# Book 1: The Goddess at the Gate

*A son who has never known his father gets a visit from a stranger who is not a stranger.*

Sing to me, Muse, about the man of many turns, the one who wandered so far after he wrecked the holy city of Troy. He saw the cities of many people and learned how their minds worked. He suffered storms of pain at sea, fighting to save his own life and bring his men home. But he couldn't save them, hard as he tried. They died by their own stupidity, the fools — they ate the cattle of the Sun, Hyperion's herds, and the Sun took away their day of coming home. Tell us this story, goddess, daughter of Zeus. Start wherever you like.

By now every man who had survived the war and the sea was safely home. Only one was still kept away from his country and his wife. A goddess held him deep in her hollow caves. Calypso, a queen among the nymphs, wanted him for a husband.

But the years turned and turned, and the year came that the gods had spun for him to go home to Ithaca. Even then his troubles weren't over, not even among his own people. The gods pitied him — all but one. Poseidon stayed furious with Odysseus and would not let up until the man reached his own land at last.

Right now Poseidon was far away, visiting the Ethiopians at the edge of the world. They live split in two, some where the Sun goes down, some where it rises, and they had laid out a feast of bulls and rams for the sea-god. So he sat there enjoying himself while the other gods gathered in the halls of Olympian Zeus.

The father of gods and men spoke first. He was thinking about Aegisthus, whom Orestes, the famous son of Agamemnon, had killed.

"It's astonishing," Zeus said, "how mortals blame the gods. They say their troubles come from us. But they bring their own ruin down on themselves, beyond what fate decrees, by their own reckless folly. Look at Aegisthus. He took Agamemnon's wife when she wasn't his to take, and killed Agamemnon when the man came home — and he knew it would destroy him. We warned him. We sent Hermes, the sharp-eyed slayer of Argus, to tell him: don't kill the man, don't court his wife. Orestes will take revenge when he grows up and longs for his own country. Hermes told him plainly, meaning him well. But Aegisthus wouldn't listen. Now he's paid for everything at once."

Bright-eyed Athena answered him. "Father, son of Cronus, highest of the lords, he got exactly the death he deserved. Let anyone die that way who does what he did. But my heart aches for Odysseus, that clever, unlucky man, suffering all this time far from everyone he loves. He's stuck on an island ringed by water, the very navel of the sea. It's wooded, and a goddess lives there, the daughter of cruel-minded Atlas, who knows the depths of every sea and holds up the great pillars that keep earth and sky apart. His daughter keeps the poor man trapped and grieving. Day after day she works on him with soft, coaxing words, trying to make him forget Ithaca. And Odysseus, who wants nothing more than to see the smoke rising from his own land, only wishes he could die. Doesn't your heart turn at all, Olympian? Didn't Odysseus please you with sacrifices beside the Greek ships at Troy? Why are you so angry with him, Zeus?"

Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered. "My child, what's this you've let slip past your teeth? How could I ever forget Odysseus? No mortal has a finer mind, no one gave more freely to the immortal gods of the wide sky. It's Poseidon, the earth-shaker, who stays angry without end. Odysseus blinded his son — the Cyclops Polyphemus, the strongest of all the Cyclopes. The nymph Thoosa, daughter of Phorcys who rules the restless sea, bore him after she lay with Poseidon in the hollow caves. Ever since Odysseus put out the Cyclops's eye, Poseidon won't kill him outright, but drives him back and forth, far from home. Come — let's all put our heads together and find a way to bring him back. Poseidon will let his anger go. He can't hold out alone against all of us."

Bright-eyed Athena answered. "Father, son of Cronus, highest of the lords, if the blessed gods are truly willing now to let wise Odysseus go home, then let's send Hermes, the runner, the slayer of Argus, to the island of Ogygia. He can tell the lovely-haired nymph our firm decision: the brave man is to go home. And I'll go to Ithaca, to put fire in his son. I'll set courage in his heart and have him call the long-haired Greeks to an assembly. He'll tell the suitors to clear out, the men who slaughter his crowded sheep and his shambling, curved-horned cattle day after day. And I'll send him to Sparta and sandy Pylos to ask after his dear father, in case he hears something, and so people will speak well of him."

She bound on her feet the beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, that carry her over the water and the endless earth as swift as a breath of wind. She took up her spear, tipped with sharp bronze, heavy and huge and strong, the spear she uses to break the ranks of fighting men when she's angry. Down she shot from the peaks of Olympus.

She came down to Ithaca and stood at the gate of Odysseus's house, in the courtyard doorway, the bronze spear in her hand. She had taken the shape of a guest, Mentes, the leader of the Taphians.

She found the proud suitors. They were sitting in front of the doors on the hides of cattle they had killed themselves, amusing themselves with a board game. Heralds and quick servants worked around them, some mixing wine and water in the bowls, some wiping down the tables with sponges and setting them out, some carving up great heaps of meat.

Telemachus saw her first, long before anyone else. He sat among the suitors, sick at heart, picturing his brave father in his mind — what if he came back from somewhere, scattered these men through the house, and took back his honor and rule over his own home? Lost in that dream, still seated among them, he saw Athena. He went straight to the doorway, ashamed that a stranger should stand waiting outside so long. He came close, took her right hand, took the bronze spear from her, and spoke.

"Welcome, stranger. You'll be treated as a friend here. Eat first, and then tell us what you need."

He led the way and Pallas Athena followed. Once they were inside the high house, he carried her spear to a tall pillar and set it in the polished rack where many other spears stood, the spears of patient, suffering Odysseus. He sat her in a chair, spreading a fine embroidered cloth beneath her, with a footstool for her feet. He pulled up a decorated seat for himself beside her, away from the suitors, so the stranger wouldn't be sickened by the noise and lose his appetite among those arrogant men, and so he could ask about his father, who was gone.

An attendant brought water in a beautiful golden pitcher and poured it over a silver basin for them to wash their hands, then drew a polished table up beside them. The housekeeper, a woman they all respected, brought bread and laid out plenty of food, glad to give what she had. A carver lifted platters of every kind of meat and set them down, with golden cups beside them, and a herald came round again and again, pouring the wine.

Then the proud suitors came in. They took their places in order on the chairs and benches. Servants poured water over their hands, slave women piled bread in baskets, boys filled the mixing-bowls to the brim, and the men reached out for the good things spread before them. When they'd had their fill of food and drink, their minds turned to other things — singing and dancing, the crown of any feast. A herald put a beautiful lyre into the hands of Phemius, who sang for the suitors because they made him. He struck the strings and began a lovely song.

But Telemachus leaned close to bright-eyed Athena, his head near hers so the others wouldn't hear.

"Dear stranger — will you be angry if I say what I think? These men care about nothing but this, the lyre and the song, and why not? They're eating up another man's livelihood and paying nothing for it, a man whose white bones are rotting somewhere in the rain on dry land, or rolling in the surf of the sea. If they saw him come back to Ithaca, every one of them would pray to be faster on his feet rather than richer in gold and clothes. But he's gone, dead by some cruel fate, and there's no comfort left for us, even if someone says he's still coming home. His day of return is gone for good.

"But tell me this, and tell me straight: Who are you? Where do you come from? Where is your city, and your parents? What kind of ship brought you here, and how did the crew land you on Ithaca? Who did they claim to be? I don't think you came on foot. And tell me the truth, is this your first time here, or were you a friend of my father's? Many men used to come to our house, since he traveled and knew people everywhere."

Bright-eyed Athena answered. "I'll tell you exactly. My name is Mentes. I'm proud to be the son of war-wise Anchialus, and I rule the Taphians, who love their oars. I've come now in my ship with my crew, sailing the wine-dark sea to people who speak another language. I'm bound for Temese to trade for copper, and I'm carrying gleaming iron. My ship lies out in the country, away from town, in the harbor of Rheithron, under the wooded slope of Mount Neion.

"Our fathers were friends going way back — ask old Laertes, the hero, if you go to him. They say he doesn't come into town anymore, but lives out in the country, suffering, with one old attendant who sets out his food and drink whenever the weariness drags at his legs as he crawls along the slope of his vineyard. I came because they told me your father was home. But the gods are blocking his road. He isn't dead — not noble Odysseus, not yet, not on the earth. He's alive somewhere, held back on the wide sea, on an island ringed with water, and harsh, wild men are keeping him there against his will.

"Now I'll tell you what I think the gods have put in my heart, and how I believe it will turn out, though I'm no prophet and can't read birds. He won't be away from his own dear country much longer. Even if they've bound him in iron chains, he'll find a way back. He's a man of endless tricks.

"But tell me — are you really Odysseus's son, grown so tall? You look so much like him in the head and eyes, it's startling. We were together often, before he sailed for Troy, where the best of the Greeks went in their hollow ships. Since then I haven't seen him, and he hasn't seen me."

Clear-thinking Telemachus answered. "I'll tell you the truth, stranger. My mother says I'm his son — but I don't really know. No one knows for certain who his own father is. I wish I were the son of some lucky man who'd grown old among his own things. But the most unlucky of all mortals — that's the man they say I'm born from, since you asked me."

Bright-eyed Athena answered. "The gods haven't left your family without a name for the future, not when Penelope has borne a son like you. But tell me this, and tell me straight: what's this feast, this crowd? What's it for? A party? A wedding? It isn't a meal where each man brings his own share. These men feasting through the house seem arrogant and out of control. Any decent man coming in would be disgusted seeing so much shameful behavior."

Telemachus answered. "Stranger, since you ask, this house used to be rich and respected, while that man was still here. But the gods turned against us and wanted otherwise. They've made him vanish more completely than any man before. I wouldn't grieve so much even if he were dead, if he'd gone down among his men in the land of the Trojans, or died in the arms of friends after he'd finished the war. Then the Greeks would have built him a burial mound, and he'd have won great glory for his son to inherit. Instead, the storm-winds snatched him away with no glory at all. He's gone — out of sight, out of news, and he left me nothing but pain and crying.

"And it isn't only him I mourn. The gods have made me other troubles. All the chiefs who rule the islands (Dulichium, Same, wooded Zacynthus) and all the lords of rocky Ithaca, every one of them is courting my mother and wrecking my house. She won't refuse the marriage she hates, and she can't put an end to it. They're eating us up, ruining the house. Soon they'll tear me apart too."

Pallas Athena answered, stirred to anger. "It's clear how badly you need Odysseus home, to lay his hands on these shameless suitors. If only he'd come now and stand in the front doorway with his helmet and shield and two spears, the man I first saw in our house, drinking and enjoying himself. He was coming back from Ephyra, from Ilus son of Mermerus. Odysseus had sailed there in his fast ship looking for deadly poison to coat his bronze arrowheads. Ilus wouldn't give it to him — he feared the everlasting gods. But my father gave him some, because he loved him dearly. If that's the Odysseus who walked in among these suitors, they'd all find death quick and their wedding bitter.

"But all that is in the gods' hands: whether he comes home and pays them back in his own halls, or not. What I tell you is this: think hard about how to push these suitors out of the house. Listen and take my words to heart.

"Tomorrow call the Greek leaders to an assembly. Speak to all of them, and let the gods be your witnesses. Tell the suitors to scatter, each to his own home. And as for your mother, if her heart is set on marrying, let her go back to the house of her father, a powerful man. His people will arrange the wedding and prepare the gifts, all the many things a dear daughter should bring with her.

"Now here's my advice for you, if you'll take it. Fit out the best ship you can with twenty rowers and go ask about your father, gone so long. Maybe some mortal will tell you something, or you'll catch a rumor from Zeus, the kind that carries word best to men. First go to Pylos and ask noble Nestor. From there go to Sparta, to fair-haired Menelaus; he came home last of all the bronze-armored Greeks. If you hear your father's alive and on his way back, then, worn down as you are, hold out one more year. But if you hear he's dead and gone, come home, build him a burial mound, and give him the funeral rites he deserves, with everything fitting, and give your mother to a new husband.

"Once you've finished all that, think hard in your heart and mind how to kill these suitors in your halls, by a trick or out in the open. You're not a child anymore; you can't go on acting like one. Haven't you heard what glory Orestes won among all people when he killed his father's murderer, the scheming Aegisthus, who'd killed his famous father? You're a fine, tall young man, be brave, so men yet unborn will speak well of you. Now I have to go back to my fast ship and my crew. They're surely getting impatient waiting for me. Take care of this yourself, and remember what I've told you."

Telemachus answered. "Stranger, you've spoken to me with real kindness, like a father to his son. I'll never forget it. But wait a little, eager as you are to go. Bathe first, enjoy yourself, then go back to your ship with a gift in your hands and a glad heart: something fine and valuable, a keepsake from me, the kind dear friends give to each other."

Bright-eyed Athena answered. "Don't hold me back now — I'm anxious to be off. Whatever gift your heart wants to give me, give it when I come back, to carry home. Choose me a fine one, and you'll get one worth as much in return."

With that, bright-eyed Athena was gone. She flew off like a bird, up and away. And she left courage and daring in his heart, and made him think of his father even more than before. He felt the change, and it stunned him. He guessed she had been a god.

Then the godlike young man went back to the suitors. The famous singer was singing, and they sat in silence, listening. He sang of the Greeks' bitter return from Troy, the journey home that Pallas Athena had laid on them.

From her room upstairs, Penelope, the wise daughter of Icarius, heard the inspired song. She came down the high staircase of her house, not alone; two attendants came with her. When she reached the suitors, she stood by a pillar of the strong-built roof, holding her shining veil before her face, a faithful attendant on either side. In tears, she spoke to the singer.

"Phemius, you know so many other songs that hold people spellbound, the deeds of men and gods that singers make famous. Sing one of those, and let them drink their wine in silence. But stop this song, this sad one. It wears down the heart in my chest every time. Grief I can never forget has fallen on me hardest of all. I long for that one face always — I never stop remembering the man whose fame is wide through Hellas and the middle of Argos."

Telemachus answered. "Mother, why do you grudge the singer giving us pleasure however his mind moves him? Singers aren't to blame. Zeus is the one to blame: he gives to working men whatever he wants, to each his own. There's nothing wrong with this man singing the hard fate of the Greeks. People always praise most the newest song they hear. Steady your heart and let yourself listen. Odysseus wasn't the only man who lost the day of coming home at Troy. Many others died too. Go back to your room and tend your own work, your weaving and your spinning, and tell the servants to get on with theirs. Talking is men's business, all the men's, and mine most of all, since the power in this house is mine."

She went back, amazed, into the house, taking her son's wise words to heart. She climbed to her upper room with her women and cried for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep over her eyelids.

The suitors broke into uproar through the shadowy halls, every one of them praying to lie in her bed.

Clear-thinking Telemachus spoke up. "You suitors of my mother, with your savage arrogance, for now let's enjoy the feast, and no more shouting. It's a fine thing to listen to a singer like this one, with a voice like a god's. But at dawn let's all go and sit in assembly, so I can tell you plainly: get out of my house. Hold your feasts somewhere else. Eat your own food, taking turns from house to house. But if you think it's better and easier to keep devouring one man's wealth without paying, then strip it bare. I'll call on the everlasting gods, and hope Zeus grants me a day of payback. Then you'll die inside these very walls, and no one will pay for your blood."

He finished, and they all bit their lips, amazed that Telemachus dared to speak so boldly.

Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him. "Telemachus, the gods themselves must be teaching you to talk big and speak so bold. May the son of Cronus never make you king of sea-ringed Ithaca, even though it's yours by birth."

Clear-thinking Telemachus answered. "Antinous, will you be angry if I say this? I'd gladly take that, if Zeus would give it. You think being king is the worst thing that could happen to a man? It's no bad thing. A king's house soon grows rich and he's held in higher honor. But there are plenty of other Greek lords in sea-ringed Ithaca, young and old. Let one of them have it, now that noble Odysseus is dead. But I'll be master of my own house and of the slaves noble Odysseus won for me in war."

Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered. "Telemachus, it's in the gods' hands which of us will be king over sea-ringed Ithaca. But may you keep your own possessions and rule your own house. Let no man ever come and tear your property from you by force, as long as Ithaca has people in it. But tell me, friend, about this stranger. Where does he come from? What land does he claim? Where's his family and his home country? Did he bring news of your father coming back, or did he come on business of his own? He jumped up and rushed off so fast, he didn't wait for us to get to know him. He didn't look like a low sort of man at all."

Telemachus answered. "Eurymachus, my father's homecoming is finished. I no longer trust any news, wherever it comes from, and I pay no attention to the prophecies my mother gets when she calls a seer into the hall and questions him. That stranger was a friend of my father's from Taphos. He says he's Mentes, son of war-wise Anchialus, and he rules the Taphians, who love their oars." That's what he said — but in his heart he knew it had been an immortal goddess.

The suitors turned back to dancing and the lovely song and enjoyed themselves, waiting for evening to come. Black evening came on them as they were enjoying it, and they went off, each to his own house, to lie down.

Telemachus went to his bedroom, built high in the beautiful courtyard on a spot with a view all around. He went to bed turning many things over in his mind. Beside him, carrying blazing torches, walked the loyal Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, son of Pisenor. Laertes had bought her with his own wealth long ago, when she was still young, and given the worth of twenty oxen for her. He honored her in his house as much as his own wife, but he never slept with her — he kept clear of his wife's anger. Now she carried the burning torches for Telemachus. She loved him more than any of the other women in the house; she had nursed him when he was small.

He opened the doors of his well-built room, sat down on the bed, and pulled off his soft tunic. He put it in the wise old woman's hands. She folded and smoothed the tunic, hung it on a peg by the corded bed, and went out, pulling the door shut by its silver handle and drawing the bolt home with the strap. There, all night long, wrapped in soft wool, he lay turning over in his mind the journey Athena had set before him.