The Assembly and the Secret Voyage

When the first rosy-fingered light of Dawn¹ came, the son of Odysseus rose from his bed. He pulled on his clothes, slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, and tied fine sandals on his feet. He walked out of his room looking like a god. At once he sent the heralds with their clear voices to call the long-haired Achaeans to assembly. They shouted the summons, and the men gathered fast.

When they were all together, Telemachus went to the meeting place, a bronze spear in his hand. He did not go alone: two quick dogs trotted at his heels. Athena poured a strange grace over him, so that every man stared as he came. He sat down in his father’s seat, and the old men stepped aside to give him room.

The first to speak was old Aegyptius, bent double with age and wise from a long life. His own son Antiphus had sailed with Odysseus to Troy in the hollow ships, and the savage Cyclops had killed him in the deep cave, and made him his last meal. He had three sons left: one, Eurynomus, was among the suitors; the other two worked their father’s land. But the old man never stopped grieving for the one he lost. Now, with tears in his eyes, he stood and spoke.

“Men of Ithaca, hear me. We have not held an assembly or a council since the day Odysseus sailed away in his hollow ships. So who has called us now? What need is so great, and is it a young man or one of us older ones? Has someone heard that an army is coming, and wants to warn us first? Or is there some public matter he means to lay before us? I think he must be a good man. May Zeus bring him whatever good thing his heart desires.”

Telemachus was glad to hear this; he took it for a good sign. He could not sit still; he was burning to speak. He stood in the middle of the assembly, and the herald Pisenor, a wise man, put the speaker’s staff in his hand. Then he turned to the old man.

“Sir, the man you ask about is not far off — you’ll soon know it was me. I called you here, because the grief that has fallen on me is the heaviest of all. I’ve heard of no army marching against us. There’s no public matter I mean to raise. This is my own trouble — two evils that have dropped on my house. First, I have lost my good father, who once was king over you here, and who was gentle to you all, like a father. And now there’s something far worse, something that will soon tear my whole house apart and eat up everything I own.

“My mother is being pestered by suitors she does not want, the sons of the very best men here. They are too cowardly to go to her father Icarius² and ask him for her, so that he could set the bride-price and give her to whichever man he chose, the one who pleased him. Instead they swarm into our house every single day, slaughtering our oxen and sheep and fat goats, feasting, drinking the bright red wine, wasting it all. There is no man left like Odysseus to drive this ruin from the house. I am not the man to do it; I’d only show myself weak and untrained in fighting. But I would fight them if I had the strength! What they are doing can’t be borne. My house is being destroyed, and there’s no decency in it.

“Have some shame yourselves. Think what the neighbors will say, the people who live all around us. And fear the anger of the gods — fear that they turn against you in fury at these wicked deeds. I beg you by Zeus on Olympus, and by Themis³, who breaks up the assemblies of men and calls them to sit again: hold back, my friends, and leave me alone to suffer in my grief — unless my good father Odysseus once did some harm to the Achaeans, and you are paying me back for it now, urging these men on. I would honestly rather you ate up my stores and my flocks yourselves. If you did the eating, there might at least be some way to get paid back. I’d go through the town pressing my claim and demanding my goods until it was all returned. But as it is, the pain you heap on me has no cure.”

He spoke in anger, and he flung the staff to the ground, bursting into tears. Pity ran through the whole crowd. They all sat silent. No one had the heart to answer Telemachus with harsh words — no one except Antinous.

“Telemachus, you loud-mouthed show-off, what a speech! Trying to shame us, trying to pin the blame on us. But it isn’t the suitors who are at fault. It’s your own mother: she’s the clever one, full of tricks. For three years now, and soon it will be four, she’s been toying with us, working on our hearts. She gives every one of us hope, sends each man little messages — and means none of it. Her mind is set on something else.

“Here’s the trick she pulled. She set up a great loom in her hall and began weaving, a wide, fine cloth. And she told us: ‘Young men, my suitors, since godlike Odysseus is dead, you’re eager for me to marry. But wait until I finish this cloth; I don’t want all this thread wasted. It’s a burial shroud for old Laertes, for the day when death’s long sleep takes him down. The women of Ithaca would talk if a man who owned so much were buried without a shroud.’ That’s what she said, and we agreed, like fools.

“So by day she would weave at the great loom, and every night she’d unravel it by torchlight. For three years she fooled us, and we believed her. But when the fourth year came around, one of her women, who knew the truth, told us. We caught her unpicking the bright cloth. So she had to finish it — she did not want to, but she had no choice.

“This is the suitors’ answer to you: so you know it yourself, and so all the Achaeans know it. Send your mother away. Order her to marry whichever man her father chooses, the one who pleases her. If she keeps tormenting the sons of the Achaeans much longer, taking such pride in the gifts Athena gave her: her skill at fine weaving, her sharp mind, her cunning, the like of which we’ve never heard, not even from the famous women of old, Tyro and Alcmene and Mycene⁴ with her lovely crown, none of whom had a mind like Penelope’s — then I tell you, she’s miscalculated this time. As long as she keeps the plan the gods have put in her heart, just so long will the suitors keep eating up your house and your living. She wins great fame for herself — but you, you lose a great fortune. We won’t go off to our own lands or anywhere else until she marries the man of her choice.”

Clear-thinking Telemachus answered him. “Antinous, how can I throw out the mother who bore me and raised me? My father is somewhere far across the world — alive, or dead, I don’t know. And it would cost me dearly to pay Icarius all the gifts I’d owe him if I sent his daughter back on my own. Her father would make me suffer, and the gods would too; for as she left the house my mother would call down the dreadful Furies⁵ on me, and people would hate me for it. No. I will never give that order.

“If your own hearts feel any shame at this, then get out of my house. Go feast somewhere else. Eat your own food, take turns in each other’s homes. But if you think it’s better and easier to keep devouring one man’s living and pay nothing for it: then go on stripping it bare. I’ll cry out to the gods who live forever, and pray that Zeus grants payment in kind. Then you will die inside this house, and no one will pay for your blood.”

So Telemachus spoke, and Zeus the far-seeing sent down two eagles from a mountain peak. They flew on the breath of the wind, gliding side by side with their wings spread wide. But when they reached the middle of the noisy assembly, they wheeled, beating their thick feathers, and they looked down on the heads of all the men — and their eyes glared death. Then they tore at each other with their talons, ripping cheeks and throats, and shot off to the right, away over the houses and the town.

The men were stunned to see the birds with their own eyes, and their hearts turned over, wondering what it all meant. Then old Halitherses, son of Mastor⁶, spoke. He was the best of his age at reading birds and telling what was coming, and he meant them well.

“Listen to me, men of Ithaca — and I say this above all to the suitors. A great disaster is rolling toward them. Odysseus will not be away from his own much longer. He may already be near, planting death and doom for every one of these men. And it will be bad for many others too, all of us who live in clear Ithaca. Let us think, long before that day, how to stop these men — or let them stop themselves. That would be the better choice. I’m not guessing without skill; I know what I’m saying. Everything is coming true for Odysseus just as I told him when the Argives sailed for Troy and crafty Odysseus went with them. I said he would suffer terribly, lose all his crew, and come home unknown to everyone in the twentieth year. And now it’s all coming to pass.”

Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him. “Old man, go home and prophesy to your own children, before something bad happens to them. I can read these signs better than you. Plenty of birds fly under the sun’s light, and not all of them mean anything. Odysseus is dead, far away — and I wish you’d died with him. Then you wouldn’t sit here spouting prophecies and stirring up Telemachus, who’s already angry enough, hoping, no doubt, for some gift he might give your family.

“But I’ll tell you this, and it will come true. If you, an old man who knows the old stories, talk a young one into a temper, things will go worse for him first of all (he won’t be able to do anything against us anyway), and on you, old man, we’ll lay a fine that will hurt your heart to pay. You’ll find it a bitter grief. As for Telemachus, here is my advice in front of everyone: let him tell his mother to go back to her father’s house. They’ll arrange the marriage and the bride-gifts, plenty of them, all that a beloved daughter deserves. Until then, I don’t think the sons of the Achaeans will stop their hard courting. We fear no one — not Telemachus, for all his fine speeches, and we don’t care about your fortune-telling either, old man. It comes to nothing, and it only makes us hate you more. We’ll keep on eating up his goods, with no payback, as long as she puts off the marriage. We sit here waiting, every day, fighting over her, that’s how perfect she is, and we won’t go after the other women each of us might marry.”

Clear-thinking Telemachus answered. “Eurymachus, and the rest of you proud suitors — I won’t beg you anymore, I won’t argue. The gods know it all now, and so do all the Achaeans. Just give me a fast ship and twenty men to row me there and back. I’m going to Sparta and to sandy Pylos to ask about my father, who’s been gone so long. Maybe some man will tell me something, or maybe I’ll hear a word from Zeus: the kind of rumor that carries the truth to men. If I hear that my father is alive and on his way home, then I’ll hold out one more year, hard as it is. But if I hear that he’s dead and gone for good, then I’ll come home, build him a burial mound, hold his funeral rites (everything he deserves), and give my mother to a new husband.”

He sat down. Then up rose Mentor, who had been the close friend of noble Odysseus⁷. When Odysseus sailed away, he had left his whole house in Mentor’s care, to obey the old man Laertes and keep everything safe. Meaning them well, he spoke.

“Listen to me, men of Ithaca. From now on let no king with a scepter ever be kind or gentle or fair-minded again. Let every one of them be cruel and lawless, since not one of you remembers Odysseus, who ruled this people, and was gentle to you like a father. I won’t blame the suitors so much for their violence and their twisted scheming. They stake their own heads when they devour Odysseus’s house and tell themselves he’ll never come back. No — it’s you, the rest of the people, that I’m furious with. You sit here, silent. You don’t say a single hard word to stop them, though you are many and they are few.”

Then Leiocritus, son of Evenor, answered him. “Mentor, you troublemaker, you fool — what a thing to say, telling them to stop us! It’s hard for men to fight over a meal, even against fewer than they are. Why, even if Odysseus of Ithaca came back himself and found us proud suitors feasting in his hall, and set his heart on driving us out, his wife wouldn’t get much joy of his homecoming, badly as she wants him. Right there he’d meet a foul death, if he fought against so many. You’ve spoken stupidly. So now — people, scatter, each to his own work. As for this boy, let Mentor and Halitherses speed him on his way; they were his father’s old friends. But I think he’ll sit here a long time yet, getting his news in Ithaca, and never make this voyage at all.”

With that he quickly broke up the assembly. The men scattered to their own homes, and the suitors went back to the house of Odysseus.

Telemachus walked off alone to the edge of the sea. He washed his hands in the grey saltwater and prayed to Athena. “Hear me, you god who came to my house yesterday and told me to take a ship across the misty sea to seek news of my father, gone so long. The Achaeans are blocking me: most of all these suitors, with their cruel pride.”

As he prayed, Athena came near, in the shape and voice of Mentor. Her words came winged. “Telemachus, you won’t be a coward or a fool in the days to come, not if your father’s brave spirit truly runs in you — and what a man he was, in word and deed. Then this voyage of yours won’t be empty or wasted. But if you are not really the son of Odysseus and Penelope, then I have no hope you’ll finish what you long to do. Few sons turn out the equal of their fathers; most are worse, and only a few are better. But since you won’t be a coward or a fool, and Odysseus’s cleverness hasn’t entirely failed in you, there’s good hope you’ll see this through.

“So forget the suitors and their plotting and their thoughtless plans; they have no sense and no justice in them. They don’t know that death and the black doom stand close beside them now, ready to destroy them all in a single day. The voyage you long for is not far off. I am that good friend of your father’s; I’ll fit out a fast ship for you and come with you myself. Now go home and mix with the suitors. Get the food ready, and pack it all in jars: wine in the great jars, and barley meal, the strength of men, in tight leather bags. I’ll go through the town and round up volunteers. There are plenty of ships in Ithaca, new and old. I’ll pick out the best one, and we’ll fit her out fast and launch her on the wide sea.”

Athena, daughter of Zeus, finished speaking. Telemachus did not linger, now that he’d heard the goddess. He went home, his heart heavy, and found the proud suitors in the courtyard, skinning goats and singeing pigs. Antinous laughed and came straight up to him. He took his hand in his and said, “Telemachus, you loud-mouthed hothead — let go of all this bad feeling, in word and deed. Eat and drink with us like you used to. The Achaeans will get you everything (a ship and picked oarsmen) so you can sail quicker to holy Pylos for news of your noble father.”

Telemachus pulled back, clear and cool. “Antinous, there’s no way I can sit and feast in quiet among men as arrogant as you, and enjoy myself in peace. Wasn’t it enough that all this time you’ve been stripping away so much of my good property, while I was only a boy? Now I’m grown. I hear what others say, I understand it, and the anger is rising in me. I’ll try to bring black doom down on you, whether by going to Pylos, or right here in this land. I’m going, and the voyage I speak of won’t be in vain. I’ll go as a passenger, since I have no ship or oarsmen of my own — and that, I suppose, is just the way you wanted it.”

He pulled his hand out of Antinous’s grip with ease. The suitors went on with the feast, mocking him, jeering with their words. One of the arrogant young men said, “Telemachus is plotting to kill us, sure enough. He’ll bring back helpers from sandy Pylos, or maybe from Sparta — look how desperate he is. Or maybe he wants to sail to Ephyra⁸, that rich land, and bring back deadly poison to drop in our wine and kill us all.”

And another said, “Who knows? Maybe he’ll go off in his hollow ship and die far from his friends, wandering, just like Odysseus. That would only mean more work for us: we’d have to split up all his property among ourselves, and give the house to his mother and whoever marries her.”

So they talked. But Telemachus went down into his father’s high storeroom, broad and deep, where gold and bronze lay heaped, and clothes were folded in chests, and there was plenty of sweet-smelling oil. Big jars of old wine stood there too, ranged along the wall, holding a pure, sweet drink fit for a god, kept in case Odysseus ever came home from all his suffering. The double doors were shut, tightly fitted. And there, day and night, the housekeeper kept watch over everything with her shrewd, careful mind: Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, son of Pisenor. Telemachus called her into the storeroom and said:

“Nurse, draw me off some sweet wine in jars, the best you have after the one you’re saving for that poor man, hoping that somehow he’ll come home, escaping death and doom: Odysseus. Fill twelve jars and seal them all with lids. And pour barley meal into tight-sewn leather bags, twenty measures of ground meal. Only you must know. Get it all together, because tonight I’ll come and take it, after my mother has gone up to her room to sleep. I’m going to Sparta and sandy Pylos to find out anything I can about my father’s coming home.”

Eurycleia, his dear nurse, cried out at that, and the words came winged with grief. “Dear child, how did this idea ever get into your head? Where do you want to go, across so much land, you, an only son, the one we love? Odysseus is dead, far from his country, in some strange land. And the moment you’re gone, these men will be plotting against you, to kill you by some trick, and split everything you own between them. Stay here, sit tight on what’s yours. There’s no need for you to suffer and wander on the empty sea.”

Telemachus answered her, level and sure. “Take heart, nurse. This plan didn’t come without a god behind it. But swear to me you won’t tell my mother any of this, not until eleven or twelve days have passed, or until she misses me herself and hears I’ve gone. I don’t want her ruining her lovely skin with crying.”

So the old woman swore a great oath by the gods. When she had finished the oath, she drew off the wine into jars and poured the barley meal into the tight-sewn leather bags. Then Telemachus went back into the house and rejoined the suitors.

Meanwhile Athena, the bright-eyed goddess, thought of something else. Taking the shape of Telemachus, she went all through the town, stopping by each of the crew, telling them to gather at the fast ship by evening. She asked Noemon, the splendid son of Phronius, for a fast ship, and he gladly gave it.

The sun went down, and the streets all fell into shadow. Then she dragged the swift ship down to the sea and stowed in her all the gear that well-built ships carry. She moored her at the harbor’s edge, and the good crew gathered round, and the goddess urged each of them on.

Then bright-eyed Athena thought of one more thing. She went to the house of godlike Odysseus and poured sweet sleep over the suitors. As they drank, she made their heads swim, and the cups dropped from their hands. They could no longer sit there; they staggered through the town to find their beds, with sleep falling heavy on their eyes. Then bright-eyed Athena, looking like Mentor in shape and voice, called Telemachus out from the fine hall.

“Telemachus, your men are sitting at their oars already, waiting for you to give the word. Come, let’s go. We mustn’t lose any more time.”

With that Pallas Athena led the way, fast, and Telemachus followed in the goddess’s tracks. When they came down to the ship and the sea, they found the long-haired crew waiting on the shore. And Telemachus, in his strength, spoke to them: “Come, friends, let’s bring the supplies. They’re all stacked together in the hall. My mother knows nothing of it, and none of the other slave women either; only one heard the plan.”

He led the way, and they came after him. They carried everything down and stowed it in the well-built ship, just as the son of Odysseus told them. Then Telemachus climbed aboard. Athena went first and sat down at the ship’s stern, and Telemachus sat beside her. The men cast off the stern lines, climbed in, and took their places on the benches.

Bright-eyed Athena sent them a good wind, a fresh West Wind, singing over the wine-dark sea. Telemachus called to his men to lay hold of the rigging, and they obeyed. They raised the pine mast and set it in its socket in the hollow box, and lashed it firmly in place. They hauled up the white sails with twisted ropes of oxhide. The wind filled the belly of the sail, and the dark wave hissed and roared loud around the keel as the ship ran on. She raced across the water, cutting her path.

When they had made the rigging fast all through the swift black ship, they set out bowls brimming with wine and poured offerings to the gods who live forever⁹, most of all to the bright-eyed daughter of Zeus. And so all night long, and into the dawn, the ship cut her way across the sea.