by Homer
they loved him in every way. But the threshold of old age
never came: he fell at Thebes because of bribes to a woman.
He’d fathered a son, Antilokhos; another, Alkmaion.
Mantios also fathered sons, Polupheides and Kleitos.
Dawn on her golden throne fastened on Kleitos,
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thanks to his beauty: she gave him life among deathless
Gods on Olumpos. Amphiaraos died and Apollo
made the highly spirited Polupheides a seer,
by far the best among men. In a feud with his father,
he settled in Huperesie for good, a seer for all men.
Homeland Lost for a Long Time
His own son, named Theoklumenos, came here
now and stood not far from Telemakhos’s fast black
ship as he prayed and poured out wine for the great Gods.
He spoke to him promptly, the words with a feathery swiftness,
“My friend, as I find you here burning those victims,
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I plead by your rites, your God—I plead by your very
life and the lives of your crewmen, those who have joined you—
tell me the truth I ask for, don’t keep it in hiding:
who are you men? Where are your city and parents?”
Telemakhos promptly gave him a sensible answer.
“Well then, stranger, I’ll tell you all you have asked for.
I’m from Ithaka, born to my Father Odysseus—
if ever he lived. He’s dead and his loss has been cruel.
Just now I took some crewmen to sail on my black ship.
I came here to ask of my Father, gone for a long time.”
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A godlike man, Theoklumenos answered by saying,
“I’m out of my homeland too, after I cut down
a man of my own blood. His many family members
rule the Akhaians firmly in horse-pasturing Argos.
I ran to avoid my death, to keep from a black doom,
causing my own lot now to wander among men.
Take me aboard your ship for I came to you humbly.
Don’t let them kill me: I think my enemies chased me.”
Underway North
Telemakhos promptly gave him a sensible answer.
“I’d push no willing man away from our good ship.
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Join us now and you’re welcome to all that we have here.”
He spoke that way to the man. Accepting his bronze spear,
he set it down on the deck of the ship with its up-curved
bow and they swiftly boarded the seagoing vessel,
Telemakhos sitting astern and, seated beside him,
Theoklumenos. Men were loosening stern-lines.
Telemakhos rallied them all, telling his crewmen
to handle and work the tackle; they promptly obeyed him.
They hoisted the fir-wood mast to be stepped in its hollow
mast-block and made it stand steady with forestays.
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With twisted lines of ox-hide they hauled up the white sail.
Glow-eyed Athene sent them a following sea-wind,
driving swiftly across the sky to make for the fastest
run of the ship back home on the waves of the salt sea.
They passed the Krounoi and Khalkis, beautiful waters.
The sun went down and all the seaways were darkened.
They sailed near Pheai. A wind from Zeus was behind them,
they passed the brightness of Elis, ruled by Epeians.
From there they made for the islands that hurried to meet them,
wondering whether they’d run past death or be lost there.
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Back on Ithaka
Meanwhile Odysseus ate at the home of the godlike
swineherd with other work-friends sharing the good meal.
After the craving for food and drink was behind them,
Odysseus tested Eumaios, asking to find out
whether he’d still be kind: would he tell him to stay here
a while at his house? Or hurry him off to the city?
“Listen, Eumaios, and all the rest of you work-friends.
At dawn I’d like to wander off to the city
to beg and not be a drain on you here or your workmen.
Advise me well. Join me now with a good man
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to guide me there. Then I’ll need to wander the city
alone for gifts like a small wine-cup or wheat-bread.
I’d like to go to the house of godlike Odysseus
too with tidings for thought-full Penelopeia.
I know I’ll mingle there with overbearing suitors.
Let’s see if they offer me food—they have plenty of dishes.
I’d promptly work for them well, whatever they asked for,
because I can tell you—listen closely and hear me—
with help from Hermes the Guide, favoring all men’s
work by making it widely honored and well known,
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I say no one is better than I am at serving,
whether it’s chopping wood or making a good fire,
roasting and slicing meat or pouring the wine right—
all those jobs a poor man does for a great man.”
Don’t Go to the City
Deeply moved, Eumaios the swineherd, you answered,
“Ah, my guest, why is this thought in your mind here?
With all your heart you must be longing to die there
now if you’re bent on joining that party of suitors,
men whose pride and force have reached to the iron
sky. You’re hardly the kind who wait on the suitors.
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Young men dressing well in mantles and tunics
with always a shine on their foreheads and beautiful faces—
those are their waiters. All the tables are well shined,
weighed with plenty of meat, with bread and the best wines.
Stay here. Not one man is annoyed by your presence,
not I or any work-friend, the others who’ve joined me.
But soon as Odysseus’s well-loved son has arrived home,
he’ll dress you in clothes himself, both mantle and tunic.
He’ll send you wherever your heart and spirit are calling.”
One of the Dearest Men
Long-suffering, godlike Odysseus answered,
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“I pray, Eumaios, you’re just as dear to our Father
Zeus as to me: you’ve stopped my roaming and deep pain.
Nothing is worse for any man than to wander.
But men have wracking troubles because of their godless
bellies and oncoming pain, roving and sadness.
“Now that you’ve asked me to stay and wait for the young man,
come on and tell me: the mother of godlike Odysseus,
the father he left behind at the threshold of old age,
are they alive, by chance, under the rays of the Sun-God?
Or dead by now, gone down to the household of Aides?”
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Lost and Mourning Parents
A leader of men, the swineherd answered by saying,
“Well then, stranger, I’ll frankly tell you the whole truth.
Laertes goes on living. Yet he is always praying
to Zeus that life will drain from his limbs in his own house
because he’s mourned so hard for the son who is not there.
He mourned for a mind-full wife too: nothing distressed him
more than her death—too soon it made him an old man.
She’d also died mourning the highly praised Odysseus.
A heartsick death. No one should die in the same way
here at home as a friend showing he loves me.
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Long as the lady lived, for all of her sadness,
>
I often took some pleasure in asking her questions.
The woman had raised me herself along with a hardy
♦ daughter and youngest child, Ktimene, loving her long robes.
She raised and esteemed me barely less than her own child.
When both of us came to the early prime that we longed for
she gave her in marriage on Same, garnering countless
bride-gifts. She clothed me too in a mantle and tunic,
the handsomest wear. She gave me sandals and sent me
out to the field. She more than heartily loved me.
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A Lady Out of Touch
“Now I lack all that, however the blissful
Gods help me to thrive in the work I have charge of.
From Gods I get food and wine; I give to the poor ones.
There’s no good news, however, to hear from my lady,
no word or work since harm fell on her household—
those overbearing men. Yet slaves have a great need
to talk with their lady closely and hear about each thing,
enjoying her food and wine. They love carrying something
home to the field—that always warms the heart of a helper.”
Some Pleasure in Old Pain
An answer came from Odysseus, full of the best plans:
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“Look at how you were young, my swineherd Eumaios,
wandering off so far from your homeland and parents.
Come on now, tell me: answer me truly whether
♦ your people’s town with its wide roads was demolished,
the city your honored mother and father had lived in.
While you worked alone with cattle or fat sheep,
were you taken by cruel men to their ship? To your master’s
house to be sold? I’m sure he paid them a high price.”
An answer came from the swineherd, a leader of good men:
“Now that you press me, stranger, asking your questions,
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listen in silence. Sit with your wine and enjoy it.
These nights are vast as Gods, time for our sleeping,
time for the joy of listening. No one should lie down
before his time! Too much sleep can be tiring.
“You others now, if your hearts and spirits have said so,
go outside to sleep. Soon as the day breaks
enjoy your food, then herd the swine of our master.
We two will stay in the house, drinking and dining.
We’ll take some joy recalling the tales of each other’s
cares and sorrows. For men take pleasure in pain too
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after they’ve suffered often and wandered a great deal.
Gentle Deaths
“Now I’ll tell you this tale to answer your questions.
♦ An island called Surie—maybe you heard tell—
♦ north of Ortugie, lies where Helios recircles.
It’s not too densely crowded yet it’s a good land
for oxen, herds of sheep, lots of vineyards and grainfields.
Hunger never approaches that country, no other
hateful sickness falls on the poorest of those men.
Rather when people have grown too old in a city
Apollo arrives with a silver bow, Artemis joins him
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and both release their gentle arrows to kill them.
Two cities divide the whole island between them.
My Father Ktesios ruled both parts of the island—
a son of Ormenos, known to resemble the great Gods.
A Woman Beguiled
“Phoinikians came one day. Known for their sea-craft,
nibbling and thousands of baubles, they landed their black ship.
Now a Phoinikian woman, tall and lovely,
had lived in my Father’s house. Her skills were outstanding.
In time the very slyest Phoinikians beguiled her.
First a man made love to her close to the hollow
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ship where she washed—a move that spellbinds the female
mind as well—even the woman who acts right.
Then he asked her, ‘Who are you? Where did you come from?’
She promptly showed him the high-roofed house of my Father
but called bronze-rich Sidon her home and her birthplace.
‘I’m Arubas’s daughter,’ she said. ‘His wealth was like rivers.
But Taphian pirates dragged me off as I came back
home from a field. They brought me here and they sold me
to that man’s house. My master paid them a good price.’
“The man who’d made love to her secretly answered,
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‘How would you like to go, sail with us back home
to see the high-roofed house of your father and mother—
see them too? They’re alive, they’re known to be wealthy.’
A Robbery Plan
“But now the Phoinikian woman answered by asking,
‘That might well happen if all you crewmen were willing
