Speak, Memory—
Of the cunning hero,
The wanderer, blown off course time and again
After he plundered Troy’s sacred heights.

Speak
Of all the cities he saw, the minds he grasped,
The suffering deep in his heart at sea
As he struggled to survive and bring his men home
But could not save them, hard as he tried—
The fools—destroyed by their own recklessness
When they ate the oxen of Hyperion the Sun,
And that god snuffed out their day of return.

Of these things,
Speak, Immortal One,
And tell the tale once more in our time.

By now, all the others who had fought at Troy—
At least those who had survived the war and the sea—
Were safely back home. Only Odysseus
Still longed to return to his home and his wife.
The nymph Calypso, a powerful goddess—
And beautiful—was clinging to him
In her caverns and yearned to possess him.
The seasons rolled by, and the year came
In which the gods spun the thread
For Odysseus to return home to Ithaca,
Though not even there did his troubles end,
Even with his dear ones around him.
All the gods pitied him, except Poseidon,
Who stormed against the godlike hero
Until he finally reached his own native land.

But Poseidon was away now, among the Ethiopians,
Those burnished people at the ends of the earth—
Some near the sunset, some near the sunrise—
To receive a grand sacrifice of rams and bulls.
There he sat, enjoying the feast.

The other gods
Were assembled in the halls of Olympian Zeus,
And the Father of Gods and Men was speaking.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Aegisthus,
Whom Agamemnon’s son, Orestes, had killed:

“Mortals! They are always blaming the gods
For their troubles, when their own witlessness
Causes them more than they were destined for!
Take Aegisthus now. He marries Agamemnon’s
Lawful wife and murders the man on his return
Knowing it meant disaster—because we did warn him,
Sent our messenger, quicksilver Hermes,
To tell him not to kill the man and marry his wife,
Or Agamemnon’s son, Orestes, would pay him back
When he came of age and wanted his inheritance.
Hermes told him all that, but his good advice
Meant nothing to Aegisthus. Now he’s paid in full.”

Athena glared at him with her owl-grey eyes:

“Yes, O our Father who art most high—
That man got the death he richly deserved,
And so perish all who would do the same.
But it’s Odysseus I’m worried about,
That discerning, ill-fated man. He’s suffered
So long, separated from his dear ones,
On an island that lies in the center of the sea,
A wooded isle that is home to a goddess,
The daughter of Atlas, whose dread mind knows
All the depths of the sea and who supports
The tall pillars that keep earth and heaven apart.
His daughter detains the poor man in his grief,
Sweet-talking him constantly, trying to charm him
Into forgetting Ithaca. But Odysseus,
Longing to see even the smoke curling up
From his land, simply wants to die. And yet you
Never think of him, Olympian. Didn’t Odysseus
Please you with sacrifices beside the Greek ships
At Troy? Why is Odysseus so odious, Zeus?”

Zeus in his thunderhead had an answer for her:

“Quite a little speech you’ve let slip through your teeth,
Daughter. How could I forget godlike Odysseus?
No other mortal has a mind like his, or offers
Sacrifice like him to the deathless gods in heaven.
But Poseidon is stiff and cold with anger
Because Odysseus blinded his son, the Cyclops
Polyphemus, the strongest of all the Cyclopes,
Nearly a god. The nymph Thoösa bore him,
Daughter of Phorcys, lord of the barren brine,
After mating with Poseidon in a scalloped sea-cave.
The Earthshaker has been after Odysseus so
Ever since, not killing him, but keeping him away
From his native land. But come now,
Let’s all put our heads together and find a way
To bring Odysseus home. Poseidon will have to
Put aside his anger. He can’t hold out alone
Against the will of all the immortals.”

And Athena, the owl-eyed goddess, replied:

“Father Zeus, whose power is supreme,
If the blessed gods really do want
Odysseus to return to his home,
We should send Hermes, our quicksilver herald,
To the island of Ogygia without delay
To tell that nymph of our firm resolve
That long-suffering Odysseus gets to go home.

I myself will go to Ithaca
To put some spirit into his son—
Have him call an assembly of the long-haired Greeks
And rebuke the whole lot of his mother’s suitors.
They have been butchering his flocks and herds.
I'll escort him to Sparta and the sands of Pylos
So he can make inquiries about his father’s return
And win for himself a name among men.”

Athena spoke, and she bound on her feet
The beautiful sandals, golden, immortal,
That carry her over landscape and seascape
On a puff of wind. And she took the spear,
Bronze-tipped and massive, that she uses
То level battalions of heroes in her wrath.
She shot down from the peaks of Olympus
To Ithaca, where she stood on the threshold
Of Odysseus’ outer porch. Holding her spear,
She looked like Mentes, the Taphian captain,
And her eyes rested on the arrogant suitors.

The suitors were playing dice in the courtyard,
Enjoying themselves, seated on the hides of oxen
They themselves had slaughtered. They were attended
By heralds and servants, some of whom were busy
Blending water and wine in large mixing bowls,
Others wiping down the tables with sponges
And dishing out enormous servings of meat.

Telemachus spotted her first.
He was sitting with the suitors, nursing
His heart’s sorrow; picturing in his mind
His noble father, imagining he had returned
And scattered the suitors, and that he himself,
Telemachus, was respected at last.
Such were his reveries as he sat with the suitors.
And then he saw Athena. He went straight to the porch,
Indignant that a guest had been made to wait so long.
Going up to her he grasped her right hand in his
And took her spear, and his words had wings:

“Greetings, stranger. You are welcome here.
After you’ve had dinner, you can tell us what you need.”

Telemachus spoke, and Pallas Athena
Followed him into the high-roofed hall.
When they were inside he placed her spear
In a polished rack beside a great column
Where the spears of Odysseus stood in a row.
Then he covered a beautifully wrought chair
With a linen cloth and had her sit on it
With a stool under her feet. He drew up
An intricately painted bench for himself
And arranged their seats apart from the suitors
So that his guest would not lose his appetite
In their noisy and uncouth company—
And so he could inquire about his absent father.
A maid poured water from a silver pitcher
Into a golden basin for them to wash their hands
And then set up a polished table nearby.
Another serving woman, grave and dignified,
Set out bread and generous helpings
From the other dishes she had. A carver set down
Cuts of meat by the platter and golden cups.
Then a herald came by and poured them wine.

Now the suitors swaggered in. They sat down
In rows on benches and chairs. Heralds
Poured water over their hands, maidservants
Brought around bread in baskets, and young men
Filled mixing bowls to the brim with wine.
The suitors helped themselves to all this plenty,
And when they had their fill of food and drink,
They turned their attention to the other delights,
Dancing and song, that round out a feast.
A herald handed a beautiful lyre
To Phemius, who sang for the suitors,
Though against his will. Sweeping the strings
He struck up a song. And Telemachus,
Putting his head close to Pallas Athena’s
So the others wouldn’t hear, said this to her:

“Please don’t take offense if I speak my mind.
It’s easy for them to enjoy the harper’s song,
Since they are eating another man’s stores
Without paying anything—the stores of a man
Whose white bones lie rotting in the rain
On some distant shore, or still chum in the waves.
If they ever saw him make landing on Ithaca
They would pray for more foot speed
Instead of more gold or fancy clothes.
But he’s met a bad end, and it’s no comfort to us
When some traveler tells us he’s on his way home.
The day has long passed when he’s coming home.
But tell me this, and tell me the truth:
Who are you, and where do you come from?
Who are your parents? What kind of ship
Brought you here? How did your sailors
Guide you to Ithaca, and how large is your crew?
I don’t imagine you came here on foot.
And tell me this, too. I’d like to know,
Is this your first visit here, or are you
An old friend of my father’s, one of the many
Who have come to our house over the years?”

Athena’s seagrey eyes glinted as she said:

“I’ll tell you nothing but the unvarnished truth.
I am Mentes, son of Anchialus, and proud of it.
I am also captain of the seafaring Taphians.
I just pulled in with my ship and my crew,
Sailing the deep purple to foreign ports.
We’re on our way to Cyprus with a cargo of iron to trade for copper. My ship is standing
Offshore of wild country away from the city,
In Rheithron harbor under Neion’s woods.
You and I have ties of hospitality,
Just as our fathers did, from a long way back.
Go and ask old Laertes. They say he never
Comes to town any more, lives out in the country,
A hard life with just an old woman to help him.
She gets him his food and drink when he comes in
From the fields, all worn out from trudging across
The ridge of his vineyard plot.

I have come
Because they say your father has returned,
But now I see the gods have knocked him off course.
He’s not dead, though, not godlike Odysseus,
No way in the world. No, he’s alive all right.
It’s the sea keeps him back, detained on some island
In the middle of the sea, held captive by savages.
And now I will prophesy for you, as the gods
Put it in my heart and as I think it will be,
Though I am no soothsayer or reader of birds.
Odysseus will not be gone much longer
From his native land, not even if iron chains
Hold him. He knows every trick there is
And will think of some way to come home.
But now tell me this, and I want the truth:
Tall as you are, are you Odysseus’ son?
You bear a striking resemblance to him,
Especially in the head and those beautiful eyes.
We used to spend quite a bit of time together
Before he sailed for Troy with the Argive fleet.
Since then, we haven’t seen each other at all.”

Telemachus took a deep breath and said:

“You want the truth, and I will give it to you.
My mother says that Odysseus is my father.
I don’t know this myself. No one witnesses
His own begetting. If I had my way, I’d be the son
Of a man fortunate enough to grow old at home.
But it’s the man with the most dismal fate of all
They say I was bom from—since you want to know.”

Athena’s seagrey eyes glinted as she said:

“Well, the gods have made sure your family name
Will go on, since Penelope has borne a son like you.
But there is one other thing I want you to tell me.
What kind of a party is this? What’s the occasion?
Some kind of banquet? A wedding feast?
It’s no neighborly potluck, that’s for sure,
The way this rowdy crowd is carrying on
All through the house. Any decent man
Would be outraged if he saw this behavior.”

Telemachus breathed in the salt air and said:

“Since you ask me these questions as my guest—
This, no doubt, was once a perfect house,
Wealthy and fine, when its master was still home.
But the gods frowned and changed all that
When they whisked him off the face of the earth.
I wouldn’t grieve for him so much if he were dead,
Gone down with his comrades in the town of Troy,
Or died in his friends’ arms after winding up the war.
The entire Greek army would have buried him then,
And great honor would have passed on to his son.
But now the whirlwinds have snatched him away
Without a trace. He’s vanished, gone, and left me
Pain and sorrow. And he’s not the only cause
I have to grieve. The gods have given me other trials.
All of the nobles who rule the islands—
Doulichium, Samé, wooded Zacynthus—
And all those with power on rocky Ithaca
Are courting my mother and ruining our house.
She refuses to make a marriage she hates
But can’t stop it either. They are eating us
Out of house and home, and will kill me someday.”

And Pallas Athena, with a flash of anger:

“Damn them! You really do need Odysseus back.
Just let him lay his hands on these mangy dogs!
If only he would come through that door now
With a helmet and shield and a pair of spears,
Just as he was when I saw him first,
Drinking and enjoying himself in our house
On his way back from Ephyre. Odysseus
Had sailed there to ask Mermerus’ son, Ilus,
For some deadly poison for his arrowheads.
Ilus, out of fear of the gods’ anger,
Would not give him any, but my father
Gave him some, because he loved him dearly.
That’s the Odysseus I want the suitors to meet.
They wouldn’t live long enough to get married!
But it’s on the knees of the gods now
Whether he comes home and pays them back
Right here in his halls, or doesn’t.

So it’s up to you
To find a way to drive them out of your house.
Now pay attention and listen to what I’m saying.
Tomorrow you call an assembly and make a speech
To these heroes, with the gods as witnesses.
The suitors you order to scatter, each to his own.
Your mother—if in her heart she wants to marry—
Goes back to her powerful father’s house.
Her kinfolk and he can arrange the marriage,
And the large dowry that should go with his daughter.
And my advice for you, if you will take it,
Is to launch your best ship, with twenty oarsmen,
And go make inquiries about your long-absent father.
Someone may tell you something, or you may hear
A rumor from Zeus, which is how news travels best.
Sail to Pylos first and ask godly Nestor,
Then go over to Sparta and red-haired Menelaus.
He was the last home of all the bronzeclad Greeks.
If you hear your father’s alive and on his way home,
You can grit your teeth and hold out one more year.
If you hear he’s dead, among the living no more,
Then come home yourself to your ancestral land,
Build him a barrow and celebrate the funeral
Your father deserves. Then marry off your mother.
After you’ve done all that, think up some way
To kill the suitors in your house either openly
Or by setting a trap. You’ve got to stop
Acting like a child. You’ve outgrown that now.
Haven’t you heard how Orestes won glory
Throughout the world when he killed Aegisthus,
The shrewd traitor who murdered his father?
You have to be aggressive, strong—look at how big
And well-built you are—so you will leave a good name.
Well, I’m off to my ship and my men,
Who are no doubt wondering what’s taking me so long.
You’ve got a job to do. Remember what I said.”

And Telemachus, in his clear-headed way:

“My dear guest, you speak to me as kindly
As a father to his son. I will not forget your words.
I know you’re anxious to leave, but please stay
So you can bathe and relax before returning
To your ship, taking with you a costly gift,
Something quite fine, a keepsake from me,
The sort of thing a host gives to his guest.”
And Athena, her eyes grey as saltwater:
“No, I really do want to get on with my journey.
Whatever gift you feel moved to make,
Give it to me on my way back home,
Yes, something quite fine. It will get you as good.”

[Telemachus sets out to visit Nestor and Menelaus. Homer's attention then turns to the hero's own plight and we hear Odysseus tell the long tale of his wanderings after the fall of Troy. In the except below, Odysseus tells of his terrible encounter with the man-eating cyclops Polyphemus on his journey home from Troy]

We got to the cave quickly. He was out,
Tending his flocks in the rich pastureland.
We went inside and had a good look around.
There were crates stuffed with cheese, and pens
Crammed with lambs and kids—firstlings,
Middlings, and newborns in separate sections.
The vessels he used for milking—pails and bowls
Of good workmanship—were brimming with whey.
My men thought we should make off with some cheese
And then come back for the lambs and kids,
Load them on board, and sail away on the sea.
But I wouldn’t listen. It would have been far better
If I had! But I wanted to see him, and see
If he would give me a gift of hospitality.
When he did come he was not a welcome sight.

We lit a fire and offered sacrifice
And helped ourselves to some of the cheese.
Then we sat and waited in the cave
Until he came back, herding his flocks.
He carried a huge load of dry wood
To make a fire for his supper and heaved it down
With a crash inside the cave. We were terrified
And scurried back into a corner.
He drove his fat flocks into the wide cavern,
At least those that he milked, leaving the males—
The rams and the goats—outside in the yard.
Then he lifted up a great doorstone,
A huge slab of rock, and set it in place.
Two sturdy wagons—twenty sturdy wagons—
Couldn’t pry it from the ground—that’s how big
The stone was he set in the doorway. Then,
He sat down and milked the ewes and bleating goats,
All in good order, and put the sucklings
Beneath their mothers. Half of the white milk
He curdled and scooped into wicker baskets,
The other half he let stand in the pails
So he could drink it later for his supper.
He worked quickly to finish his chores,
And as he was lighting the fire he saw us and said:

‘Who are you strangers? Sailing the seas, huh?
Where from, and what for? Pirates, probably,
Roaming around causing people trouble.’

He spoke, and it hit us like a punch in the gut—
His booming voice and the sheer size of the monster—
But even so I found the words to answer him:

‘We are Greeks, blown off course by every wind
In the world on our way home from Troy traveling
Sea routes we never meant to, by Zeus’ will no doubt.
We are proud to be the men of Agamemnon,
Son of Atreus, the greatest name under heaven,
Conquerer of Troy, destroyer of armies.
Now we are here, suppliants at your knees,
Hoping you will be generous to us
And give us the gifts that are due to strangers.
Respect the gods, sir. We are your suppliants,
And Zeus avenges strangers and suppliants,
Zeus, god of strangers, who walks at their side.’

He answered me from his pitiless heart:

‘You’re dumb, stranger, or from far away,
If you ask me to fear the gods. Cyclopes
Don’t care about Zeus or his aegis
Or the blessed gods, since we are much stronger.
I wouldn’t spare you or your men
Out of fear of Zeus. I would spare them only
If I myself wanted to. But tell me,
Where did you leave your ship? Far
Down the coast, or close? I’d like to know.’

Nice try, but I knew all the tricks and said:

‘My ship? Poseidon smashed it to pieces
Against the rocks at the border of your land.
He pushed her in close and the wind did the rest.
These men and I escaped by the skin of our teeth.’

This brought no response from his pitiless heart
But a sudden assault upon my men. His hands
Reached out, seized two of them, and smashed them
To the ground like puppies. Their brains spattered out
And oozed into the dirt. He tore them limb from limb
To make his supper, gulping them down
Like a mountain lion, leaving nothing behind—
Guts, flesh, or marrowy bones.
Crying out, we lifted our hands to Zeus
At this outrage, bewildered and helpless.
When the Cyclops had filled his huge belly
With human flesh, he washed it down with milk,
Then stretched out in his cave among his flocks.
I crept up close and was thinking about
Drawing my sharp sword and driving it home
Into his chest where the lungs hide the liver.
I was feeling for the spot when another thought
Checked my hand: we would die to a man in that cave,
Unable to budge the enormous stone
He had set in place to block the entrance. And so,
Groaning through the night, we waited for dawn.

As soon as dawn came, streaking the sky red,
He rekindled the fire and milked his flocks,
All in good order, placing the sucklings
Beneath their mothers. His chores done,
He seized two of my men and made his meal.
After he had fed he drove his flocks out,
Easily lifting the great stone, which he then set
Back in place as lightly as if he were setting
A lid upon a quiver. And then, with loud whistling,
The Cyclops turned his fat flocks toward the mountain,
And I was left there, brooding on how
I might make him pay and win glory from Athena.

This was the best plan I could come up with:
Beside one of the sheep pens lay a huge pole
Of green olive which the Cyclops had cut
To use as a walking stick when dry. Looking at it
We guessed it was about as large as the mast
Of a black ship, a twenty-oared, broad-beamed
Freighter that crosses the wide gulfs.
That’s how long and thick it looked. I cut off
About a fathom’s length from this pole
And handed it over to my men. They scraped it
And made it smooth, and I sharpened the tip
And took it over to the fire and hardened it.
Then I hid it, setting it carefully in the dung
That lay in piles all around the cave.
And I told my men to draw straws to decide
Which of them would have to share the risk with me—
Lift that stake and grind it in his eye
While he was asleep. They drew straws and came up with
The very men I myself would have chosen.
There were four of them, and I made five.

At evening he came, herding his fleecy sheep.
He drove them straight into the cave, drove in
All his flocks in fact. Maybe he had some
Foreboding, or maybe some god told him to.
Then he lifted the doorstone and set it in place,
And sat down to milk the goats and bleating ewes,
All in good order, setting the sucklings
Beneath their mothers. His chores done,
Again he seized two of my men and made his meal.
Then I went up to the Cyclops and spoke to him,
Holding an ivy-wood bowl filled with dark wine.

‘Cyclops, have some wine, now that you have eaten
Your human flesh, so you can see what kind of drink
Was in our ship’s hold. I was bringing it to you
As an offering, hoping you would pity me
And help me get home. But you are a raving
Maniac! How do you expect any other man
Ever to visit you after acting like this?’

He took the bowl and drank it off, relishing
Every last, sweet drop. And he asked me for more:
‘Be a pal and give me another drink. And tell me
Your name, so I can give you a gift you’ll like.
Wine grapes grow in the Cyclopes’ land, too.
Rain from the sky makes them grow from the earth.
But this—this is straight ambrosia and nectar.’

So I gave him some more of the ruby-red wine.
Three times the fool drained the bowl dry,
And when the wine had begun to work on his mind,
I spoke these sweet words to him:

‘Cyclops,
You ask me my name, my glorious name,
And I will tell it to you. Remember now,
To give me the gift just as you promised.
Noman is my name. They call me Noman—
My mother, my father, and all my friends, too.’

He answered me from his pitiless heart:
‘Noman I will eat last after his friends.
Friends first, him last. That’s my gift to you.’

He listed as he spoke and then fell flat on his back,
His thick neck bent sideways. He was sound asleep,
Belching out wine and bits of human flesh In his drunken stupor.
I swung into action,
Thrusting the stake deep in the embers,
Heating it up, and all the while talking to my men
To keep up their morale. When the olive-wood stake
Was about to catch fire, green though it was,
And was really glowing, I took it out
And brought it right up to him. My men
Stood around me, and some god inspired us.
My men lifted up the olive-wood stake
And drove the sharp point right into his eye,
While I, putting my weight behind it, spun it around
The way a man bores a ship’s beam with a drill,
Leaning down on it while other men beneath him
Keep it spinning and spinning with a leather strap.
That’s how we twirled the fiery-pointed stake
In the Cyclops’ eye. The blood formed a whirlpool
Around its searing tip. His lids and brow
Were all singed by the heat from the burning eyeball
And its roots crackled in the fire and hissed
Like an axe-head or adze a smith dips into water
When he wants to temper the iron—that’s how his eye
Sizzled and hissed around the olive-wood stake.
He screamed, and the rock walls rang with his voice.
We shrank back in terror while he wrenched
The blood-grimed stake from his eye and flung it
Away from him, blundering about and shouting
To the other Cyclopes, who lived around him
In caverns among the windswept crags.
They heard his cry and gathered from all sides
Around his cave and asked him what ailed him:

‘Polyphemus, why are you hollering so much
And keeping us up the whole blessed night?
Is some man stealing your flocks from you,
Or killing you, maybe, by some kind of trick?’

And Polyphemus shouted out to them:

‘Noman is killing me by some kind of trick!’
They sent their words winging back to him:
‘If no man is hurting you, then your sickness
Comes from Zeus and can’t be helped.
You should pray to your father, Lord Poseidon.’

They left then, and I laughed in my heart
At how my phony name had fooled them so well.
Cyclops meanwhile was groaning in agony.
Groping around, he removed the doorstone
And sat in the entrance with his hands spread out
To catch anyone who went out with the sheep—
As if I could be so stupid. I thought it over,
Trying to come up with the best plan I could
To get us all out from the jaws of death.
I wove all sorts of wiles, as a man will
When his life is on the line. My best idea
Had to do with the sheep that were there, big,
Thick-fleeced beauties with wool dark as violets.
Working silently, I bound them together
With willow branches the Cyclops slept on.
I bound them in threes. Each middle sheep
Carried a man underneath, protected by
The two on either side: three sheep to a man.
As for me, there was a ram, the best in the flock.
I grabbed his back and curled up beneath
His shaggy belly. There I lay, hands twined
Into the marvelous wool, hanging on for dear life.
And so, muffling our groans, we waited for dawn.

[Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, takes a turn trying to string the great bow after the suitors have all failed. Penelope has brought the bow out as a test: whoever can string it and shoot an arrow through twelve axe heads will be her new husband. Little does she, or the suitors, know that her old husband is already home.]

Downstairs, the noble swineherd was carrying
The curved bow across the hall. The suitors
Were in an uproar, and one of them called out:

“Where do you think you’re going with that bow,
You miserable swineherd? You’re out of line.
Go back to your pigsties, where your own dogs
Will wolf you down—a nice, lonely death—
If Apollo and the other gods smile upon us.”

Afraid, the swineherd stopped in his tracks
And set the bow down. Men were yelling at him
All through the hall, and now Telemachus weighed in:

“Keep going with the bow. You’ll regret it
If you try to obey everyone. I may be
Younger than you, but I’ll chase you back
Into the country with a shower of stones.
I am stronger than you. I wish I were as strong
When it came to the suitors. I’d throw more than one
Out of here in a sorry state. They’re all up to no good.”

This got the suitors laughing hilariously
At Telemachus. The tension in the room eased,
And the swineherd carried the bow
Across to Odysseus and put it in his hands.
Then he called Eurycleia aside and said:

“Telemachus says you should lock the doors to the hall,
And if the women hear the sound of men groaning
Or being struck, tell them not to rush out
But to sit still and do their work in silence.”

Eumaeus’ words sank in, and Eurycleia
Locked the doors to the crowded hall.

Meanwhile, Philoetius left without a word
And barred the gates to the fenced courtyard.
Beside the portico there lay a ship’s rope
Made of papyrus. Philoetius used this
To secure the gates, and then he went back in,
Sat down on the chair from which he had risen,
And kept his eyes on Odysseus.

He was handling the bow, turning it over and over
And testing its flex to make sure that worms
Had not eaten the horn in its master’s absence.
The suitors glanced at each other
And started to make sarcastic remarks:

“Ha! A real connoisseur, an expert in bows!”

“He must have one just like it in a case at home.”

“Or plans to make one just like it, to judge by the way
The masterful tramp keeps turning it in his hands.”

“May he have as much success in life
As he’ll have in trying to string that bow.”

Thus the suitors spoke, while Odysseus, deep in thought,
Was looking over his bow. And then, effortlessly,

Like a musician stretching a string
Over a new peg on his lyre, and making
The twisted sheep-gut fast at either end,

Odysseus strung the great bow. Lifting it up,
He plucked the string, and it sang beautifully
Under his touch, with a note like a swallow’s.
The suitors were aghast. The color drained
From their faces, and Zeus thundered loud,
Showing his portents and cheering the heart
Of the long-enduring, godlike Odysseus.
One arrow lay bare on the table. The rest,
Which the suitors were about to taste,
Were still in the quiver. Odysseus picked up
The arrow from the table and laid it upon
The bridge of the bow, and, still in his chair,
Drew the bowstring and the notched arrow back.
He took aim and let fly, and the bronze-tipped arrow
Passed clean through the holes of all twelve axeheads
From first to last. And he said to Telemachus:

“Well, Telemachus, the guest in your hall
Has not disgraced you. I did not miss my target,
Nor did I take all day in stringing the bow.
I still have my strength, and I’m not as the suitors
Make me out to be in their taunts and jeers.
But now it is time to cook these men’s supper,
While it is still light outside, and after that,
We’ll need some entertainment—music and song—
The finishing touches for a perfect banquet.”

He spoke, and lowered his brows. Telemachus,
The true son of godlike Odysseus, slung on
His sharp sword, seized his spear, and gleaming in bronze
Took his place by his father’s side.

And now Odysseus’ cunning was revealed.
He stripped off his rags and leapt with his bow
To the great threshold. Spreading the arrows
Out before his feet, he spoke to the suitors:

“Now that we’ve separated the men from the boys,
I’ll see if I can hit a mark that no man
Has ever hit. Apollo grant me glory!”

As he spoke he took aim at Antinous,
Who at that moment was lifting to his lips
A golden cup—a fine, two-eared golden goblet—
And was just about to sip the wine. Bloodshed
Was the farthest thing from his mind.
They were at a banquet. Who would think
That one man, however strong, would take them all on
And so ensure his own death? Odysseus
Took dead aim at Antinous’ throat and shot,
And the arrow punched all the way through
The soft neck tissue. Antinous fell to one side,
The cup dropped from his hands, and a jet
Of dark blood spurted from his nostrils.
He kicked the table as he went down,
Spilling the food on the floor, and the bread
And roast meat were fouled in the dust.
The crowd burst into an uproar when they saw
Antinous go down. They jumped from their seats
And ran in a panic through the hall,
Scanning the walls for weapons—
A spear, a shield. But there were none to be had.
Odysseus listened to their angry jeers:

“You think you can shoot at men, you tramp?”

“That’s your last contest—you’re as good as dead!”

“You’ve killed the best young man in Ithaca!”

“Vultures will eat you on this very spot!”

They all assumed he had not shot to kill,
And had no idea how tightly the net
Had been drawn around them.
Odysseus scowled at the whole lot of them, and said:

“You dogs! You thought I would never
Come home from Troy. So you wasted my house,
Forced the women to sleep with you,
And while I was still alive you courted my wife
Without any fear of the gods in high heaven
Or of any retribution from the world of men.
Now the net has been drawn tight around you.”

At these words the color drained from their faces,
And they all looked around for a way to escape.