THE ODYSSEY — AI Adaptation
Book 21: The Bow

Athena, the goddess with the gray, gleaming eyes, put a thought in the mind of wise Penelope, daughter of Icarius: to set the bow and the gray iron axes before the suitors in the hall of Odysseus — a contest, and the opening of the slaughter.

She climbed the high stairs of her house and took in her strong hand a curved key, beautiful, made of bronze, with an ivory handle. Then she went with her attendants to the farthest storeroom, where her husband's treasures lay: bronze and gold and worked iron. There too lay his curved bow and the quiver full of arrows, every one of them carrying grief.

A friend had given him these long ago, when Odysseus met him in Lacedaemon: Iphitus, son of Eurytus, a man like the gods. The two of them had met in Messene, in the house of Ortilochus. Odysseus had come to collect a debt owed to him by the whole region, for men of Messene had carried off three hundred sheep from Ithaca in their ships, along with the shepherds who tended them. Odysseus, still a boy, had traveled far on that errand, sent by his father and the other elders. Iphitus had come looking for twelve mares that had wandered off, with their sturdy mule foals still nursing. Those mares brought him death in the end. He went to the house of Heracles, the strong-hearted son of Zeus, who had done so many great deeds — and Heracles killed him there, a guest under his own roof. He had no fear of the gods watching, no respect for the table he himself had set before the man. He killed him anyway and kept the sturdy mares for himself.

It was while searching for those mares that Iphitus had met Odysseus and given him the bow. Great Eurytus had carried it before, and when he died he left it to his son in his high house. In return Odysseus gave Iphitus a sharp sword and a strong spear, the start of a close friendship, though the two never sat at each other's tables, for the son of Zeus killed Iphitus first. Odysseus never took that bow to war on the black ships. He left it at home as a keepsake of a dear friend, and carried it only on his own land.

  

Now Penelope reached the storeroom and stepped onto the oak doorsill, which a carpenter had once planed smooth and made straight with a line, fitting the doorposts and hanging the bright doors. Quickly she loosed the strap from the hook, pushed in the key, and shot back the bolts. The doors groaned like a bull bellowing in a meadow, and they swung wide for her.

She stepped up onto the high platform where the chests stood, holding clothes scented with sweet herbs. Reaching up, she lifted the bow from its peg, still in the shining case that covered it. She sat down with it across her knees and cried loudly as she drew her husband's bow out into the light.

When she had cried until she had no tears left in her, she went down to the hall, to the proud suitors, the curved bow in her hand and the quiver full of arrows that carried grief. Her attendants came behind, carrying a chest packed with iron and bronze, the prizes her husband had won. When she reached the suitors, she stopped by a pillar that held up the roof, drawing her bright veil across her cheeks, a faithful attendant standing on either side.

She spoke to them. "Listen, you proud suitors. You have torn into this house, eating and drinking endlessly, all the years my husband has been gone. You had no excuse for it except one: that each of you wanted to marry me, to make me his wife. Well, here is your contest. I set before you the great bow of Odysseus. Whoever strings it most easily in his hands, and shoots an arrow clean through all twelve axes, with him I will go. I will leave this house, this lovely house where I came as a bride, so full of everything good, though I think I will remember it even in my dreams."

She told Eumaeus, the loyal swineherd, to carry the bow and the gray iron to the suitors. Crying, Eumaeus took them and set them down. The cowherd cried too, off to one side, when he saw his master's bow.

Antinous turned on them with sharp words. "Stupid yokels, with your minds stuck on the day in front of you. Why are you blubbering? You're stirring up the woman's grief; her heart aches enough already, since she lost the husband she loved. Sit and eat in silence, or go outside to cry and leave the bow here for us. This contest will be no easy thing. I don't think this polished bow is going to be strung so simply. There's not a man among all of us like Odysseus was. I saw him myself — I remember, though I was only a small child."

That was his talk. But in his heart he was sure he would string the bow and drive an arrow through the iron. In truth he would be the first to taste an arrow from the hands of Odysseus, the very man he was insulting in his own hall, urging on all his companions to do the same.

Then Telemachus, with his strength rising in him, spoke. "Well — Zeus has made me a fool. My own dear mother, wise as she is, says she'll go off with another man and leave this house, and here I am laughing, taking it lightly, like an idiot. Come on, then, suitors, since the prize is set before you. There's no woman like her in all of Achaea: not in holy Pylos, not in Argos or Mycenae, not in Ithaca itself or on the dark mainland. You know it as well as I do. Why should I sing my own mother's praises? Come, no more stalling, no more putting off the bow. Let's see it done. And I'll try the bow myself. If I string it and shoot through the iron, then my mother won't leave this house and go off with a stranger, leaving me here grieving — not if I can win the prizes my father won."

He sprang up, threw the crimson cloak from his shoulders, and lifted the sharp sword off them. First he set the axes up. He dug one long trench for them all, lined them straight by the eye, and packed the earth tight around them. Everyone watching was amazed at how neatly he set them — and he had never even seen it done.

Then he stood in the doorway and tried the bow. Three times he heaved at it, straining with all his might to bend it; three times his strength gave out, though in his heart he kept hoping to string it and shoot through the iron. He hauled at it a fourth time, and might have strung it — but Odysseus shook his head and stopped him, eager as he was.

"This is bad," Telemachus said. "Either I'm going to be weak and useless all my life, or I'm just too young, and my hands can't yet defend me when a man comes at me first. Come on, then — you who are stronger than I am, try the bow. Let's finish this contest." He set the bow down on the ground, leaning it against the smooth, fitted doors, and propped the swift arrow against the fine tip. Then he sat back down on the chair he had risen from.

  

Antinous, son of Eupeithes, spoke up. "Stand up one at a time, all of you, going to the right. Start from where the wine is poured." They liked the idea.

Leiodes, son of Oenops, rose first. He was the suitors' priest of sacrifice, and always sat in the farthest corner by the fine mixing bowl. He alone hated their reckless cruelty; he was disgusted with the rest of them. He took up the bow and the swift arrow first, went and stood in the doorway, and tried the bow. He could not string it. His hands were soft and unworked, and they tired before they could bend it.

"Friends," he said to the suitors, "I can't string this. Let someone else take it. But this bow is going to strip the breath and the life out of many of our best men, because dying is far better than living on, having failed at the thing we keep coming here for, waiting day after day. Right now there's many a man hoping in his heart to marry Penelope, the wife of Odysseus. But once he's tried this bow and seen the truth, let him court some other well-dressed woman of Achaea, with gifts to win her. And let Penelope marry the man who gives the most, the one fated to have her." He set the bow down, leaning it against the fitted doors, propped the swift arrow against the fine tip, and sat back down in his seat.

Antinous turned on him. "Leiodes, what kind of talk got past your teeth? Hard, ugly words. It makes me angry to hear them. So this bow is going to take the breath and life of our best men, just because you can't string it? Your mother didn't bear you to be a man who draws a bow and looses arrows. But there are other proud suitors here who'll string it soon enough."

He called to Melanthius, the goatherd. "Get up, Melanthius. Light a fire in the hall, set a big chair beside it with a fleece on top, and bring out a great wheel of fat from the store inside. We young men will warm the bow and rub it with grease, then try it and finish this contest."

So Melanthius lit a roaring fire, set the chair with the fleece on it, and brought out the great wheel of fat. The young men warmed the bow and tried it, but they could not string it. They fell far short of the strength it needed. Only Antinous and godlike Eurymachus still held back, the ringleaders of the suitors, and far the best of them in strength.

  

Now the cowherd and the swineherd of godlike Odysseus went out of the house together, and Odysseus himself followed them out. When they were past the gate and the courtyard, he spoke to them gently.

"Cowherd, and you, swineherd, should I say something, or keep it to myself? My heart tells me to speak. If Odysseus were to come back, suddenly, just like that, some god bringing him home, how would you two fight? Would you stand with the suitors, or with Odysseus? Tell me what your hearts say."

The cowherd answered, "Father Zeus, grant this wish: let that man come home, let some god lead him back. Then you'd see what strength is in me, and what my hands can do." Eumaeus prayed the same way to all the gods, that clever Odysseus might return to his own house.

When Odysseus saw their hearts were true, he answered them. "It is I. I am here in my own home. After twenty years and endless suffering, I have come back to my own country. And I see that of all my slaves, you two alone wanted me home — I never heard a single other one praying for me to come back. So I'll tell you both the truth of how it will be. If the god brings the proud suitors down under my hands, I'll find wives for you both, give you property and houses built near my own. And you'll be to me from then on the companions and brothers of Telemachus. Here — let me show you a sure sign, so you'll truly know me and trust me in your hearts: the scar a boar gave me long ago with its white tusk, when I went to Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus."

He pulled the rags aside from the great scar. The two of them looked, saw it clearly, and burst into tears. They threw their arms around wise Odysseus, kissing his head and shoulders, and he kissed their heads and hands in return. The sun would have gone down on their crying if Odysseus himself had not stopped them.

"Enough crying and grieving, someone might come out of the hall, see us, and tell those inside. Go back in, one at a time, not together. I'll go first, then you. And here's the signal. The rest of them, all the proud suitors, won't let me have the bow and quiver. But you, Eumaeus, when you're carrying the bow through the hall, put it into my hands. Then tell the women to lock the tight-fitting doors of their rooms, and if any of them hears groaning, or the crash of fighting men inside our walls, she is not to come out, she's to stay quiet where she is, at her work. And you, Philoetius, I want you to lock the courtyard gates, bolt them, and lash them fast at once."

He went back into the well-built house and sat down again on the chair he had left. The two slaves came in after him.

  

By now Eurymachus had the bow in his hands, warming it this way and that in the glow of the fire, and still he could not string it. His proud heart groaned. He spoke in anger and frustration.

"This is misery — for me, and for all of us. I don't grieve so much over the marriage, much as it hurts, there are plenty of other women in sea-ringed Ithaca and the other towns. But if we fall so far short of godlike Odysseus that we can't even string his bow — that's a disgrace men will hear about for generations to come."

Antinous answered him. "It won't be like that, Eurymachus, and you know it. Today is a holy feast day of the god across the land. Who could string a bow today? Set it down, take it easy. We can leave the axes standing, no one's going to come into the hall of Odysseus and carry them off. Let the wine-pourer fill the cups, so we can pour our offering and lay aside the curved bow. And in the morning tell Melanthius the goatherd to bring goats, the best of all the herds, so we can burn the thigh pieces to Apollo, the great archer, and then try the bow again and finish the contest."

They liked his words. Heralds poured water over their hands, boys filled the bowls to the brim with wine, and the cups went round to everyone for the offering. When they had poured and drunk as much as they wanted, crafty Odysseus, with a trap in his mind, spoke.

"Listen to me, suitors of the famous queen, while I say what my heart tells me. I ask Eurymachus most of all, and godlike Antinous, since what he said was right: set the bow aside for now and leave it to the gods. In the morning the god will give the victory to whoever he wants. But for now, hand me that polished bow. Let me test my hands and my strength among you, to see if I still have the power I once had in these bent limbs, or whether my wandering and my hard living have worn it away."

That made them all furious: they were afraid he might string the polished bow. Antinous turned on him with cutting words.

"You miserable stranger — there's not a shred of sense in you. Aren't you content to eat in peace among your betters, getting your full share, listening to everything we say? No other beggar or stranger gets to hear us talk. The sweet wine has hold of you; wine ruins other men too, when they gulp it down and don't drink sensibly. Wine made a fool of the centaur Eurytion, in the hall of great-hearted Peirithous, when he visited the Lapiths. His wits gone with the wine, he went mad and did evil things in Peirithous's house. The heroes there were enraged. They dragged him out through the doorway, sliced off his ears and nose with pitiless bronze, and sent him off ruined, carrying his madness in his stupid heart. That was the start of the war between the centaurs and men — but he brought the first of it down on himself, drunk. So I'm telling you the same: there's great pain coming for you if you string that bow. You'll get no kindness from anyone here. We'll ship you straight off in a black ship to King Echetus, who mutilates every man alive, and you won't get out of there in one piece. So drink quietly, and don't pick fights with men younger than you."

Then wise Penelope spoke. "Antinous, it isn't right or just to cheat any guest of Telemachus who comes to this house. Do you really think that if this stranger strings the great bow of Odysseus, trusting his hands and his strength, he'll take me home and make me his wife? He doesn't believe any such thing in his own heart. None of you need spoil your feasting by worrying about that; it would make no sense at all."

Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered her. "Wise Penelope, daughter of Icarius — none of us thinks he'll carry you off. That can't happen. But we're ashamed of what men and women will say. We're afraid some lesser Achaean might talk: 'Look, far weaker men are courting the wife of a great hero, and they can't even string his polished bow, and then some wandering beggar walks in and strings it easily and shoots through the iron.' That's what they'll say. It would be a disgrace to us."

"Eurymachus," Penelope replied, "men who dishonor a great man's house and eat it up can have no good name among the people anyway. Why should you call this a disgrace? This stranger is tall and strong-built, and he says he comes from a good father. Give him the polished bow, and let us see. And here is what I say, and it will be done: if he strings it, and Apollo grants him the glory, I'll dress him in a cloak and tunic, fine clothes, and give him a sharp spear to keep off dogs and men, and a two-edged sword, and sandals for his feet, and send him wherever his heart wants to go."

Clear-thinking Telemachus answered her. "Mother, no Achaean has more right than I do over the bow, to give it or refuse it to whomever I want. Not one of the lords ruling rocky Ithaca, nor on the islands toward Elis where horses run, can force me against my will, even if I choose to hand the stranger this bow to carry off for good. Go to your room and see to your own work, your weaving and your spinning, and tell your women to get on with theirs. The bow is the men's concern, and mine most of all; for the power in this house is mine."

Astonished, she went back up to her room, taking her son's wise words to heart. Going up with her women, she cried for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athena laid sweet sleep on her eyelids.

  

The loyal swineherd took up the curved bow and started to carry it across the hall. The suitors all shouted at him. One of the arrogant young men called out, "Where do you think you're taking that bow, you wretched pig-keeper, you fool? Soon enough the swift dogs you raised yourself will eat you out there among your pigs, alone, far from people, if Apollo and the other gods are kind to us."

So Eumaeus, frightened by all the shouting, set the bow down right where he was. But Telemachus shouted at him from the other side, threatening him. "Bring the bow forward, old friend. You'll soon learn you can't obey everyone. Young as I am, I'll chase you out to the fields, pelting you with stones — I'm the stronger man. I only wish I were as much stronger than all the suitors in this house. I'd soon send some of them off in misery, out of our home: for they mean nothing but harm."

That made all the suitors laugh, and their hard anger at Telemachus melted away. The swineherd carried the bow up the hall and put it into the hands of brave Odysseus. Then he called the old nurse Eurycleia aside and told her, "Eurycleia, Telemachus orders you to lock the tight-fitting doors of the hall. If any woman hears groaning, or the crash of men inside our walls, she's not to come out, she's to stay quiet where she is, at her work."

His words went straight home to her, and she locked the doors of the great hall. And Philoetius slipped quietly out of the house and locked the gates of the walled courtyard. A ship's cable of papyrus rope lay under the porch; with it he lashed the gates fast, then came back in. He sat down again on the chair he had left, watching Odysseus.

By now Odysseus had the bow in his hands, turning it over and over, testing it everywhere, in case the worms had eaten into the horn while its master was away. The suitors looked at one another. "There's a man who knows his bows, a real expert," one said. "Maybe he's got one like it at home, or he wants to make one: look how the rotten old tramp turns it over in his hands."

Another of the arrogant young men said, "I hope his luck runs as well in everything else as his chances of ever stringing that bow."

So the suitors talked. But Odysseus, the man of many schemes, once he had hefted the great bow and looked it all over, strung it as easily as a singer who knows his lyre stretches a new string around a peg, fastening the twisted sheep-gut at both ends. Just so, without strain, Odysseus strung the great bow. With his right hand he plucked the string to test it, and it sang sweetly under his touch, clear as a swallow's voice.

The suitors went sick at heart, and the color drained from their faces. And Zeus thundered loud, sending his sign. Long-suffering Odysseus rejoiced that the son of crooked-scheming Cronus had sent him an omen.

He took up a swift arrow that lay bare on the table beside him; the rest were inside the hollow quiver, the ones the Achaeans would soon taste. He set it on the bridge of the bow, drew back the notch and the string, still sitting right there in his chair, and let the arrow fly, aiming straight. He did not miss a single axe-head, from the first one on. The bronze-weighted arrow passed clean through them all and out the far side.

He turned to Telemachus. "Telemachus, the stranger sitting in your hall hasn't shamed you. I didn't miss the mark, and I wasn't long stringing the bow. My strength is still solid — not the worn-out thing the suitors mock. Now it's time to get supper ready for the Achaeans, while there's still light, and then to enjoy ourselves with song and the lyre — the proper crown of a feast."

He raised his eyebrows in signal. Telemachus, the dear son of godlike Odysseus, slung his sharp sword over his shoulder, gripped his spear, and took his place beside his father's chair, armed in gleaming bronze.