THE ODYSSEY — AI Adaptation
Book 14: The Swineherd’s Hut

Odysseus climbed up from the harbor along a rough track, through woods, over the high ground, to the place Athena had told him about. There he would find the swineherd, the servant who looked after his master's property more faithfully than any of the others Odysseus had ever owned.

He found the man sitting in the doorway of his hut. He had built it himself, on open ground where you could see all around, and it was a fine, big place with a wall running clear around the yard. He'd built it with his own hands for the pigs while his master was away, without help from his mistress or from old Laertes. He'd raised the walls from quarried stone and topped them with a hedge of thorn. Outside he'd driven a fence of stakes, close-set and thick all around, splitting them from the dark heart of oak. Inside the yard he'd made twelve pens, side by side, beds for the sows. Fifty breeding sows lay in each, rooting in the mud. The boars slept outside, and there were far fewer of them, because the suitors kept eating them up. The swineherd had to send them the best of his fat hogs, one after another. There were three hundred and sixty boars left. Beside them, four dogs as fierce as wild beasts slept always on guard. The swineherd had raised them himself.

Right then he was cutting a pair of sandals from a good ox hide. Three of his men were off in different directions with the pigs, and he'd sent the fourth to town with a hog he was forced to hand over to the arrogant suitors, so they could slaughter it and stuff themselves with meat.

All at once the dogs spotted Odysseus and rushed at him, barking. He was clever enough to sit down and let the staff fall from his hand. Even so, right there at his own farm, he could have been savaged, but the swineherd came running on quick feet through the gateway, dropping the hide. He shouted and pelted the dogs with stones until they scattered. Then he turned to his master.

"Old man, those dogs nearly tore you to pieces — just a moment more, and you'd have brought shame on me. The gods have given me grief and sorrow enough already. I sit here mourning my master, a man like a god, while I raise his fat pigs for other men to eat. And he — wherever he is — wanders hungry in some foreign land, among people who don't even speak his language, if he's still alive to see the sunlight at all. But come, old man, come inside. Eat your fill of bread and wine, and then tell me where you're from and all the troubles you've been through."

The swineherd led him into the hut, sat him down, and piled up thick brushwood, spreading over it the shaggy skin of a wild goat — his own bed — big and rough. Odysseus was glad to be welcomed like this. "May Zeus and the other gods give you everything your heart most wants, stranger, for taking me in so kindly."

And you answered him, Eumaeus the swineherd: "Stranger, it wouldn't be right for me to turn away any stranger, even one worse off than you. Strangers and beggars all come from Zeus. What I give is small but given with goodwill, that's all a slave can do, living always in fear, with young masters lording it over him. The gods have blocked the homecoming of the one who would have treated me well, who'd have given me things of my own — a house, a plot of land, a wife many men would want. The kind of things a generous master gives a servant who works hard for him and whose work the gods have made grow, the way my work here has grown, that I've stuck to all these years. My master would have done well by me if he'd grown old here. But he's gone. I wish Helen's whole line had been wiped out, root and branch, she brought down so many men. My master went too, for Agamemnon's honor, off to Troy, the land of fine horses, to fight the Trojans."

He pulled his belt tight around his tunic and went to the pens where the young pigs were kept. He picked out two, brought them back, and killed them both. He singed them, cut them into pieces, skewered them, and roasted everything. Then he carried it all to Odysseus, hot, still on the spits, and sprinkled it with white barley meal. He mixed sweet wine in a wooden bowl, sat down across from his guest, and told him to eat.

"Eat now, stranger — this is slaves' food, young pig. The fat hogs go to the suitors, who gobble them down without a thought for the gods' anger or for mercy. The blessed gods don't love cruelty. They honor justice and fair dealing among men. Even raiders and outlaws — men who land on foreign shores and Zeus lets them take their plunder, and they fill their ships and sail home — even they feel a hard fear of the gods' judgment afterward. But these men know something. They've heard some voice from a god telling them my master is dead. That's why they won't court honestly or go back to their own homes. They sit here, calm as you please, eating his wealth, and they spare nothing. Every single night and day that comes from Zeus, they slaughter — not one beast, not two — and they drain his wine, pouring it out without end. He had wealth past counting. No hero on the dark mainland or here in Ithaca had so much. Not twenty men together had a fortune like his. Let me tell you. Twelve herds of cattle on the mainland. As many flocks of sheep. As many droves of pigs. As many wide herds of goats, tended by his own men and hired hands. And here, eleven wide goat herds graze at the far end of the island, with good men watching over them. Every day each of those men brings the suitors a beast — the best fat goat he has. And I guard these pigs and keep them safe, and pick out the best hog and send it to them."

While he spoke, Odysseus ate hungrily and drank his wine in silence, planting trouble for the suitors in his heart. When he'd had enough, the swineherd filled the very cup he drank from and handed it over, brimming with wine. Odysseus took it gladly and said:

"Friend, who was this master who bought you and paid for you, this rich and powerful man you describe? You say he died for Agamemnon's honor. Tell me his name. Maybe I've met him somewhere. Zeus and the other gods know. Maybe I've seen him and can bring you news. I've wandered far."

The swineherd answered: "Old man, no wanderer who shows up with news about him will get his wife and son to believe it. Drifters who need a meal and a place to sleep tell lies, and they don't want to tell the truth. Every tramp who washes up in Ithaca goes straight to my mistress and spins her some story. She welcomes him kindly, asks him everything, and the tears run down her face, the way a woman cries when her husband has died far away. You'd cook up a tale yourself, old man, soon enough, if someone gave you a cloak and tunic to wear. No — by now the dogs and the swift birds have stripped his skin from his bones, and his spirit is gone. Or the fish ate him out in the sea, and his bones lie on some shore, buried deep in sand. He's dead and gone, and he's left grief behind for all who loved him — for me most of all. I'll never find so kind a master again, wherever I go, not even if I went home to my own father and mother, to the house where I was born and they raised me. I don't grieve so much even for them, much as I'd like to see them again in my own country. It's the longing for Odysseus, gone away, that takes hold of me. Even now, stranger, with him absent, I'm shy to say his name, he loved me so, he cared for me in his heart. I call him my dear master, even though he's far away."

Then long-suffering Odysseus answered: "Friend, since you flatly refuse, since you say he'll never come back and your heart won't trust it, then I won't just claim it, I'll swear it: Odysseus is coming home. And I'll take my reward for the good news the moment he walks into his own house. You'll dress me in a cloak and tunic, fine clothes. Until then, no matter how much I need them, I won't take a thing. I hate the man who gives in to poverty and tells lies as much as I hate the gates of death. Let Zeus be my witness first of all the gods, and this table where we share food, and the hearth of noble Odysseus that I've come to: everything will happen just as I say. This very year Odysseus will come. As this month dies and the next is born he'll be home, and he'll make every man pay who dishonors his wife and his fine son."

And you answered him, Eumaeus: "Old man, I'll never pay you for that good news, and Odysseus will never come home. Drink in peace, and let's talk of something else. Don't keep reminding me — it hurts my heart whenever anyone speaks of my good master. Forget the oath. Still — let Odysseus come, the way I want him to, and Penelope, and old Laertes, and godlike Telemachus. It's the boy I can't stop grieving for — Telemachus, Odysseus' own son. The gods raised him up like a young tree, and I thought he'd be no worse a man than his dear father, splendid in body and face. But some god, or some man, has unsettled his good sense, and he's gone off to holy Pylos after news of his father. Now the proud suitors are lying in wait to ambush him on his way home, so the line of godlike Arceisius will vanish nameless out of Ithaca. But let him be, whether he's caught, or whether he escapes and Zeus holds a hand over him. Now, old man, tell me your own troubles. Tell me the truth, so I know it clearly. Who are you? Where are you from? Where's your city, your parents? What kind of ship did you come on? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaca, and who did they say they were? You didn't come here on foot, I'm sure of that."

Crafty Odysseus answered: "I'll tell you the whole truth of it. I wish we had food and sweet wine to last, and could sit here in your hut eating quietly while others went to the work, then I could talk for a whole year without finishing the story of all I've suffered by the will of the gods.

"I'm a Cretan by birth, proud of it, son of a rich man. He had many other sons born and raised in his halls, true sons of his wife. My mother was a slave he'd bought, a concubine. But my father, Castor son of Hylax — and I'm proud to claim his blood — treated me the same as his lawful sons. In those days the Cretans honored him like a god for his wealth and good fortune and his fine sons. But death came and carried him off to the house of Hades, and his arrogant sons divided up his property and cast lots for the shares. They gave me almost nothing, just a house to live in. Still, I married a woman from a family with much land, on the strength of who I was, for I was no fool, no coward in battle. It's all gone from me now. But look at the stubble and you can still see what the grain was. I've had nothing but misery, heaps of it.

"Ares and Athena gave me courage, and the strength to break an enemy line. Whenever I picked the best men for an ambush, plotting harm against our foes, my bold heart never once looked ahead to death. I'd leap out first, well before the rest, and spear any enemy who couldn't outrun me. That's the kind of man I was in war. Farm work never appealed to me, nor the careful running of a household that raises fine children. What I loved were oared ships, and battles, and polished spears, and arrows — grim things that make other men shudder. But the gods put the love of them in my heart. Different men love different work. Before the sons of the Achaeans ever set foot on Troy, I'd led men and fast ships against foreign lands nine times, and great wealth fell into my hands. I'd take my pick of the best, and much more came to me later by lot. My house grew quickly, and I became feared and respected among the Cretans.

"But then far-seeing Zeus planned that hateful voyage — the one that brought down so many men. They ordered me and famous Idomeneus to lead the ships to Troy. There was no way to refuse, the people's talk was too harsh and heavy to fight. For nine years we sons of the Achaeans fought there. In the tenth we sacked Priam's city and sailed for home, and a god scattered the Achaeans. But for me, poor wretch, Zeus the schemer planned more trouble.

"I stayed home only a month, glad with my children and my wife and my goods. Then my heart drove me to sail to Egypt, with a fine fleet fitted out and good crews. I made ready nine ships, and men flocked to fill them fast. For six days my loyal men feasted, and I gave them plenty of beasts to sacrifice to the gods and to make their own feast. On the seventh we boarded and sailed from broad Crete with a fair, strong North wind behind us, easy as drifting downstream. None of my ships was harmed. We sat safe and well while the wind and the steersmen held our course. On the fifth day we reached the smooth-flowing river of Egypt, and I anchored my curved ships there.

"I told my loyal men to stay by the ships and guard them, and I sent out scouts to keep watch from the high points. But they gave in to their own pride and went their own way. They tore through the rich fields of the Egyptians, carrying off the women and little children and killing the men. The alarm reached the city fast. Hearing the war cry, the people came out at first light. The whole plain filled with foot soldiers and horsemen and the flash of bronze. Zeus, who loves the thunderbolt, threw my men into a panic, and not one of them dared stand and fight. Death surrounded us on every side. There many of us were killed by the sharp bronze, and the rest they led away alive, to work as their slaves.

"But Zeus himself put this thought in my mind, and I wish I had died instead, met my fate right there in Egypt, because still more suffering was waiting for me. At once I lifted the well-made helmet off my head, dropped the shield from my shoulders, threw the spear from my hand. I went straight up to the king's chariot, grabbed his knees, and kissed them. He pitied me and spared me. He sat me in his chariot and carried me, crying, to his house. Many came at me with their ash-wood spears, wild to kill me, they were furious. But the king held them off, fearing the anger of Zeus, protector of strangers, who hates cruel deeds most of all.

"I stayed there seven years and gathered much wealth from the Egyptians, they all gave me something. But when the eighth year came around, a Phoenician arrived — a man full of tricks, a greedy cheat who'd already done plenty of harm to people. He talked me into going with him to Phoenicia, where his house and goods were. I stayed with him there a full year. But when the months and days had run their course and the year came round again and the seasons returned, he set me aboard a ship bound for Libya. He spun me a lie that I was to help carry cargo, but really he meant to sell me there and pocket a fortune. I went with him, knowing what he was, because I had no choice.

"The ship ran before a fair North wind, out over the middle of the sea past Crete. But Zeus was planning their deaths. When we'd left Crete behind and no land was in sight, only sky and sea, the son of Cronos set a dark cloud over the hollow ship, and the water beneath it went black. Zeus thundered and struck the ship with his bolt. The whole ship spun around, struck by the lightning, and filled with the stench of sulfur. The men were thrown overboard. Like sea birds, they bobbed in the waves around the black hull, and the god took away their homecoming. But Zeus himself, though my heart was full of grief, put the ship's great mast into my hands so I might still escape death. I wrapped myself around it and was carried along by the deadly winds.

"Nine days I drifted. On the tenth, in the black night, a huge rolling wave brought me to the land of the Thesprotians. There Pheidon, the Thesprotian king, took me in, and asked nothing for it. His own son found me, worn out with cold and exhaustion, and raised me up by the hand and led me home to his father's house, where they dressed me in a cloak and tunic.

"And there I heard of Odysseus. The king told me he'd welcomed him and treated him kindly on his way home to his own country. He showed me all the treasure Odysseus had gathered — bronze and gold and worked iron. It was enough to keep another man and his line for ten generations, so much wealth lay stored in the king's halls. The king said Odysseus had gone to Dodona, to hear the will of Zeus from the god's tall leafy oak, to learn how he should come home to the rich land of Ithaca, after so long away, openly or in secret. And the king swore to me, pouring out wine in his house, that the ship was launched and the crew ready, the men who would bring Odysseus to his own country. But he sent me off first, because a Thesprotian ship happened to be sailing for Dulichium, with its rich wheat fields. He ordered them to take me safely to King Acastus.

"But an evil plan pleased their hearts, to drag me down to the depths of misery. When the ship was far out from land, they set about making me a slave that very day. They stripped off my cloak and tunic and threw these filthy rags and this torn tunic over me, the ones you see now with your own eyes. By evening they reached the bright farmland of Ithaca. There they tied me up tight in the well-built ship with a strong-twisted rope, while they went ashore in a hurry to take their supper on the beach. But the gods themselves loosened my bonds with ease. I wrapped the rag around my head, slid down the smooth steering-oar, dipped my chest into the sea, and rowed away with both hands, swimming, and very quickly I was clear of them, well away. I climbed out where there was a thicket of flowering wood and lay down, crouched low. They came searching, groaning loudly. But it seemed no use to hunt any farther, so they went back to the hollow ship. The gods themselves hid me — easily, and brought me here, to the farm of a man who knows how to live. It seems it's still my fate to live a while longer."

And you answered him, Eumaeus the swineherd: "Poor unlucky stranger, you've stirred my heart, telling me all this, everything you suffered and everywhere you wandered. But this part about Odysseus, I don't think it's right, and you won't convince me. Why does a man like you have to lie for nothing? I know the truth about my master's homecoming myself. The gods hated him utterly, every one of them, or they'd have let him die among the Trojans, or in the arms of his friends once the war was wound up. Then all the Achaeans would have built a mound over him, and he'd have won great glory for his son in the years to come. But now the storm winds have snatched him away without a trace.

"As for me, I keep to myself out here with the pigs. I don't go into town unless wise Penelope sends for me, when some piece of news comes from somewhere. Then they all gather round and question the messenger, both those who grieve for the long-gone master and those who are glad to eat up his wealth for nothing. But I've no taste for asking and prying, not since an Aetolian fooled me with his story. He'd killed a man and wandered far across the world, and he came to my hut, and I welcomed him warmly. He said he'd seen Odysseus in Crete with Idomeneus, repairing his ships that the storms had smashed. He said he'd be back by summer or by harvest time, bringing much treasure, with his godlike companions. So you, old man of many sorrows, since some god has brought you to me, don't try to please me with lies or charm me with false hope. It's not for any of that that I'll respect you and treat you kindly, but out of fear of Zeus, protector of strangers, and out of pity for you."

Then crafty Odysseus said: "What an unbelieving heart you have. Even with an oath I can't bring you around or persuade you. Come, let's make a bargain, and let the gods on Olympus be witnesses to us both. If your master comes home to this house, dress me in a cloak and tunic and send me on to Dulichium, where I want to go. But if your master doesn't come the way I say, set your slaves on me and throw me from a high cliff, so the next beggar will think twice before lying to you."

The noble swineherd answered: "Stranger, that would do my good name and my honor wonders, now and ever after, to take you into my hut, give you a guest's welcome, and then kill you and tear the life out of you! After that I could really pray to Zeus with a clear heart. No — it's supper time. I hope my men come in soon, so we can fix a fine meal in the hut."

While they talked, the pigs and the men who herded them came up. They penned the sows to sleep in their usual places, and a tremendous squealing rose up from the pigs settling in. Then the swineherd called to his men: "Bring the best hog. I'll slaughter it for this stranger from far off, and we'll get some good of it too, we who've suffered so long, working hard for these white-tusked pigs while other men eat up our labor for nothing."

He split firewood with the pitiless bronze, and the others led in a fat five-year-old boar and set it by the hearth. The swineherd didn't forget the gods, his heart was good. He cut the first bristles from the white-tusked boar's head and threw them into the fire, praying to all the gods that wise Odysseus might come home. Then he swung up an oak log he'd left from his chopping and struck the boar down, and its life left it. They cut its throat, singed it, quickly carved it. The swineherd took raw bits from every limb and laid them in the rich fat, sprinkled them with barley meal, and threw them on the fire as a first offering. They sliced the rest, skewered it, roasted it carefully, drew it all off, and heaped it on platters. Then the swineherd stood up to share it out, his heart knew what was fair. He divided everything into seven portions. One he set aside with a prayer for the nymphs and for Hermes, son of Maia. The others he dealt out to each man. But he honored Odysseus with the long cuts along the back of the white-tusked boar, and it warmed his master's heart, and crafty Odysseus said:

"Eumaeus, may you be as dear to Father Zeus as you are to me, for honoring a man in my state with the best you have."

And you answered him, Eumaeus the swineherd: "Eat, my strange friend, and enjoy what's here. A god gives one thing and holds back another, whatever pleases his heart. He can do anything."

He burned the first cuts to the everlasting gods, poured out the gleaming wine, and set the cup in the hands of Odysseus, destroyer of cities, who sat down to his own portion. Mesaulius gave them bread — a man the swineherd had bought on his own, while his master was away, without help from his mistress or old Laertes. He'd bought him from the Taphians with his own goods. They reached out for the food laid ready before them, and when they'd had their fill of food and drink, Mesaulius cleared the bread away, and they hurried off to sleep, full of bread and meat.

The night came on, foul and moonless, and Zeus rained the whole night through, and the West Wind blew hard, always wet. Then Odysseus spoke, testing the swineherd, to see whether he'd strip off his own cloak and give it to him, or tell one of his men to, since he cared for him so much:

"Listen now, Eumaeus, and all the rest of you. I'll boast a little — it's the wine, the fool's wine, that drives me. It makes even a careful man sing and laugh softly, gets him up to dance, lets slip a word better left unsaid. But since I've started shouting, I won't hold back.

"I wish I were young again, my strength unbroken, the way I was when we set an ambush under Troy. Odysseus and Menelaus, Atreus' son, were the leaders, and I was put in command alongside them, they wanted it that way. When we'd reached the city and the steep wall, we crouched down under our armor in the thick brush, in the reeds and the marsh. A foul night came down with the North Wind dropping, freezing. Snow fell from above like frost, cold, and ice crusted on our shields. Now all the others had cloaks and tunics and slept easy, their shoulders wrapped in their shields. But I'd been a fool and left my cloak with my men, not thinking I'd be cold, and I'd gone off with just my shield and a bright loincloth. When the night was two-thirds gone and the stars had wheeled over, I nudged Odysseus beside me with my elbow, and he was awake at once.

"'Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes — I won't be among the living much longer. The cold is killing me. I have no cloak. Some god fooled me into coming out in just my tunic. There's no escape now.'

"That was what I said. And he had an idea in his heart, that's the kind of man he was for plans and for fighting. He spoke low: 'Quiet now, or one of the other Achaeans will hear you.' Then he propped his head on his elbow and said: 'Listen, friends. A dream came to me in my sleep, sent by a god. We've come too far from the ships. Someone should go tell Agamemnon, Atreus' son, shepherd of the people, to send up more men from the ships.'

"At that, Thoas, son of Andraemon, jumped up fast, threw off his purple cloak, and went running to the ships. And I lay down gladly in his cloak till Dawn on her golden throne appeared. I wish I were young again like that, my strength unbroken. Then one of you swineherds would give me a cloak, both out of friendship and out of respect for a brave man. But now they look down on me, because my clothes are filthy on my body."

And you answered him, Eumaeus: "Old man, that's a fine story you've told, and not one word out of place or wasted. So tonight you won't go short of clothing or anything else a worn-out beggar deserves who comes asking. But in the morning you'll have to shake your own rags back on. We don't have many spare cloaks and tunics up here, every man has just one. When Odysseus' dear son comes home, he'll give you a cloak and tunic himself, and send you wherever your heart wants to go."

With that he jumped up and made a bed by the fire, throwing down skins of sheep and goats. Odysseus lay there, and Eumaeus threw over him a thick, big cloak he kept for a spare, to put on when a savage storm blew up. So Odysseus slept there, and the young men slept beside him.

But the swineherd didn't like to sleep there, away from his pigs. He got ready to go out, and Odysseus was glad to see how he watched over his master's property even while his master was gone. First he slung his sharp sword over his strong shoulders, then wrapped on a thick cloak against the wind, and took up a great fleece from a well-fed goat, and a sharp spear, to fight off dogs or men. He went out to lie down where the white-tusked boars slept under a hollow rock, sheltered from the North Wind.