The Old Man of the Sea

They came down into the valley of Lacedaemon, ringed by hills, and drove straight to the house of Menelaus¹. They found him holding a double wedding feast, surrounded by his kinsmen and friends, for he was sending off his daughter to marry the son of Achilles², the great breaker of men. He had promised her at Troy, years before, with a nod of his head, and now the gods were bringing the match about. He was sending her with horses and chariots to the famous city of the Myrmidons, where Achilles’ son was king. For his own son he had found a bride out of Sparta, the daughter of Alector. This son was Megapenthes³, strong and dearly loved, born to him from a slave woman; for after Helen bore her first child, the lovely Hermione, beautiful as golden Aphrodite herself, the gods gave her no more children.

So the neighbors and kinsmen of Menelaus were feasting and enjoying themselves under his high roof. A bard sang and played his lyre among them, and two acrobats whirled and tumbled through the middle of the crowd while he led the song.

The two young men halted their horses at the gate, themselves and their team, Telemachus and the splendid son of Nestor. A servant saw them, Eteoneus⁴, the busy attendant of Menelaus, and he hurried through the house to tell his master. He came close and spoke quietly.

“Menelaus, there are two strangers at the gate. They look like men of the line of great Zeus. Tell me — should we unharness their fast horses, or send them off to find someone else who will take them in?”

Menelaus was furious. “Eteoneus, son of Boethous, you were never a fool before, but now you babble like a child. Think how many times you and I ate at other men’s tables on our way home, hoping Zeus would someday end our suffering. Unharness the strangers’ horses, and bring the men inside to share the feast.”

Eteoneus rushed back through the hall, calling the other servants to follow. They freed the sweating horses from the harness, tied them at the mangers, threw down wheat and white barley for them, and tipped the chariot against the gleaming wall of the courtyard. Then they led the guests into the marvelous house. The two stared in wonder as they walked through the home of that god-favored king. The high-roofed hall of Menelaus shone like the light of the sun or the moon.

When they had looked their fill, they went and bathed in polished tubs. Slave women washed them and rubbed them with oil and wrapped them in thick wool cloaks and tunics, and then they sat down on chairs beside Menelaus. An attendant carried in water in a beautiful golden jug and poured it over a silver basin for them to wash, and she drew a smooth table up beside them. The housekeeper brought bread and set out plenty of food, glad to share what she had. A carver lifted platters of every kind of meat and set them down, and put golden cups beside the two.

Menelaus welcomed them warmly. “Help yourselves, and be glad you’re here. When you’ve eaten we’ll ask who you are. Whoever your parents were, you’re no children of nobodies; you come from the line of kings who carry the scepter, men favored by Zeus. Low men don’t father sons like you.”

He took a rich slice of roast beef in his hands, the choice cut that had been set aside for him as a guest of honor, and laid it before them. They reached out for the good food spread before them, and when they had eaten and drunk all they wanted, Telemachus leaned his head close to Nestor’s son so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Look around, son of Nestor — you who are dear to my heart. The whole house gleams with bronze and gold, with amber and silver and ivory. The court of Zeus on Olympus must look like this inside, with all this endless wealth. I’m filled with awe just seeing it.”

Menelaus overheard him and spoke. “Dear boys, no mortal man can rival Zeus; his house and all he owns are immortal. But among men, there may or may not be someone with as much as I have. I went through misery, I wandered far, and I came home in the eighth year with all this in my ships. I roamed to Cyprus, Phoenicia, and Egypt; I reached the Ethiopians, the Sidonians, the Erembians, and Libya, where the lambs grow horns the moment they’re born and the sheep bear young three times in a single year. There no master and no shepherd ever goes short of cheese or meat or sweet milk; the ewes give milk to drink all year round.

“But while I was wandering through those places, gathering all this wealth, another man killed my brother, in secret, without warning, by the cunning of his deadly wife. So I take no joy in being lord of these riches. You’ll have heard about all this from your fathers, whoever they are, since I suffered so much and lost a home that was rich and full of fine things. I’d give up two-thirds of it to have those men back alive who died at Troy, far from the horse-pastures of Argos. I sit in my halls and cry for all of them. Sometimes I take a kind of comfort in grieving; sometimes I stop, for a man grows quickly sick of cold mourning. But of them all, there’s one whose loss makes me hate sleep and food when I remember him. No man of the Greeks worked or suffered as much as Odysseus did. For him it was all trouble, and for me grief I can never forget — gone so long now, and we don’t even know if he’s alive or dead. Old Laertes must be mourning him, and steady Penelope, and Telemachus, the baby he left at home.”

His words stirred in Telemachus the longing to cry for his father. Tears fell from his eyes to the ground when he heard him named, and he lifted his purple cloak in front of his face with both hands. Menelaus saw it, and turned it over in his mind and heart: whether to let the boy speak first about his father, or to question him and draw it all out.

While he was still deciding, Helen came down from her high, sweet-smelling chamber, looking like Artemis with her golden bow. Adraste set out a fine chair for her, Alcippe brought a soft wool rug, and Phylo carried in her silver work-basket, a gift from Alcandra, the wife of Polybus, who lived in Egyptian Thebes, where the houses hold more treasure than anywhere else. Polybus had given Menelaus two silver bathtubs, two tripods, and ten talents of gold. His wife had given Helen her own lovely gifts: a golden staff for spinning wool and a silver basket on wheels with a rim finished in gold. Phylo set it down beside her now, packed with finely spun yarn, and across the top lay the staff wound with violet-dark wool. Helen sat down in her chair and set her feet on the stool, and at once she began asking her husband about everything.

“Do we know, Menelaus, who these men are who’ve come to our house? Should I hold back, or say what I think? My heart tells me to speak. I’ve never seen anyone so like another person, man or woman, and I’m amazed to look at him. This young man is the very image of the son of brave Odysseus, Telemachus, the baby that man left at home when you Greeks went off to Troy, ready for reckless war, all for the sake of shameless me.”

“I see it too, wife, now that you say so,” Menelaus answered. “Those are his feet, his hands, the look in his eyes, his head, the hair on it. And just now, when I was speaking about Odysseus and all he suffered for my sake, the boy let bitter tears fall and lifted his cloak in front of his eyes.”

Then Pisistratus, the son of Nestor, spoke up. “Menelaus, son of Atreus, leader of men, you’re right. This truly is his son. But he’s modest, and he’s ashamed, on his first visit here, to start spouting words in front of you, whose voice we both delight in like a god’s. Nestor, the old horseman, sent me along to guide him. He wanted to see you, hoping you might give him some word or some help. A son has many troubles at home when his father is gone and there’s no one to stand by him, and that’s how it is now for Telemachus. His father is away, and there’s no one in the land to keep harm from him.”

“How wonderful,” said Menelaus, “that the son of a man so dear to me has come to my house — a man who suffered so much for my sake. I always meant to welcome him above all the other Greeks, if Zeus had let us both sail home over the sea in our fast ships. I’d have given him a city in Argos and built him a house, brought him here from Ithaca with all his wealth and his son and his people, clearing out one of the towns that lie around me, the ones I rule. We’d have lived close, seeing each other always, with nothing to part us in our friendship and our joy, until the dark cloud of death wrapped us round. But it seems the god himself begrudged us that, the one who kept that poor man, alone of us all, from ever coming home.”

His words made them all long to cry. Helen of Argos, born of Zeus, cried; Telemachus cried; and so did Menelaus, son of Atreus. Nestor’s son was crying too, thinking of his own brother, the blameless Antilochus, killed by the splendid son of shining Dawn. Remembering him, he said:

“Son of Atreus, old Nestor always said you were the wisest of men, whenever we spoke of you at home and asked each other questions. So, if it’s possible now, listen to me. I take no pleasure in crying after supper, and there’ll be a new dawn soon enough. Not that I blame anyone for crying over a man who has died and met his fate. This is the only honor we can give poor mortals: to cut our hair and let the tears fall down our cheeks. My own brother died, and he was no coward among the Greeks; you must have known him. His name was Antilochus. I never met him or saw him myself, but they say he outran and outfought all the rest.”

“My friend,” answered Menelaus, “you’ve spoken as a wise man would, even one older than you. You’re your father’s son, sure enough; you talk with sense. It’s easy to know a man whose line Zeus has blessed in marriage and in birth, as he’s blessed Nestor through all his days, letting him grow gently old in his own house, with sons around him who are clever and skilled with the spear. Enough of crying, then. Let’s turn back to supper, and let someone pour water over our hands. There’ll be time in the morning for Telemachus and me to talk things through.”

So Asphalion, a quick servant of Menelaus, poured water over their hands, and they reached out for the food before them.

Then Helen, daughter of Zeus, thought of something else. Into the wine they were drinking she slipped a drug that takes away grief and anger⁵ and makes a man forget all his troubles. Whoever drank it once it was mixed in the bowl would shed no tears the whole day long, not even if his mother and father died, not even if men hacked his brother or his own son to pieces with bronze before his eyes. Such powerful, kindly drugs the daughter of Zeus possessed, given her by Polydamna, the wife of Thon, in Egypt, where the rich earth grows herbs past counting, many good when mixed, many deadly. Every man there is a healer skilled beyond all others, for they come from the line of Paeon.

When she had mixed the drug and told them to pour the wine, she spoke again. “Menelaus, son of Atreus, and you, sons of good men — Zeus gives good and evil to one man now, another later. He can do anything. So sit and feast here in the hall and enjoy the stories. I’ll tell you one that fits. I couldn’t possibly name every feat of patient Odysseus, but here is one thing that brave man did and endured, in the land of the Trojans, where you Greeks suffered so. He beat himself with ugly blows, threw filthy rags over his shoulders like a slave, and slipped into the enemy’s wide streets. He disguised himself as a beggar, a wretch, nothing like the man he was among the Greek ships. So disguised, he went down into the city of Troy, and not one of them suspected. I alone knew him for who he was, and I questioned him, but he kept dodging me with his cunning. Only after I had bathed him and rubbed him with oil and dressed him and sworn a mighty oath not to give him away to the Trojans until he was back at the ships did he tell me all the Greeks’ plans. He killed many Trojans with his long sword and came back to the Greek camp with much to report. The other Trojan women wailed aloud, but my own heart was glad, for already I longed to go home again, and I grieved over the madness Aphrodite gave me, when she led me there, away from my own land, away from my child and my marriage bed and a husband who lacked nothing in mind or looks.”

“All of that, wife, is rightly told,” said Menelaus. “I’ve learned the counsel and the mind of many heroes and traveled over much of the earth, but never have I seen a man with a heart like patient Odysseus. Think what that brave man did and endured inside the wooden horse⁶, where all the best of us Greeks sat waiting to bring death to the Trojans. You came up to it then — some god who wanted to give the Trojans glory must have put you up to it — and godlike Deiphobus came with you. Three times you walked around the hollow trap, feeling it with your hands, and you called out the names of the best of us, one by one, imitating the voice of each man’s wife. Diomedes and I and Odysseus sat in the middle of it and heard you calling. The two of us were wild to leap out or answer you from inside, but Odysseus held us back and stopped us, much as we wanted to go. All the other Greeks stayed silent. Only Anticlus wanted to answer you, but Odysseus clamped his hands over the man’s mouth and held them there, hard, never letting go, and so he saved us all, until Athena finally led you away.”

“That makes it worse,” said Telemachus, “since none of it saved him from a wretched death, not even if his heart were made of iron. But now, send us off to bed, so we can lie down and enjoy the sweetness of sleep.”

So Helen of Argos told the slave women to set up beds in the gatehouse, to lay down fine purple rugs, spread covers over them, and put thick wool cloaks on top to keep the guests warm. The slave women went out of the hall with torches in their hands and made up the beds, and a servant led the guests out. So Telemachus and the splendid son of Nestor slept there in the forecourt, while the son of Atreus lay in an inner room of the high house, with long-robed Helen, loveliest of women, beside him.

When rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, Menelaus rose from his bed and dressed. He slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, bound fine sandals on his oiled feet, and walked out of his room looking like a god. He sat down beside Telemachus and said:

“What brought you here, Telemachus, over the broad back of the sea to lovely Lacedaemon? Public business or your own? Tell me the truth.”

“Son of Atreus, leader of men,” clear-thinking Telemachus answered, “I came to see if you could tell me any news of my father. My home is being eaten up, my rich farms are being ruined, my house is packed with hateful men who slaughter my crowding sheep and my shambling, curved-horned cattle without end, the suitors hounding my mother, full of brutal arrogance. So I’ve come to your knees now, to beg you, if you’re willing, to tell me how he died, whether you saw it with your own eyes or heard it from some other wanderer. His mother bore him for misery. Don’t soften it out of pity or kindness — tell me plainly what you saw. I beg you, if my father, good Odysseus, ever kept a promise to you in word or deed there in the land of the Trojans, where you Greeks suffered, remember it now, and tell me the truth.”

Menelaus was deeply troubled. “Cowards! So they want to lie in the bed of a brave man! It’s as if a deer had bedded down her newborn fawns in the den of a strong lion, then gone off to graze the slopes and grassy valleys, and the lion comes back to his lair and brings a brutal death on both of them. That’s how Odysseus will bring a brutal death on these men. Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only he were the man he was on well-built Lesbos, when he stood up to wrestle Philomeleides and threw him down hard, and all the Greeks cheered! If Odysseus came among the suitors like that, they’d find a quick death and a bitter wedding. But as for what you ask me, I won’t twist away from it or deceive you. I’ll hide nothing of what the truthful old man of the sea told me.

“The gods kept me in Egypt, though I longed to come home, because I hadn’t offered them the full sacrifices they wanted, and the gods always insist on their dues. Now there’s an island in the surging sea off the coast of Egypt, called Pharos, about as far out as a ship can sail in a day with a fresh wind behind her. It has a good harbor, where men launch their ships into the open sea after taking on water. There the gods held me twenty days, with never a breath of the sea-winds that carry ships over the broad back of the water. All our food would have run out, and the men’s strength too, if a goddess hadn’t pitied me and saved me: Idothea, daughter of mighty Proteus, the old man of the sea⁷. I had stirred her heart more than anyone. She met me wandering alone, away from my men, who were always roaming the island fishing with bent hooks, hunger gnawing at their bellies. She came up close and said:

“‘Stranger, are you really such a helpless fool? Or are you giving up on purpose, taking some pleasure in your suffering? You’ve been stuck on this island so long and can’t find any way out, and your men’s hearts are wasting away.’

“And I said back to her, ‘Whoever you are among the goddesses, let me tell you — I’m not staying here by choice. I must have done something to anger the immortals who hold the wide heaven. But you tell me, since the gods know everything, which of them is binding me here, keeping me from my journey, so I can go home over the fish-filled sea.’

“And the bright goddess answered at once, ‘Then I’ll tell you the whole truth, stranger. An old man of the sea comes here, immortal and never wrong: Proteus of Egypt, who knows the depths of every sea, the servant of Poseidon. They say he’s my father, the one who gave me life. If you can somehow set an ambush and catch him, he’ll tell you your route, the stages of your journey, and how you’ll get home over the fish-filled sea. And if you want, he’ll tell you what good and evil have happened in your house while you’ve been away on this long, hard road.’

“And I answered her, ‘Then think of an ambush for this old god yourself, so he won’t see me coming or somehow learn of it and slip away. It’s hard for a mortal man to overpower a god.’

“And the bright goddess said at once, ‘Then I’ll tell you the whole truth, stranger. When the sun has climbed to the middle of the sky, the truthful old man of the sea comes out of the water, hidden under the dark ripples the West wind raises, and he lies down to sleep in his hollow caves. Around him the seals, the children of lovely Halosydne, sleep in a heap; they’ve come up out of the gray sea, breathing out the sharp stink of the salt deep. I’ll take you there at first light and lay you down in a row. Pick out the three best men you have by your benched ships. Now I’ll tell you all the old man’s tricks. First he’ll count the seals and walk among them. Once he’s counted them all on his five fingers and seen them, he’ll lie down in the middle like a shepherd among his flock. The moment you see him settle, that’s when you must put all your strength and force into it: hold him down, no matter how he struggles to get free. He’ll change into everything that crawls on the earth, and into water, and into blazing fire. But you must hold him fast and grip him tighter. When at last he asks you questions himself, in the shape he was when you saw him lie down, then ease your grip and let the old man go, and ask him, hero, which of the gods is angry with you, and how you’ll get home over the fish-filled sea.’

“With that she dove down under the heaving sea. I went back to the ships drawn up on the sand, my heart churning as I walked. When I reached the ship and the sea, we made our supper, and the holy night came on, and we slept by the breaking waves.

“When rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, I walked along the shore of the wide sea, praying hard to the gods, and I took my three men with me, the ones I trusted most for any task. Meanwhile the goddess had dived into the sea’s broad lap and brought up four sealskins, all freshly flayed, for she was setting a trick for her father. She scooped out beds for us in the sand and sat waiting. We came right up to her, and she laid us down in a row and threw a sealskin over each of us. That ambush would have been unbearable, for the deadly stench of those sea-bred seals tormented us horribly. Who would lie down beside a creature of the sea? But the goddess saved us with a great relief: she brought ambrosia and put it under each man’s nose, sweet-smelling, and it killed the stink of the seal.

“All morning we waited, holding firm. The seals came up from the sea in a crowd and lay down in rows along the breaking waves. At noon the old man came out of the sea, found his fat seals, went over them all, and counted their number, and he counted us first among the seals, never guessing in his heart it was a trick. Then he lay down himself. We rushed at him with a shout and grabbed him with our hands, and the old man did not forget his cunning craft. First he turned into a great maned lion, then a serpent, a leopard, a huge boar; he became running water, then a tall leafy tree. We held him firm, never flinching. At last the old trickster grew weary and spoke to me.

“‘Which of the gods, son of Atreus, taught you this plan to ambush me and seize me against my will? What do you want?’

“And I answered, ‘You know, old man — why try to put me off with questions? I’ve been stuck on this island so long and can’t find any way out, and my heart is wasting away inside me. But you tell me, since the gods know everything, which of the immortals is binding me here, keeping me from my journey, so I can go home over the fish-filled sea.’

“And he answered me at once, ‘You should have made fine sacrifices to Zeus and the other gods before you sailed, so you’d reach your homeland fastest over the wine-dark sea. It is not your fate to see your friends and reach your well-built house and your homeland until you’ve gone back once more to the waters of Egypt, the river fed from the sky, and offered holy sacrifices to the immortal gods who hold the wide heaven. Then the gods will grant you the journey you long for.’

“My heart broke when I heard I had to go back across the misty sea all the way to Egypt, a long, hard road. But even so I answered him, ‘I’ll do all this, old man, as you tell me. But now tell me this, and tell me truly: did all the Greeks come home safe in their ships, the ones Nestor and I left behind when we sailed from Troy? Or did any die a bitter death aboard his own ship, or in the arms of his friends, once he’d wound up the war?’

“And he answered me at once, ‘Son of Atreus, why ask me this? You don’t need to know, or to learn what’s in my mind; you won’t stay dry-eyed long once you’ve heard it all. Many of them died, many were left. Only two leaders of the bronze-armored Greeks died on the way home, and you were there yourself for the fighting. And one is still alive somewhere, held back on the wide sea.

“‘Ajax went down among his ships with long oars⁸. First Poseidon drove him onto the great rocks of Gyrae, but saved him from the sea. He’d have escaped death, even though Athena hated him, if he hadn’t thrown out a wild boast in his madness: he said he’d escaped the great gulf of the sea in spite of the gods. Poseidon heard him say it, and at once he seized his trident in his mighty hands and struck the rock of Gyrae and split it. Part of it stayed where it was, but the broken chunk fell into the sea, the very piece Ajax had been sitting on when his madness took him. It carried him down into the boundless heaving sea, and there he died, having drunk the salt water.

“‘Your brother somehow escaped his fate in his hollow ships, for Queen Hera saved him. But just as he was about to round the steep cape of Malea, a storm snatched him up and carried him over the fish-filled sea, groaning hard, to the far edge of the country where Thyestes once had his home, and where Thyestes’ son Aegisthus was living now. And then even from there the way home looked safe: the gods turned the wind round, and they came home. He stepped onto his own soil rejoicing, and touched it and kissed it, with warm tears streaming down, so glad was he to see his land.

“‘But a watchman spotted him from his lookout, a man Aegisthus had cunningly set there, promising him two talents of gold. He’d kept watch a whole year, so Agamemnon wouldn’t slip past unseen and remember his fierce strength. The watchman ran to tell Aegisthus, who at once set his cunning trap. He picked twenty of the best men in the land and hid them in ambush, and on the other side of the hall he ordered a feast prepared. Then he went with horses and chariots to invite Agamemnon, plotting something foul. He led him in, suspecting nothing, and killed him at the feast, the way a man cuts down an ox at the manger. Not one of Agamemnon’s men who came with him was left, and not one of Aegisthus’ — they were all killed there in the hall.’

“My heart broke when I heard this. I sat down in the sand and cried, and I didn’t want to live anymore or see the sunlight. But when I’d had my fill of crying and rolling on the ground, the truthful old man of the sea said:

“‘Don’t keep crying so long and so hard, son of Atreus — it gets us nowhere. Try as fast as you can to reach your homeland. Either you’ll find him still alive, or Orestes will already have killed him first, and you may come in time for the funeral.’

“At that my heart and proud spirit warmed again in my chest, grieved as I was, and I spoke to him: ‘I know about those two now. Name the third man, the one held back alive on the wide sea, or dead. I want to hear it, even though it grieves me.’

“And he answered at once, ‘It’s the son of Laertes, who has his home in Ithaca. I saw him on an island, crying hard, in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who keeps him there against his will. He can’t reach his homeland, for he has no oared ships and no crew to carry him over the broad back of the sea. As for you, Menelaus, favored of Zeus, it is not your fate to die in Argos where the horses graze. The immortals will send you to the Elysian fields⁹ at the ends of the earth, where fair-haired Rhadamanthus rules and life is easiest for men. No snow there, no hard winter, no rain ever, only the clear singing breath of the West wind that Ocean sends up to refresh men. This is yours because you have Helen and are the son-in-law of Zeus.’

“With that he dove down under the heaving sea. I went back to the ships with my godlike men, my heart churning as I walked. When we came down to the ship and the sea, we made our supper, and the holy night came on, and we slept by the breaking waves.

“When rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, first we dragged the ships down into the bright sea and set up the masts and sails. The men climbed aboard, took their places at the oars, and beat the gray water with their oars. I sailed back to the river of Egypt, fed from the sky, anchored my ships, and offered full sacrifices. When I had calmed the anger of the everlasting gods, I raised a burial mound for Agamemnon, so his fame would never die. That done, I sailed for home, and the immortals sent me a fair wind and brought me quickly to my own land.

“Now stay here in my house ten or twelve days more, and then I’ll send you off in style and give you fine gifts: three horses and a polished chariot. And I’ll give you a beautiful cup, so that whenever you pour an offering to the immortal gods, you’ll remember me all your days.”

“Son of Atreus, don’t keep me here long,” said Telemachus. “I’d gladly stay a whole year with you and never feel any longing for home or my parents — I love listening to your words and your stories so much. But my crew is already getting restless back in holy Pylos, and you’re keeping me here. As for any gift you give me, let it be something I can store away. I won’t take horses to Ithaca; I’ll leave them here as a treasure for you. You rule a wide plain, rich in clover and sweet grass, wheat and barley and broad white grain. But in Ithaca there’s no room to run horses, no meadows. It’s good for goats, and I love it more than any horse-land. None of the islands in the sea are fit for driving horses, or rich in grass, and Ithaca least of all.”

Menelaus, great in battle, smiled and stroked the boy’s hand. “You’re of good blood, dear child — I can hear it in how you speak. Then I’ll change the gift, since I can. Of all the treasures stored in my house, I’ll give you the finest and most precious. I’ll give you a beautifully made mixing bowl, solid silver with a gold rim, the work of Hephaestus himself. The hero Phaedimus, king of the Sidonians, gave it to me when his house took me in on my way home. This is what I want to give you.”

While they talked, guests were arriving at the great king’s house, driving sheep and bringing good wine, and their wives sent along bread. So they were all busy with the feast in the hall.

Meanwhile, back in Ithaca, the suitors were amusing themselves in front of Odysseus’ house, throwing the discus and hurling spears on the leveled ground where they always did, full of their arrogance. Antinous and godlike Eurymachus, the ringleaders and the best of them in strength, sat watching. Noemon, son of Phronius, came up and asked Antinous:

“Antinous, do we have any idea when Telemachus is coming back from sandy Pylos? He’s gone off with a ship of mine, and I need it. I have to cross over to the wide plains of Elis, where I keep twelve brood mares with sturdy mule foals beside them, not yet broken; I want to bring one over and break it in.”

They were astonished. They hadn’t thought Telemachus had gone to Neleus’ Pylos at all; they figured he was out on the farms somewhere, among the sheep or with the swineherd. So Antinous, son of Eupeithes, said:

“Tell me the truth — when did he go? And who went with him? Young men chosen from Ithaca, or his own hired hands and slaves? He could have managed that too. And tell me this, plainly, so I’m sure: did he take your black ship by force, against your will, or did you give it to him freely when he asked?”

“I gave it freely,” answered Noemon. “What else could anyone do, when a man like that, weighed down with troubles, asks a favor? It would be hard to refuse. And the young men who went with him are the best in the land after us. I saw Mentor go aboard as their captain, or a god who looked exactly like him. But here’s the strange thing: I saw godlike Mentor here myself yesterday morning, and yet he’d boarded the ship for Pylos.”

With that Noemon went back to his father’s house, and the two were left amazed. They made the suitors sit down and stop their games. Then Antinous spoke, his heart full of fury, his dark spirit brimming with rage, his eyes like blazing fire.

“This is bad — Telemachus has pulled off a daring thing with this voyage, when we said it would never happen. The boy’s gone off in spite of all of us, dragging down a ship and picking the best young men in the land. He’ll be more trouble yet. May Zeus crush his strength before he comes of age! Now give me a fast ship and twenty men, so I can lie in wait for him on his way back, in the strait between Ithaca and rocky Samos. Let his voyage after his father end in misery.”

They all agreed and urged him on. Then they got up and went into Odysseus’ house.

Penelope did not stay long in the dark about what the suitors were plotting. The herald Medon told her, for he had overheard their plans from outside the courtyard while they wove their schemes within. He went through the house to bring the news, and as he stepped into her room, Penelope spoke:

“Herald, why have the proud suitors sent you? To tell the slave women of godlike Odysseus to leave their work and cook a feast for them? I wish they’d stop courting me and gathering anywhere — I wish this were the very last meal they ever ate here, the way you crowd in and devour the wealth of wise Telemachus. Didn’t your fathers ever tell you, when you were children, what kind of man Odysseus was among them — never doing wrong to anyone, never speaking out of line, though that’s the way of god-favored kings, who hate one man and love another? He never did a single brutal thing to anyone. But your hearts and your shameful deeds are plain to see, and there’s no thanks left in this world for kindness once done.”

The wise Medon answered her, “Lady, I wish that were the worst of it. But the suitors are planning something far greater and more terrible — may Zeus never let it happen. They mean to kill Telemachus with sharp bronze when he comes home. He’s gone after news of his father, to holy Pylos and lovely Lacedaemon.”

At that her knees gave way and her heart sank. For a long time she couldn’t speak; her eyes filled with tears, and her voice was choked. At last she found words.

“Herald, why has my son gone? He had no need to board the swift ships that men ride like horses over the water, crossing the vast sea. Does he want even his name wiped out among men?”

“I don’t know,” answered Medon, “whether some god put him up to it or his own heart drove him to go to Pylos, to learn whether his father is coming home or what fate he met.”

Then he went back down through Odysseus’ house. Crushing grief closed over her. She had no heart to sit on any of the many chairs in the room; she sank down in the doorway of her finely built chamber, crying pitifully, while all around her the slave women whimpered, every woman in the house, young and old. Through her sobbing Penelope said to them:

“Listen, my dears. The god of Olympus has given me more grief than any other woman born and raised with me. First I lost my brave, lion-hearted husband, who had every excellence among the Greeks, a great man whose fame spread through Hellas and the heart of Argos. And now the storm winds have swept away my darling son from the halls without a word, and I never even heard him go. Cruel of you — not one of you thought to wake me from my bed, though you all knew well when he went down to the black ship. If I had known he was set on this voyage, he’d have stayed, however eager he was, or he’d have left me dead in the halls. Now hurry, someone call old Dolius, the slave my father gave me when I first came here, who keeps my orchard. Have him go straight to Laertes and tell him everything, in case the old man can weave some plan in his mind and go out and plead with the people, who mean to wipe out his line and the line of godlike Odysseus.”

Then the dear old nurse Eurycleia said, “Dear child, kill me with the pitiless bronze or let me live, but I won’t hide it from you. I knew all of it. I gave him what he asked, bread and sweet wine, but he made me swear a great oath not to tell you until the twelfth day, or until you missed him yourself and heard he was gone, so you wouldn’t spoil your lovely skin with crying. Now wash, put clean clothes on, go up to your room with your women, and pray to Athena, daughter of Zeus who holds the storm-shield. She can save him even from death. And don’t burden the old man, for he has trouble enough. I don’t think the blessed gods hate the line of Arceisius so much. There’ll still be someone left to hold these high-roofed halls and the rich fields far around.”

With that she calmed her grief and stopped her tears. Penelope washed, put on clean clothes, and went up to her room with her women. She set barley grains in a basket and prayed to Athena:

“Hear me, child of Zeus who holds the storm-shield, you who never tire. If ever crafty Odysseus burned for you rich thigh-bones of ox or sheep in these halls, remember it now — save my dear son, and keep these cruel, arrogant suitors away from him.”

She cried out as she prayed, and the goddess heard her. But the suitors were raising an uproar through the shadowy halls, and one of the insolent young men said:

“The queen we’ve all been courting is getting ready for her wedding — she has no idea her son’s death is already arranged.”

That’s what they said. They didn’t know how things really stood. Then Antinous spoke up: “You fools, watch your arrogant talk, all of you, in case someone carries it inside. Get up quietly and carry out the plan we’ve all agreed on.”

He chose twenty of the best men, and they went down to the fast ship and the seashore. First they dragged the ship into deep water, set up the mast and sail on the black vessel, fitted the oars into the leather loops, all in order, and spread the white sails. Their bold attendants brought their armor. They anchored her well out in the channel and came back ashore, took their supper, and waited for evening to come.

But upstairs in her room, wise Penelope lay without food or drink, taking nothing to eat or sip, wondering whether her noble son would escape death or be cut down by the brutal suitors. As a lion turns and turns in fear in a ring of men closing on him, so her mind churned, until sweet sleep came over her, and she lay back and slept, and all her body loosened.

Then the goddess Athena thought of something. She made a phantom in the shape of a woman, Iphthime, the daughter of great-hearted Icarius, whom Eumelus had married in his home in Pherae. Athena sent it to the house of godlike Odysseus, to stop Penelope’s grieving and her tearful crying. The phantom slipped into the chamber past the door-strap, stood over her head, and spoke:

“Are you asleep, Penelope, with your heart so broken? The gods who live at ease will not let you cry and grieve. Your son will come home yet, for he has done the gods no wrong.”

And wise Penelope answered, sleeping sweetly at the gates of dreams, “Why have you come, sister? You don’t come often, since you live so far away. And you tell me to stop my grieving and the pains that crowd my heart and mind. First I lost my brave, lion-hearted husband, who had every excellence among the Greeks, a great man whose fame spread through Hellas and the heart of Argos. And now my darling son has gone off in a hollow ship — a boy, with no knowledge of hardship or of councils of men. I grieve for him even more than for his father. I tremble with fear that something will happen to him, either among the people where he’s gone or out at sea. He has many enemies plotting against him, eager to kill him before he reaches his own land.”

The dim phantom answered, “Take heart, and don’t be so afraid. There’s a guide going with him whom other men would pray to have beside them, for she has the power. It’s Pallas Athena. She pities you in your grief. She’s the one who sent me to tell you this.”

Then wise Penelope said, “If you are a god, and you’ve heard a god’s voice, then tell me also about that other unhappy one. Is he still alive and seeing the sunlight, or is he already dead, in the house of Hades?”

The dim phantom answered, “I won’t tell you straight out whether he’s alive or dead. It’s wrong to speak empty words.” With that it slipped past the door-bolt into the breath of the wind. Penelope, daughter of Icarius, started up from sleep, and her heart was warmed, so clear a dream had come rushing to her in the dead of night.

The suitors, meanwhile, boarded their ship and sailed the watery ways, plotting the steep death of Telemachus in their hearts. There’s a rocky islet in the middle of the sea, between Ithaca and rugged Samos — Asteris, not large, with twin harbors where a ship can lie. There the Greeks lay in wait for him.