THE ODYSSEY — AI Adaptation
Book 24: The Souls of the Suitors

Hermes of Cyllene called out the souls of the dead suitors. In his hands he held the lovely golden wand that he uses to close men's eyes in sleep, or to wake them again when he wishes. With it he stirred the ghosts and drove them forward, and they followed, squeaking. Like bats in the back of some great cave, who fly squeaking when one of them drops from the cluster on the rock and they all cling to one another. That was how the souls went chittering along, with Hermes the kindly guide leading them down the dank and moldy paths.

They passed the streams of Ocean and the White Rock, then the gates of the Sun and the land of dreams, and quickly came to the meadow of asphodel where the souls live, the phantoms of those whose work is done.

There they found the soul of Achilles, son of Peleus, and the souls of Patroclus and noble Antilochus, and Ajax — the finest in looks and build of all the Greeks after the matchless son of Peleus. These had gathered around Achilles, and now the soul of Agamemnon came near, full of grief, with the souls of those who had died beside him in the house of Aegisthus crowding around.

The soul of Achilles spoke first. "Son of Atreus, we always thought you were dearest to Zeus the thunderer of all the heroes, all your days, because you ruled over so many strong men in the land of Troy, where we Greeks suffered so much. But it seems the day of death came early for you too, the doom no one born can escape. If only you had met your death in Troy, at the height of your glory! Then all the Greeks would have raised a tomb for you, and you would have won great fame for your son to inherit. Instead it was your fate to die the most pitiful death of all."

The soul of Agamemnon answered him. "Lucky son of Peleus, godlike Achilles, you died at Troy, far from Argos, and around you the best of the Trojans and the Greeks kept falling as they fought over your body. And there you lay in the swirling dust, huge and hugely sprawled, all your skill with horses forgotten. We fought the whole day long. We would never have stopped, but Zeus stopped us with a storm.

"When we carried you out of the fighting and back to the ships, we laid you on a bed and washed your beautiful body clean with warm water and oil. The Greeks shed hot tears all around you and cut off their hair in grief. Your mother came up out of the sea with her immortal sea-nymphs when she heard the news. A strange and wonderful crying rose over the water, and trembling took hold of every Greek there. They would have jumped up and bolted for the hollow ships, if one man, wise in the old ways, had not held them back — Nestor, whose counsel had always proved best before. With good sense he spoke up: 'Hold, Greeks! Don't run, you young men of Achaea! This is his mother coming from the sea with her immortal nymphs, to be with her dead son.'

"At that the brave Greeks held their ground and stopped being afraid. The daughters of the old sea-god stood around you, crying bitterly, and they wrapped you in immortal cloth. The nine Muses all came too, singing the lament, answering one another with their beautiful voices, and you would not have seen a single Greek there with dry eyes — the song was that piercing.

"For seventeen days and nights we cried for you, gods and men together. On the eighteenth we gave you to the fire, and we slaughtered fat sheep and curved-horned cattle all around you. You were burned in the clothing of the gods, with rich oil and sweet honey. And many Greek heroes paraded around the burning pyre in their armor, foot soldiers and horsemen, and a great roar went up.

"When the flames of Hephaestus had done their work, at dawn we gathered your white bones, Achilles, and bathed them in pure wine and oil. Your mother gave a golden urn, she said it was a gift of Dionysus, made by the famous craftsman Hephaestus. In it lie your white bones, glorious Achilles, mixed with the bones of dead Patroclus, son of Menoetius, and set apart, the bones of Antilochus, whom you honored above all your companions after Patroclus died.

"Over them the sacred army of Greek spearmen heaped up a great and noble mound, on a cape jutting out over the wide Hellespont, so that it could be seen far off across the sea by men now living and by those yet to be born. Your mother asked the gods for splendid prizes and set them in the middle of the field for the best of the Greeks to win. You've seen the funeral games of many heroes, where the young men gird up and compete for prizes when a king dies. But these would have amazed you most of all to see — the splendid prizes silver-footed Thetis set out in your honor, for the gods loved you well.

"So not even in death did you lose your name. Your fame will live forever among all people, Achilles. But what good has any of it done me, now that I've finished my war? On my way home Zeus planned a wretched death for me at the hands of Aegisthus and my murdering wife."

  

While they were talking, the messenger Hermes came near, leading down the souls of the suitors Odysseus had killed. The two of them went straight over, amazed at the sight. The soul of Agamemnon recognized Amphimedon, the famous son of Melaneus, who had been his host once when he lived in Ithaca. Agamemnon spoke first.

"Amphimedon, what happened to you all, that you've gone down into the dark earth, all of you chosen men, all of an age? You couldn't pick a finer band of men in any city. Did Poseidon wreck you at sea, raising hard winds and towering waves? Or did enemies destroy you on land while you were rounding up their cattle and fine flocks of sheep, or fighting over their city and their women? Tell me — I claim to be an old friend of your family. Don't you remember when I came to your house, urging Odysseus to come with Menelaus to Troy with our ships? It took a whole month to cross the wide sea, because we worked so hard to win over Odysseus, destroyer of cities."

The soul of Amphimedon answered him. "Most glorious son of Atreus, Agamemnon, lord of men, I remember all of it, just as you say. And I'll tell you the whole truth, the bitter end of how our deaths came about.

"We were courting the wife of Odysseus, who had been gone so long. She would not refuse the marriage we hated, but she would not finish it either, because she was planning death and dark doom for us. Here's one of the tricks she dreamed up. She set up a great loom in her hall and began weaving (a fine, wide cloth) and she said to us: 'Young men, my suitors, since godlike Odysseus is dead, hold off, eager as you are for my marriage, until I finish this cloak — I don't want my thread to go to waste. It's a burial cloth for the hero Laertes, for when the cruel doom of death lays him low. I don't want any of the Greek women in the land to be angry with me if a man who won so much lies buried without a shroud.'

"That's what she said, and our proud hearts agreed. So by day she would weave at the great loom, but at night, by torchlight, she would unravel it. For three years she kept the trick hidden and fooled the Greeks. But when the fourth year came around with its turning seasons, the months waning and the long days passing, then one of her women, who knew the secret, told us, and we caught her unraveling the splendid cloth. So she was forced to finish it, against her will.

"When she showed us the cloak (woven on the great loom, washed, shining like the sun or the moon), at that very time some cruel god brought Odysseus from somewhere to the edge of his lands, where the swineherd lived. There the dear son of godlike Odysseus came too, back from sandy Pylos in his black ship. The two of them planned an evil death for the suitors and went to the famous town, Telemachus first, leading the way, and Odysseus following later. The swineherd brought him in dressed in rags, looking like a wretched old beggar leaning on a staff, with miserable clothes hanging off him. None of us could tell who he was when he suddenly appeared, not even the older men. We pelted him with insults and threw things at him. For a while he put up with it in his own house, being struck and abused, holding his temper.

"But when the will of Zeus, who carries the storm-shield, stirred him, he and Telemachus carried the fine weapons away into a storeroom and bolted the doors. Then with his deep cunning he had his wife set out the bow and the gray iron for us, a contest for us doomed men, and the beginning of the slaughter. Not one of us could string the mighty bow. We came nowhere near it. But when the great bow reached the hands of Odysseus, we all shouted not to give it to him, no matter what he said, but Telemachus alone urged him on and told him to take it.

"He took it in his hands, that man who had endured so much, and easily strung the bow, and sent the arrow clean through the iron. Then he leapt onto the doorsill, poured out the swift arrows, glaring terribly around him, and shot King Antinous. After that he aimed his groaning shafts straight at the rest, and they fell in heaps. It was plain that some god was helping them. They charged through the hall in their fury, killing on every side. A hideous groaning rose as men's skulls were smashed, and the whole floor ran with blood.

"That's how we died, Agamemnon. Even now our bodies lie uncared for in the house of Odysseus, because our families don't yet know. They would wash the dark blood from our wounds, lay us out, and cry for us, that's the honor owed the dead."

The soul of Agamemnon answered him. "Lucky son of Laertes, Odysseus of many schemes, truly you won a wife of great virtue. How good was the heart of faultless Penelope, daughter of Icarius, how well she remembered Odysseus, her wedded husband! The fame of her goodness will never die. The gods will make a lovely song for people on earth about faithful Penelope, not like the daughter of Tyndareus, who plotted evil and killed her wedded husband. Her song will be hateful among men. She has brought a hard name on all women, even on the good ones."

That was how they talked to each other, standing in the house of Hades, in the hidden places under the earth.

  

Meanwhile, the others had come down from the city and quickly reached Laertes' farm, the fine place he had won for himself long ago with much hard work. There was his house, with a shed running all around it, where the slaves bound to him ate and sat and slept. An old Sicilian woman lived there too, who looked after the old man with care out in the country, far from the town.

There Odysseus spoke to his son and the slaves. "Go inside the well-built house now. Quickly kill the best of the pigs for dinner. I'm going to test my father — see if he knows me when he looks at me, or fails to, since I've been away so long."

With that he handed his armor to the slaves. They went straight into the house, and Odysseus walked toward the fruitful vineyard to make his trial. Going down into the great orchard, he did not find Dolius, or any of the slaves or his sons; they had all gone off to gather thornbushes for the vineyard fence, with the old man leading the way. He found his father alone in the orchard, hoeing around a plant. He wore a filthy, patched, miserable tunic, and around his shins he had bound stitched oxhide guards against the brambles, with sleeves on his hands for the thorns, and a goatskin cap on his head, and all of it deepening his grief.

When Odysseus, who had endured so much, saw his father worn down by age and carrying such sorrow in his heart, he stopped under a tall pear tree and cried. Then he turned it over in his mind: should he throw his arms around his father, kiss him, and tell him everything (that he had come home to his own land), or should he first question him and test him? In the end it seemed better to test him first with teasing words. With that in mind he went straight up to him.

Laertes had his head down, digging around the plant, when his son stood beside him and spoke. "Old man, you're no beginner at tending an orchard. You take good care of it: there's not a single plant, not a fig tree, not a vine, not an olive, not a pear, not a garden bed in the whole place that lacks attention. But I'll say one more thing, and don't take it badly: you don't take such good care of yourself. You carry old age hard, and you're filthy and dressed in rags. It can't be because you're lazy that your master neglects you. And there's nothing of the slave about your looks or your build. You look like a king — like a man who ought to bathe and eat well and sleep soft, the way old men should.

"But tell me this, and tell me the truth. Whose slave are you? Whose orchard is this you tend? And tell me honestly, so I can be sure, is this really Ithaca I've come to, as some man told me just now when I met him on my way here? He wasn't very sharp — he wouldn't bother to hear me out or answer my question about an old friend of mine, whether he's still alive or already dead in the house of Hades. Let me tell you, and you listen: I once gave a man hospitality in my own homeland, when he came to my house, and no other traveler from far away was ever more welcome to me. He said his family was from Ithaca, and that his father was Laertes, son of Arceisius. I brought him into my house and treated him well, generously, out of the plenty I had, and I gave him the gifts a guest should have. I gave him seven talents of fine gold, a solid silver mixing-bowl worked with flowers, twelve single cloaks, twelve rugs, twelve fine mantles, and as many tunics, and besides all that, four beautiful women skilled in fine work, the ones he chose for himself."

His father answered with tears running down his face. "Stranger, you've come to the land you ask about, all right, but cruel and reckless men hold it now. All those gifts you gave were wasted. If you'd found him alive here in Ithaca, he would have sent you off well, repaying your gifts and treating you as a guest should be treated, that's what's right, when a man begins it. But tell me this, and tell me the truth. How many years has it been since you welcomed that man — that guest, my poor son, if he ever really lived? Unlucky boy. Far from his friends and his homeland, somewhere out at sea the fish have eaten him, or on dry land he's become prey for the beasts and birds. His mother and I, who gave him life, never wrapped him for burial and cried over him. His wife, faithful Penelope, who brought a rich dowry, never wailed for her husband on his deathbed as she should have, nor closed his eyes, and that's the honor owed the dead.

"And tell me this truly, so I understand. Who are you, and where do you come from? What city, what parents? Where is the swift ship anchored that brought you and your godlike crew here? Or did you come as a passenger on someone else's ship, and they put you ashore and sailed off?"

Crafty Odysseus answered him. "Then I'll tell you the whole truth. I come from Alybas, where I live in a fine house, son of King Apheidas, son of Polypemon. My own name is Eperitus. Some god drove me off course from Sicania and brought me here against my will. My ship is anchored out in the country, away from the town. As for Odysseus, this is the fifth year since he left my land and sailed away, unlucky man. The birds flew on his right when he left, good omens. I sent him off glad, and he went off glad. We both still hoped to meet again as friends and exchange splendid gifts."

As he spoke, a dark cloud of grief covered Laertes. He scooped up the sooty dust in both hands and poured it over his gray head, sobbing hard. The heart of Odysseus heaved, and a sharp, burning ache shot up through his nostrils as he looked at his father. He leapt forward, threw his arms around him, kissed him, and cried, "Father — I'm the man you're asking about! I'm here, in my own land, after twenty years. Stop your crying now. I'll tell you everything, but we have to hurry. I killed the suitors in our house. I've made them pay for their cruel insults and their evil deeds."

Laertes answered him. "If you really are my son Odysseus, come home, then give me some clear sign so I can be sure."

Crafty Odysseus answered, "First, look at this scar with your own eyes — the one a boar gave me with its white tusk on Parnassus, when I went there. You and my honored mother sent me to Autolycus, my mother's father, to fetch the gifts he promised and nodded to give me when he came here. And here, let me name the trees in the well-kept orchard you gave me once. I was just a boy, following you through the garden, asking about each one, and you walked me through them all and told me their names. You gave me thirteen pear trees and ten apple trees and forty fig trees. And you named fifty rows of vines you'd give me, each one ripening at its own season, with all sorts of grape clusters on them, whenever the seasons of Zeus pressed down from above."

At that Laertes' knees gave way and his heart melted, for he knew the signs were true, the proofs his son set out. He threw his arms around his dear son, and Odysseus, who had endured so much, caught him as he fainted. When he came to himself again and his spirit returned, he spoke once more.

"Father Zeus — so you gods really do still exist up on high Olympus, if the suitors truly paid for their reckless arrogance! But now I'm terribly afraid that all the men of Ithaca will come up here soon, and send messengers everywhere to the cities of the Cephallenians."

Crafty Odysseus answered, "Don't worry. Don't let that trouble your mind. Let's go to the house near the orchard. I sent Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd ahead to get dinner ready as fast as they could."

So the two of them walked toward the fine house. When they reached the comfortable building, they found Telemachus and the cowherd and the swineherd carving plenty of meat and mixing the bright wine.

Meanwhile, in the house, the Sicilian attendant bathed great-hearted Laertes and rubbed him with oil and threw a fine cloak around him. And Athena came close to Laertes, shepherd of the people, and filled out his limbs, making him look taller and stronger than before. He stepped out of the bath, and his son was amazed to see him looking like one of the immortal gods. He said to him.

"Father — surely one of the gods who live forever has made you taller and finer to look at."

And clear-thinking Laertes answered, "Father Zeus, Athena, Apollo — if only I were the man I was when I took Nericus, that strong fortress on the mainland cape, ruling the Cephallenians! If I'd been that man yesterday, in our house, with armor on my shoulders, standing beside you to fight off the suitors — I'd have brought down the knees of many of them in the hall, and your heart would have rejoiced to see it."

That was how they talked to each other. And when the others had finished their work and the feast was ready, they sat down in order on the chairs and benches and reached for their food. Just then old Dolius came up with the old man's sons, tired from their work, for the old Sicilian woman, their mother, had gone out and called them, she who raised them and looked after the old man with care, now that age had its grip on him.

When they saw Odysseus and recognized him in their hearts, they stood in the hall, stunned. But Odysseus spoke to them kindly. "Old man, sit down to dinner, and put your astonishment aside. We've been waiting a long while, eager to begin, and always expecting you."

At that Dolius came straight at him with both arms spread wide. He took Odysseus's hand and kissed it at the wrist, and said to him. "Dear master — you've come back to us who longed for you and never thought to see you, and the gods themselves have brought you home. All hail, and welcome, and may the gods give you good fortune. Tell me this truly, so I know, does wise Penelope already know you've come home, or should we send a messenger?"

Crafty Odysseus answered, "Old man, she already knows. Why trouble yourself with that?" He finished, and Dolius sat back down on the polished stool. In the same way the sons of Dolius gathered around the famous Odysseus, greeting him with words and clasping his hands, and then sat down in order beside their father.

  

While they busied themselves with the meal in the house, Rumor went racing through the city, telling everywhere of the suitors' grim death and doom. The people heard it and came thronging from all sides, moaning and groaning, to the front of Odysseus's house. They carried the bodies out and each family buried its own. The dead from other cities they loaded onto swift ships and sent the fishermen to carry home, each to his own place. Then they went, grieving, all together to the assembly.

When they had gathered and come together, Eupeithes rose to speak among them, for an unbearable grief lay on his heart for his son Antinous, the first man godlike Odysseus had killed. Crying for him, he spoke.

"Friends, this man has done the Greeks a terrible thing. He took many good men away in his ships, and lost the hollow ships, and lost the men. Then he came home and killed the best of the Cephallenians. Come on — before he can slip away quickly to Pylos or to splendid Elis, where the Epeians rule, let's go after him! Otherwise we'll hang our heads in shame forever. It would be a disgrace for men yet to be born to hear of it, if we don't take revenge on the killers of our sons and brothers. Life would hold no more sweetness for me. I'd rather die at once and join the dead. Come on, before they cross over and get away from us!"

He cried as he spoke, and pity took hold of all the Greeks. Then Medon and the godlike singer came up, fresh from Odysseus's house, where sleep had let them go at last. They stood in the middle of the gathering, and astonishment seized every man. Then Medon, who knew sensible things, spoke to them.

"Listen to me now, men of Ithaca. Odysseus did not do these things against the will of the immortal gods. I myself saw a deathless god standing close beside Odysseus, in every way like Mentor. This immortal would appear sometimes in front of Odysseus, giving him courage, and sometimes raging through the hall driving the suitors before him — and they fell in heaps."

At that, pale green fear took hold of them all. Then the old hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, spoke up, the only one who saw both before and after. With good sense he addressed them.

"Listen to me now, men of Ithaca, and hear what I say. These things happened through your own cowardice, friends. You wouldn't listen to me, or to Mentor, shepherd of the people, when we told you to stop your sons from their folly. They did a terrible thing in their wicked recklessness, wasting the wealth and dishonoring the wife of a great man, and they kept saying he would never come home. So now let it be as I say. Listen to me. Let's not go out, or someone may bring his own ruin down on himself."

When he finished, more than half of them sprang up with a great shout. But the rest stayed where they were; they didn't like what he said. They sided with Eupeithes, and they rushed for their weapons. When they had put the gleaming bronze on their bodies, they gathered in a crowd outside the spacious city. Eupeithes led them in his folly. He thought he would avenge his son's death — but he was never to come back. His own doom was waiting there for him.

  

Then Athena spoke to Zeus, son of Cronus. "Father, son of Cronus, highest of rulers, answer me what I ask. What is the plan hidden in your mind? Will you make still more cruel war and dreadful fighting, or set peace between the two sides?"

Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her. "My child, why do you ask me this? Wasn't it your own plan that Odysseus would come and take revenge on these men? Do as you like. But I'll tell you what's fitting. Now that godlike Odysseus has paid back the suitors, let them swear a faithful oath: let Odysseus be king forever, and let us make them forget the killing of their sons and brothers. Let them love one another as before, and let there be wealth and peace in plenty."

With that he spurred on Athena, who was eager already, and she came swooping down from the peaks of Olympus.

When they had satisfied their hunger for sweet food, Odysseus, who had endured so much, spoke first. "Someone go out and look, in case they're already getting close."

He finished, and one of Dolius's sons went out as he ordered. He stood in the doorway and saw them all close by, and at once said to Odysseus. "They're near now. Quick — let's arm ourselves!"

They jumped up and put on their armor: the four around Odysseus and the six sons of Dolius. And Laertes and Dolius armed themselves too, gray-haired as they were, fighters by necessity. When they had put on the gleaming bronze, they opened the doors and went out, with Odysseus leading.

Athena, daughter of Zeus, came up close to them, looking and sounding exactly like Mentor. Odysseus, who had endured so much, rejoiced to see her, and spoke at once to his dear son Telemachus. "Telemachus, now you'll see for yourself, when you go into the place where men fight and the best are sorted out, that you must not shame your father's line. We've always been first in strength and courage, over the whole earth."

And clear-thinking Telemachus answered, "You'll see, if you want, dear father — with this spirit in me I'll bring no shame on your line, as you put it."

Laertes was overjoyed to hear it. "What a day this is for me, dear gods! I rejoice — my son and my grandson are competing over courage!"

Then bright-eyed Athena came close to him and said, "Son of Arceisius, dearest by far of all my companions, pray to the bright-eyed goddess and to Father Zeus, then balance your long-shadowing spear and hurl it." As she spoke, Pallas Athena breathed great strength into him. He prayed to the daughter of great Zeus, then quickly balanced the spear and threw it, and struck Eupeithes through the bronze cheek of his helmet. The helmet did not stop it — the bronze drove straight through, and Eupeithes crashed down, his armor clattering around him.

Odysseus and his glorious son fell on the front ranks, striking with swords and double-edged spears. And now they would have killed them all and left none to go home, if Athena, daughter of Zeus who carries the storm-shield, had not cried out with a great voice and held back the whole crowd.

"Hold back from the cruel fighting, men of Ithaca — break off now, before more blood is shed!"

So Athena cried, and pale green fear gripped them. In their terror the weapons flew from their hands and fell to the ground at the goddess's voice, and they turned toward the city, desperate to live. With a terrible shout Odysseus, who had endured so much, gathered himself and swooped after them like an eagle flying high.

Then the son of Cronus hurled a smoking thunderbolt, and it fell in front of the bright-eyed daughter of the mighty father. And bright-eyed Athena said to Odysseus, "Son of Laertes, born of Zeus, Odysseus of many schemes — stop now. End the strife of this leveling war, or Zeus, who sees far and wide, the son of Cronus, will be angry with you."

So Athena spoke, and Odysseus obeyed, glad in his heart. Then Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who carries the storm-shield, set an oath between both sides for the days to come, still looking and sounding exactly like Mentor.