refuse their admittance outright. They devour my heritage. Soon they’ll do away with me.” “Is that so?” exclaimed Athena. “If that’s the situation, then you do really need Odysseus home again. Give him a helmet, shield, and a few spears, and if he’s the man I once knew back in my house, he would soon dispose of these obnoxious suitors once he set foot on the house threshold. I recall one time when he came from Ephyre when he had asked Ilos, son of Memeros, for a quiver of poisoned arrows, but Ilos feared the wrath of the gods and wouldn’t give him any, but my father gave him some, for he could refuse him nothing. If Odysseus is still the man he was then, these suitors would find marriage a gloomy affair and death a quick matter. But it’s all up to the gods to determine whether he will return and take his revenge here in his house or not! I would advise you, though, to get rid of this riffraff. My advice is to call an assembly of Achaian elders tomorrow: lay out your case before them and call heaven as your witness! Tell the suitors to return to their own estates and if your mother is determined to marry again, let her go back to her father’s house and he will provide her with the kind of dowry that any dear daughter might expect. “As for you, get the best seaworthy ship you can,

recruit a trusted crew of twenty or so, and go in search of news about your father who seems to have mysteriously disappeared. Someone may tell you something that will give you a clue, or some message from the gods might come to you. First, go to Pylos and see what old Nestor has to say, then go on to Sparta and pay a visit to red-haired Menelaos who was the last of all the Argives to return home. If you hear that your father is alive somewhere, you may be able to put up with these suitors for another year. On the other hand, if you hear that your father has died, return home at once and perform all the proper burial rites, build a barrow to his memory, persuade your mother marry again. After your journey, you might think of how to get rid of these suitors— either by fair or foul means: I mean kill them off in your house! You are no longer a helpless child—act like a man! Have you not heard that people are singing the praises of Orestes for having killed Aigisthos, the murderer of his father? You are a strong, good-looking specimen: show what mettle you are made of—make a name for yourself that will be remembered by generations in song and story! But as for me, it’s time that I got back to my ship and my companions who dutifully wait for me, though I must be unduly trying their patience. Think it over carefully. I hope you’ll take my advice.” Telemachos replied: “I appreciate your advice, for I think it the kind of thing a father would say to a son. I won’t forget what you’ve said, but stay just a bit longer— take a bath and short rest while I wrap a present for you to take back to your ship, a keepsake as a token of appreciation for your friendship with my father, the kind of item that loving hosts give respected guests.” The gray-eyed goddess glanced at him and said: “Don’t try to detain me any longer—my ship calls me! As for that gift, whatever it is, save it for when I come on my next visit, and I will take it then. Choose a good gift and I will make a fair exchange.” So the goddess spoke and then departed like a bird that soars high in the upper air, having left courage and determination in the heart of the young man, as he recalled his father’s reputation more than vividly than before. He felt a change in his heart and wondering about it he knew that the stranger was godlike as he strode over to sit with the suitors who, for once, sat in silence as they listened to the famous singer, Phemois, singing about the bitter return of the Achaians from the Troad, and the sorrows Pallas Athena had inflicted on them. The daughter of Ikarios, Penelope, heard this glorious song from her chamber upstairs and came down the staircase, attended by two of her maids. When she reached the suitors, she stood by one of the supporting pillars, a maid on each side. Weeping bitter tears, her veil covered her face.

“Phemios,” she cried, “you know the songs of gods and heroes— those amusing stories that all poets love to celebrate! Sing to us some of those other stories and let your audience drink their wine in silence, and cease this tragic tale, for it breaks my heart, as it reminds me of my missing husband whom I mourn without cease and whose name resounds over all Hellas and middle Argos.” “Mother,” Telemachos answered her, “let him sing what he wants, for poets do not create the tragedies they sing of— it is Father Zeus, not they, who creates misfortune, sending trial and woe upon humankind according to his whim. This man means no harm by singing the tragedies of the Danaans, and people applaud most loudly those songs that are most new. Resign your heart and mind to it and bear it as best you can— Odysseus is not the only man who never returned from Ilios! Go back into the house and busy yourself with your duties: the loom, your distaff, and the oversight of the servants, for speech is the concern of men and in this case my lookout— for it is I who am head of this household now!” Filled with wonder, she went back into the house, musing in her heart what Telemachos had just said. Then climbing the stairs to her room with her maids, she mourned in earnest her missing husband until Athena closed her eyes with comforting sleep. But down below the suitors were raucous in the courtyard, each dreaming of the day when he would be her bedmate. Telemachos grew impatient with their boorishness and addressed them with this public rebuke: “You come here as suitors to my mother, but I find your rowdy behavior shameful. Let us eat and drink with pleasure without clowning, mugging, or brawling, for it is a rare pleasure to hear a singer like Phemios who has a golden voice. In the morning I demand to meet all of you in assembly where I intend to proclaim a notice for you to depart and take your feasting elsewhere—perhaps take turns, each of you hosting everyone at your own place. “But if you continue to feast and despoil my estate, I will call out to the immortal gods and beg Zeus to humbly grant a reversal of my misfortunes and that you shall all die here in my house without the payment of a death-compensation! ” While he spoke, the suitors bit their lips in silence as they marveled at the severity of his speech. Then the son of Eupeithes, Antinoös, rose and said: “Have the gods given you a lesson in bluster and big talk? May Zeus never permit you to govern Ithaka in the footsteps of your father, for you are plainly unfit!” Telemachos answered: “Antinoös, don’t trade insults with me, but by the grace of Zeus, I want you to know

that I intend to follow in my father’s footsteps. Is not being king, the worst fate you can imagine for me? Kings prosper and I think it might be good for all if I were king. Yet there are many other lords here in Ithaka who might be king, among both the young and old, any of whom might be king, now that my mighty father Odysseus has perished. But make no mistake: I will be absolute king over my estate, and I will rule what Odysseus has handed down to me.” The son of Polybos, Eurymachos, then spoke up: “Telemachos, these matters, and who’s the next king are questions that lay before the knees of the gods. As for me, I hope you keep your estate and rule it. May the man never arrive who will drive you away, as long as Ithaka is a civilized place to live in! “But now, my good fellow, I’d like to ask you about that stranger you spoke to a little while ago. What country did he come from? Who are his parents? What houses, fields, and lands do they own? Did he bring a message concerning the fate of your father? Or was he here on some matter of personal business? I ask only because he spoke to no one else, then vanished. Though he was not exactly a sociable man, he hardly looked like a mere merchant.” Telemachos thought a moment before answering: “Eurymachos, there is no more hope for my father’s return. Even if such a message arrived, I would not believe it, nor do I believe the prophecies of those diviners my mother sometimes calls to the house. The stranger is my father’s friend. He comes from Taphos and calls himself Mentes, son of Anchialos the wise. He is the king of the sea-trading Taphains.” So spoke Telemachos, but in his heart he realized that the stranger was indeed Athena in disguise. The suitors turned their attention to music and dancing while they drank and waited for the pleasure of sunset, and as black night arrived they drained their cups. Then they returned home to their beds, each to his house, but Telemachos climbed to his room up in the tower overlooking the outer courtyard. A good old woman, daughter of Ops the son of Pisenor, Eurykleia, climbed before him with two blazing torches. Laertes had bought her when she was quite young, paying the value of twenty oxen for her and gave her as much respect in the household as he did to his own beloved wedded wife, yet he never took her to bed for fear of his wife’s resentment. She now lighted the steps to Telemachos’ room and she loved him better than any other house servant, for she had been his nurse when he was a baby. He opened his bedroom door and sat down on the bed. Taking off his shirt, he passed it to the old woman, who folded it neatly, hanging it from a peg near the bed.

She then left, pulling the door shut to the silver latch and taking the leather strap, bolted the door. As Telemachos lay covered with a woolen fleece, his mind raced all night long, planning his voyage, pondering in his heart Athena’s good advice. Translated by Kevin T. McEneaney