eating your house up. A good man walking among them,
watching their shameless acts, would really get angry.”
An Emptied, Dishonored House
Telemakhos promptly gave her a sensible answer.
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“My guest, now that you press me, asking your questions,
my house was meant to be truly wealthy and handsome
once—as long as my Father stayed in his homeland.
Now the Gods will otherwise: planning our bad times,
making the man more lost than anyone ever
from common sight. I’d never mourn his passing
so much if he died on Trojan soil among war-friends;
or later, the war wound up, in the arms of his loved ones.
Then all the Akhaians would raise a tomb for the dead man.
In days to come he’d gain a name for his son too.
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But now storm-winds have carried him off as though nameless.
He’s gone, unseen and unheard of, leaving me mourning
and smarting.
“I don’t grieve or wail for my Father
only: Gods have caused me other worrisome hardship.
The noblest men around us, lords of the islands—
Same, Doulikhion, densely wooded Zakunthos—
and those who rule our rock-strewn Ithakan island,
all come courting my Mother, wearing our house down.
She won’t say no to a wedding she hates, and she cannot
make them stop. They go on eating and wasting
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our home. They’ll waste me too, they’ll wholly destroy me.”
The Wrath of Odysseus
Pallas Athene now got angry and told him,
“Look at this! How you need your long-gone Odysseus
truly to get his hands on the shameless wooers!
If only he came right now and stood at the outer
doorway holding a shield, two spears and a helmet—
the way he looked when I saw him myself for the first time
in our own house. He enjoyed himself and he drank well,
back from Ephure, Mermeros’s son, the household of Ilos.
Odysseus went there sailing a fast-running vessel
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to look for deadly poison, useful for coating
his bronze-tipped arrows. Ilos, though, would not give it:
he dreaded the rage of Gods living forever.
My Father, greatly loving the man, gave him the poison.
If only the same Odysseus now were facing the suitors,
they’d all be dead in a hurry—that bitter a marriage!
Calling an Assembly
“Surely all this lies on the knees of the great Gods,
whether he comes back home for revenge in the great hall
or fails to return. But you? I say you should ponder
how to drive the suitors yourself from the great hall.
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Come on then, listen closely, do as I tell you.
Call the Akhaian war-chiefs at dawn to assembly.
Speak to them all, let every God be your witness
and order the suitors to go right now to their own lands.
Your mother may, if her heart enjoins her to marry,
They’ll build her a wedding there, arranging the many
bride-gifts, all that should go with a daughter they so love.
Sailing to Pulos
“I’ll offer you wise counsel—if only you’ll take it!
Man the best ship that you have with twenty rowers.
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Go off and ask of your father: he’s gone for a long time.
A man may tell you, or maybe a rumor you hear from
Zeus—he often brings good news to you people.
Go and talk first with godlike Nestor in Pulos.
Later ask light-haired Menelaos in Sparte:
he came home last of the bronze-clad Akhaians.
Then, worn as you are, if you hear that your father’s
alive and headed for home, hold out for another
year. If you’re sure, however, he’s gone from the living,
come back home to the well-loved land of your fathers.
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♦ Raise a mound up high: honor the dead man
duly and fully. And give your mother a good man.
Killing the Suitors
“When all that’s done, your work and traveling ended,
now in your mind and heart you really must plan it,
how to kill the suitors still in your great hall,
whether in stealth or openly. Staying with boyish
ways is not what you need: you’re boyish no longer.
Or don’t you know of the name that godlike Orestes
won among all men? He killed that sneaking Aigisthos
who’d killed his father—he’d killed the renowned Agamemnon.
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So you, my friend. I see you’re handsome, a tall man.
Be brave and every man in the future will praise you.
Leaving Soon
“But now I’ll go to my race-fast ship and my crewmen.
The men are likely annoyed: I’m keeping them waiting.
Take care of yourself and ponder well what I told you.”
Stay Longer
But now Telemakhos gave her a sensible answer.
“My guest, surely your words are thoughtful and kindly—
a father’s way with a son. I’ll never forget them.
But stay, come on now: although you’re anxious to set out,
wait till you’ve bathed and filled your heart with enjoyment.
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Then go to your ship in high spirits holding my present—
a rich and beautiful heirloom. Let it remind you
of me, the gift of a friendly stranger to stranger.”
A Bird Soars Away
The glow-eyed goddess Athene gave him an answer:
“Don’t hold me any longer. I’m anxious to set out.
Whatever gift your heart has told you to offer,
save it for when I come back; I’ll carry it home then.
Choose the loveliest—then in return you will fare well.”
The glow-eyed Athene spoke that way and she left him
suddenly soaring, birdlike. There in his young heart
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she’d placed boldness and strength: he’d remember his father
better now than before. He watched her in deep thought,
The Long Way Home from Troy
He walked at once like a man and God to the suitors.
They sat there still. The bard was renowned as a singer:
they heard him out as he sang of the wretched Akhaians’
long way home from Troy, made hard by Pallas Athene.
Upstairs in her room the wondrous music was too well
heard by Ikarios’s daughter, mind-full Penelopeia.
Shortly the queen came down the stairs of her high house,
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but not alone: two maids followed behind her.
Closer now to the suitors, the goddess-like woman
stood by a strong support of the well-built roofbeams,
holding a shiny veil in front of her two cheeks.
Loyal maids were close, left side and right side.
She spoke with tears in her eyes to the God-gifted singer.
♦ “Phemios, many other songs you know can be charming,
the doings of men and Gods made famous by poets.
Sing one now as you sit here—the others may relish
their wine in silence. But stop that song about wretched
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Troy that always wears the heart in my own breast
down. Unforgettable pain has fallen on
me most,
my longing for one dear head, remembering always
the man so widely esteemed in Hellas and Argos.”
The New Music
But now Telemakhos gave her a sensible answer.
“Mother, why deny a faithful singer his own joy,
whatever rouses his mind? Poets are never
to blame; somehow Zeus is to blame when he hands out
all he decides to each of us bread-eating people.
Don’t chide this man for singing of harsh doom for Danaans.
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For people will praise a song most if its music
sounds more new than the other music around them.
Let your heart and soul listen and bear up.
Not only Odysseus lost the day he would come home
from Troy: plenty of other people were lost there.
Rather go to your room and care for your own work,
loom and spindle. Tell your handmaids to manage
their own tasks. We men will care for the talk here,
all of us, mainly myself—I rule in my own house.”
Amazed, the lady went upstairs to her bedroom,
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keeping at heart her child’s sensible answer.
Arrived upstairs in her room with the women, her handmaids,
she wept for Odysseus, the man she loved, until glow-eyed
Athene tossed some honeyed sleep on her eyelids.
Call for a Gathering
Suitors made new noise in the shadowy great hall,
Each of them praying to lie in bed with her close by.
Then Telemakhos shrewdly started to tell them,
“My Mother’s wooers, with all your pride that is lawless,
dine and enjoy for now. But none of this uproar:
plainly it’s a beautiful thing to hear out a singer
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like Phemios—how his voice resembles a great God’s!
At dawn, however, let’s go and sit in assembly,
all of us. There I’ll openly give you my own word:
get out of my hall. Enjoy your dinnertimes elsewhere,
eat up your own wealth, one house or another.
“Yet if it strikes you somehow as better and cheaper
that one man’s goods be lost with none of you paying,
go on wasting. I’ll call to the Gods lasting forever:
somehow Zeus may grant the workings of vengeance.
Then you could die inside my house without paying.”
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A Leader’s Tricky Answer
He spoke that way. Suitors were biting their lips hard,
struck by Telemakhos, how he’d spoken so bravely.
At length Antinoos answered, the son of Eupeithes:
“Telemakhos, surely the Gods themselves are your teachers:
you talk so high to us all, you’ve spoken so bravely!
May Zeus, the son of Kronos, never create you
lord of sea-ringed Ithaka, though it’s yours from your father.”
But now Telemakhos gave him a sensible answer.
“Antinoos, don’t be angry, whatever I say now.
I’d surely want to be king if Zeus would allow it.
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You think it’s the worst thing for a man to be ruling?
It’s not so bad to be king. Promptly your own house
takes on wealth and you’re honored most as the ruler.
In fact there are plenty of other lords of Akhaians
on sea-ringed Ithaka, men both younger and older;
one might rule since godlike Odysseus perished.
But I’ll be lord of our own house and our helpers,
those whom godlike Odysseus won for me fighting.”
Another Leader’s Tricky Answer
Then Eurumakhos, son of Polubos, answered,
“Telemakhos, all this lies on the knees of the great Gods,
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whichever Akhaian is sea-ringed Ithaka’s ruler.
Hold on to your wealth still—be lord of your own house.
May no man arrive in force to take your belongings
against your will, so long as Ithaka’s lived on.
But Who Was That Stranger?
“But now, good man, I want to ask of that stranger.
Where did the fellow come from, what was the homeland
he claimed, where was his bloodline, the land of his fathers?
Maybe he brought you news? Your father is coming?
Or maybe he came here wanting help for his own work.
How quickly he rose and left, hardly remaining,
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not to be known! Yet his looks were not low-born.”
A Grown Son’s Tricky Answer
♦ Now Telemakhos gave him a sensible answer.
“Eurumakhos, surely it’s lost, the return of my Father.
I trust the news no longer, wherever it comes from.
I don’t care about omens, whoever my Mother
calls to the great hall, the prophets she questions.
That stranger now was a friend of my Father’s from Taphos.