Wim Wenders and the Odyssey

230 min readMay 24, 2021

Wim wenders talks about a lot of things. One of these things is the Odyssey by Homer. (see below) In the novel, Homer Illustrates that Athena(male) was “stripping off with his massive hand”. This shows

“Odyssey

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This article is about Homer’s epic poem. For other uses, see Odyssey (disambiguation).

“Homer’s Odyssey” redirects here. For The Simpsons episode, see Homer’s Odyssey (The Simpsons).

Odyssey by Homer

15th-century manuscript of Book I written by scribe John Rhosos (British Museum)

Writtenc. 8th century BCELanguageHomeric GreekGenre(s)Epic poetryPublished in English1614Lines12,109Read online”Odyssey” at Wikisource Metre Dactylic hexameter

The Odyssey (/ˈɒdəsi/;[1] Greek: Ὀδύσσεια, Odýsseia, Attic Greek: [o.dýs.sej.ja]) is one of two major ancient Greek epic poems attributed to Homer. It is one of the oldest extant works of literature still read by contemporary audiences. As with the Iliad, the poem is divided into 24 books.[2] It follows the Greek hero Odysseus, king of Ithaca, and his journey home after the Trojan War. After the war itself, which lasted ten years, his journey lasts for ten additional years, during which time he encounters many perils and all his crewmates are killed. In his absence, Odysseus is assumed dead, and his wife Penelope and son Telemachus must contend with a group of unruly suitors who compete for Penelope’s hand in marriage.

The Odyssey was originally composed in Homeric Greek in around the 8th or 7th century BCE and, by the mid-6th century BCE, had become part of the Greek literary canon. In antiquity, Homer’s authorship of the poem was not questioned, but contemporary scholarship predominantly assumes that the Iliad and the Odyssey were composed independently, and the stories themselves formed as part of a long oral tradition. Given widespread illiteracy, the poem was performed by an aoidos or rhapsode, and more likely to be heard than read.

Crucial themes in the poem include the ideas of nostos (νόστος; “return”), wandering, xenia (ξενία; “guest-friendship”), testing, and omens. Scholars still reflect on the narrative significance of certain groups in the poem, such as women and slaves, who have a more prominent role in the epic than in many other works of ancient literature. This focus is especially remarkable when considered beside the Iliad, which centres the exploits of soldiers and kings during the Trojan War.

The Odyssey is regarded as one of the most significant works of the Western canon. The first English translation of the Odyssey was in the 16th century. Adaptations and re-imaginings continue to be produced across a wide variety of mediums. In 2018, when BBC Culture polled experts around the world to find literature’s most enduring narrative, the Odyssey topped the list.[3]

Synopsis

Exposition

A mosaic depicting Odysseus, from the villa of La Olmeda, Pedrosa de la Vega, Spain, late 4th–5th centuries AD

The Odyssey begins after the end of the ten-year Trojan War (the subject of the Iliad), from which Odysseus, king of Ithaca, has still not returned due to angering Poseidon, the god of the sea. Odysseus’ son, Telemachus, is about 20 years old and is sharing his absent father’s house on the island of Ithaca with his mother Penelope and “the Suitors,” a crowd of 108 boisterous young men who each aim to persuade Penelope for her hand in marriage, all the while reveling in the king’s palace and eating up his wealth.

Odysseus’ protectress, the goddess Athena, asks Zeus, king of the gods, to finally allow Odysseus to return home when Poseidon is absent from Mount Olympus. Then, disguised as a chieftain named Mentes, Athena visits Telemachus to urge him to search for news of his father. He offers her hospitality and they observe the suitors dining rowdily while Phemius, the bard, performs a narrative poem for them.

That night, Athena, disguised as Telemachus, finds a ship and crew for the true prince. The next morning, Telemachus calls an assembly of citizens of Ithaca to discuss what should be done with the insolent suitors, who then scoff at Telemachus. Accompanied by Athena (now disguised as Mentor), the son of Odysseus departs for the Greek mainland, to the household of Nestor, most venerable of the Greek warriors at Troy, who resided in Pylos after the war.

From there, Telemachus rides to Sparta, accompanied by Nestor’s son. There he finds Menelaus and Helen, who are now reconciled. Both Helen and Menelaus also say that they returned to Sparta after a long voyage by way of Egypt. There, on the island of Pharos, Menelaus encounters the old sea-god Proteus, who told him that Odysseus was a captive of the nymph Calypso. Telemachus learns the fate of Menelaus’ brother, Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and leader of the Greeks at Troy: he was murdered on his return home by his wife Clytemnestra and her lover Aegisthus. The story briefly shifts to the suitors, who have only just now realized that Telemachus is gone. Angry, they formulate a plan to ambush his ship and kill him as he sails back home. Penelope overhears their plot and worries for her son’s safety.

Escape to the Phaeacians

Charles Gleyre, Odysseus and Nausicaä

In the course of Odysseus’ seven years as a captive of the goddess Calypso on an island (Ogygia), she has fallen deeply in love with him, even though he spurns her offers of immortality as her husband and still mourns for home. She is ordered to release him by the messenger god Hermes, who has been sent by Zeus in response to Athena’s plea. Odysseus builds a raft and is given clothing, food, and drink by Calypso. When Poseidon learns that Odysseus has escaped, he wrecks the raft but, helped by a veil given by the sea nymph Ino, Odysseus swims ashore on Scherie, the island of the Phaeacians. Naked and exhausted, he hides in a pile of leaves and falls asleep.

The next morning, awakened by girls’ laughter, he sees the young Nausicaä, who has gone to the seashore with her maids after Athena told her in a dream to do so. He appeals for help. She encourages him to seek the hospitality of her parents, Arete and Alcinous. Alcinous promises to provide him a ship to return him home, without knowing who Odysseus is.

He remains for several days. Odysseus asks the blind singer Demodocus to tell the story of the Trojan Horse, a stratagem in which Odysseus had played a leading role. Unable to hide his emotion as he relives this episode, Odysseus at last reveals his identity. He then tells the story of his return from Troy.

Odysseus’ account of his adventures

Odysseus Overcome by Demodocus’ Song, by Francesco Hayez, 1813–15

Odysseus recounts his story to the Phaeacians. After a failed raid, Odysseus and his twelve ships were driven off course by storms. Odysseus visited the lotus-eaters who gave his men their fruit that caused them to forget their homecoming. Odysseus had to drag them back to the ship by force.

Afterwards, Odysseus and his men landed on a lush, uninhabited island near the land of the Cyclopes. The men then landed on shore and entered the cave of Polyphemus, where they found all the cheeses and meat they desired. Upon returning home, Polyphemus sealed the entrance with a massive boulder and proceeded to eat Odysseus’ men. Odysseus devised an escape plan in which he, identifying himself as “Nobody,” plied Polyphemus with wine and blinded him with a wooden stake. When Polyphemus cried out, his neighbors left after Polyphemus claimed that “Nobody” had attacked him. Odysseus and his men finally escaped the cave by hiding on the underbellies of the sheep as they were let out of the cave.

As they escaped, however, Odysseus, taunting Polyphemus, revealed himself. The Cyclops prays to his father Poseidon, asking him to curse Odysseus to wander for ten years. After the escape, Aeolus gave Odysseus a leather bag containing all the winds, except the west wind, a gift that should have ensured a safe return home. Just as Ithaca came into sight, the sailors opened the bag while Odysseus slept, thinking it contained gold. The winds flew out and the storm drove the ships back the way they had come. Aeolus, recognizing that Odysseus has drawn the ire of the gods, refused to further assist him.

After the cannibalistic Laestrygonians destroyed all of his ships except his own, he sailed on and reached the island of Aeaea, home of witch-goddess Circe. She turned half of his men into swine with drugged cheese and wine. Hermes warned Odysseus about Circe and gave Odysseus an herb called moly, making him resistant to Circe’s magic. Odysseus forced Circe to change his men back to their human form, and was seduced by her.

They remained with her for one year. Finally, guided by Circe’s instructions, Odysseus and his crew crossed the ocean and reached a harbor at the western edge of the world, where Odysseus sacrificed to the dead. Odysseus summoned the spirit of the prophet Tiresias and was told that he may return home if he is able to stay himself and his crew from eating the sacred livestock of Helios on the island of Thrinacia and that failure to do so would result in the loss of his ship and his entire crew. For Odysseus’ encounter with the dead, see Nekuia.

Odysseus and the Sirens, eponymous vase of the Siren Painter, c. 480–470 BC (British Museum)

Returning to Aeaea, they buried Elpenor and were advised by Circe on the remaining stages of the journey. They skirted the land of the Sirens. All of the sailors had their ears plugged up with beeswax, except for Odysseus, who was tied to the mast as he wanted to hear the song. He told his sailors not to untie him as it would only make him drown himself. They then passed between the six-headed monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis. Scylla claims six of his men.

Next, they landed on the island of Thrinacia, with the crew overriding Odysseus’s wishes to remain away from the island. Zeus caused a storm which prevented them leaving, causing them to deplete the food given to them by Circe. While Odysseus was away praying, his men ignored the warnings of Tiresias and Circe and hunted the sacred cattle of Helios. The Sun God insisted that Zeus punish the men for this sacrilege. They suffered a shipwreck and all but Odysseus drowned. Odysseus clung to a fig tree. Washed ashore on Ogygia, he remained there as Calypso’s lover.

Return to Ithaca

Athena Revealing Ithaca to Ulysses by Giuseppe Bottani (18th century)

Having listened to his story, the Phaeacians agree to provide Odysseus with more treasure than he would have received from the spoils of Troy. They deliver him at night, while he is fast asleep, to a hidden harbour on Ithaca.

Odysseus awakens and believes that he has been dropped on a distant land before Athena appears to him and reveals that he is indeed on Ithaca. She hides his treasure in a nearby cave and disguises him as an elderly beggar so he can see how things stand in his household. He finds his way to the hut of one of his own slaves, swineherd Eumaeus, who treats him hospitably and speaks favorably of Odysseus. After dinner, the disguised Odysseus tells the farm laborers a fictitious tale of himself.

Telemachus sails home from Sparta, evading an ambush set by the Suitors. He disembarks on the coast of Ithaca and meets Odysseus. Odysseus identifies himself to Telemachus (but not to Eumaeus), and they decide that the Suitors must be killed. Telemachus goes home first. Accompanied by Eumaeus, Odysseus returns to his own house, still pretending to be a beggar. He is ridiculed by the Suitors in his own home, especially Antinous. Odysseus meets Penelope and tests her intentions by saying he once met Odysseus in Crete. Closely questioned, he adds that he had recently been in Thesprotia and had learned something there of Odysseus’s recent wanderings.

Odysseus’s identity is discovered by the housekeeper, Eurycleia, when she recognizes an old scar as she is washing his feet. Eurycleia tries to tell Penelope about the beggar’s true identity, but Athena makes sure that Penelope cannot hear her. Odysseus swears Eurycleia to secrecy.

Slaying of the Suitors

Ulysses and Telemachus kill Penelope’s Suitors by Thomas Degeorge (1812)

The next day, at Athena’s prompting, Penelope maneuvers the Suitors into competing for her hand with an archery competition using Odysseus’ bow. The man who can string the bow and shoot an arrow through a dozen axe heads would win. Odysseus takes part in the competition himself: he alone is strong enough to string the bow and shoot the arrow through the dozen axe heads, making him the winner. He then throws off his rags and kills Antinous with his next arrow. Odysseus kills the other Suitors, first using the rest of the arrows and then by swords and spears once both sides armed themselves. Once the battle is won, Telemachus also hangs twelve of their household maids whom Eurycleia identifies as guilty of betraying Penelope or having sex with the Suitors. Odysseus identifies himself to Penelope. She is hesitant but recognizes him when he mentions that he made their bed from an olive tree still rooted to the ground.

Structure

The Odyssey is 12,109 lines composed in dactylic hexameter, also called Homeric hexameter.[4][5] It opens in medias res, in the middle of the overall story, with prior events described through flashbacks and storytelling.[6] The 24 books correspond to the letters of the Greek alphabet; the division was likely made after the poem’s composition by someone other than Homer, but is generally accepted.[7]

In the Classical period, some of the books (individually and in groups) were commonly given their own titles:

Book 1–4: Telemachy — the story focuses on the perspective of Telemachus.[8]
Books 9–21: Apologoi — Odysseus recalls his adventures for his Phaeacian hosts.[9]
Book 22: Mnesterophonia (‘slaughter of the suitors’; Mnesteres, ‘suitors’ + phónos, ‘slaughter’).[10]

Book 22 concludes the Greek Epic Cycle, though fragments remain of the “alternative ending” of sorts known as the Telegony. The Telegony aside, the last 548 lines of the Odyssey, corresponding to Book 24, are believed by many scholars to have been added by a slightly later poet.[11]

Geography

Main articles: Homer’s Ithaca and Geography of the Odyssey

The events in the main sequence of the Odyssey (excluding Odysseus’ embedded narrative of his wanderings) have been said to take place in the Peloponnese and in what are now called the Ionian Islands.[12] There are difficulties in the apparently simple identification of Ithaca, the homeland of Odysseus, which may or may not be the same island that is now called Ithakē (modern Greek: Ιθάκη).[13] The wanderings of Odysseus as told to the Phaeacians, and the location of the Phaeacians’ own island of Scheria, pose more fundamental problems, if geography is to be applied: scholars, both ancient and modern, are divided as to whether or not any of the places visited by Odysseus (after Ismaros and before his return to Ithaca) are real.[14] Both antiquated and contemporary scholars have attempted to map Odysseus’ journey, but now largely agree that the landscapes, especially of the Apologia (Books 9 to 11), include too many mythological aspects as features to be uncontroversially mappable.[15] Classicist Peter T. Struck created an interactive map which plots Odysseus’ travels,[16] including his near homecoming which was thwarted by the bag of wind.[15]

Influences

Terracotta plaque of the Mesopotamian ogre Humbaba, believed to be a possible inspiration for the figure of Polyphemus

Scholars have seen strong influences from Near Eastern mythology and literature in the Odyssey.[17] Martin West notes substantial parallels between the Epic of Gilgamesh and the Odyssey.[18] Both Odysseus and Gilgamesh are known for traveling to the ends of the earth, and on their journeys go to the land of the dead.[19] On his voyage to the underworld, Odysseus follows instructions given to him by Circe, whose is located at the edges of the world and is associated through imagery with the sun.[20] Like Odysseus, Gilgamesh gets directions on how to reach the land of the dead from a divine helper: the goddess Siduri, who, like Circe, dwells by the sea at the ends of the earth, whose home is also associated with the sun. Gilgamesh reaches Siduri’s house by passing through a tunnel underneath Mt. Mashu, the high mountain from which the sun comes into the sky.[21] West argues that the similarity of Odysseus’ and Gilgamesh’s journeys to the edges of the earth are the result of the influence of the Gilgamesh epic upon the Odyssey.[22]

In 1914, paleontologist Othenio Abel surmised the origins of the Cyclops to be the result of ancient Greeks finding an elephant skull.[23] The enormous nasal passage in the middle of the forehead could have looked like the eye socket of a giant, to those who had never seen a living elephant.[23] Classical scholars, on the other hand, have long known that the story of the Cyclops was originally a folk tale, which existed independently of the Odyssey and which became part of it at a later date. Similar stories are found in cultures across Europe and the Middle East.[24]:127–31 According to this explanation, the Cyclops was originally simply a giant or ogre, much like Humbaba in the Epic of Gilgamesh.[24]:127–31 Graham Anderson suggests that the addition about it having only one eye was invented to explain how the creature was so easily blinded.[24]:124–5

Themes and patterns

Homecoming

Odissea (1794)

Homecoming (Ancient Greek: νόστος, nostos) is a central theme of the Odyssey.[25] Anna Bonafazi of the University of Cologne writes that, in Homer, nostos is “return home from Troy, by sea”.[25]

Agatha Thornton examines nostos in the context of characters other than Odysseus, in order to provide an alternative for what might happen after the end of the Odyssey.[26] For instance, one example is that of Agamemnon’s homecoming versus Odysseus’. Upon Agamemnon’s return, his wife Clytemnestra and her lover, Aegisthus kill Agamemnon. Agamemnon’s son, Orestes, out of vengeance for his father’s death, kills Aegisthus. This parallel compares the death of the suitors to the death of Aegisthus and sets Orestes up as an example for Telemachus.[26] Also, because Odysseus knows about Clytemnestra’s betrayal, Odysseus returns home in disguise in order to test the loyalty of his own wife, Penelope.[26] Later, Agamemnon praises Penelope for not killing Odysseus. It is because of Penelope that Odysseus has fame and a successful homecoming. This successful homecoming is unlike Achilles, who has fame but is dead, and Agamemnon, who had an unsuccessful homecoming resulting in his death.[26]

Wandering

Only two of Odysseus’s adventures are described by the narrator. The rest of Odysseus’ adventures are recounted by Odysseus himself. The two scenes described by the narrator are Odysseus on Calypso’s island and Odysseus’ encounter with the Phaeacians. These scenes are told by the poet to represent an important transition in Odysseus’ journey: being concealed to returning home.[27]

Calypso’s name comes from the Greek word kalúptō (καλύπτω), meaning ‘to cover’ or ‘conceal’, which is apt, as this is exactly what she does with Odysseus.[28] Calypso keeps Odysseus concealed from the world and unable to return home. After leaving Calypso’s island, the poet describes Odysseus’ encounters with the Phaeacians — those who “convoy without hurt to all men”[29] — which represents his transition from not returning home to returning home.[27] Also, during Odysseus’ journey, he encounters many beings that are close to the gods. These encounters are useful in understanding that Odysseus is in a world beyond man and that influences the fact he cannot return home.[27] These beings that are close to the gods include the Phaeacians who lived near the Cyclopes,[30] whose king, Alcinous, is the great-grandson of the king of the giants, Eurymedon, and the grandson of Poseidon.[27] Some of the other characters that Odysseus encounters are the cyclops Polyphemus, the son of Poseidon; Circe, a sorceress who turns men into animals; and the cannibalistic giants, the Laestrygonians.[27]

Guest-friendship

Throughout the course of the epic, Odysseus encounters several examples of xenia (“guest-friendship”), which provide models of how hosts should and should not act.[31][32] The Phaeacians demonstrate exemplary guest-friendship by feeding Odysseus, giving him a place to sleep, and granting him many gifts and a safe voyage home, which are all things a good host should do. Polyphemus demonstrates poor guest-friendship. His only “gift” to Odysseus is that he will eat him last.[32] Calypso also exemplifies poor guest-friendship because she does not allow Odysseus to leave her island.[32] Another important factor to guest-friendship is that kingship implies generosity. It is assumed that a king has the means to be a generous host and is more generous with his own property.[32] This is best seen when Odysseus, disguised as a beggar, begs Antinous, one of the suitors, for food and Antinous denies his request. Odysseus essentially says that while Antinous may look like a king, he is far from a king since he is not generous.[33]

According to J. B. Hainsworth, guest-friendship follows a very specific pattern:[34]

The arrival and the reception of the guest.
Bathing or providing fresh clothes to the guest.
Providing food and drink to the guest.
Questions may be asked of the guest and entertainment should be provided by the host.
The guest should be given a place to sleep, and both the guest and host retire for the night.
The guest and host exchange gifts, the guest is granted a safe journey home, and the guest departs.

Another important factor of guest-friendship is not keeping the guest longer than they wish and also promising their safety while they are a guest within the host’s home.[31][35]

Testing

Penelope questions Odysseus to prove his identity.

Another theme throughout the Odyssey is testing.[36] This occurs in two distinct ways. Odysseus tests the loyalty of others and others test Odysseus’ identity. An example of Odysseus testing the loyalties of others is when he returns home.[36] Instead of immediately revealing his identity, he arrives disguised as a beggar and then proceeds to determine who in his house has remained loyal to him and who has helped the suitors. After Odysseus reveals his true identity, the characters test Odysseus’ identity to see if he really is who he says he is.[36] For instance, Penelope tests Odysseus’ identity by saying that she will move the bed into the other room for him. This is a difficult task since it is made out of a living tree that would require being cut down, a fact that only the real Odysseus would know, thus proving his identity. For more information on the progression of testing type scenes, read more below.[36]

Testing also has a very specific type scene that accompanies it. Throughout the epic, the testing of others follows a typical pattern. This pattern is:[36][35]

Odysseus is hesitant to question the loyalties of others.
Odysseus tests the loyalties of others by questioning them.
The characters reply to Odysseus’ questions.
Odysseus proceeds to reveal his identity.
The characters test Odysseus’ identity.
There is a rise of emotions associated with Odysseus’ recognition, usually lament or joy.
Finally, the reconciled characters work together.

Omens

Odysseus and Eurycleia by Christian Gottlob Heyne

Omens occur frequently throughout the Odyssey. Within the epic poem, they frequently involve birds.[37] According to Thornton, most crucial is who receives each omen and in what way it manifests. For instance, bird omens are shown to Telemachus, Penelope, Odysseus, and the suitors.[37] Telemachus and Penelope receive their omens as well in the form of words, sneezes, and dreams.[37] However, Odysseus is the only character who receives thunder or lightning as an omen.[38][39] She highlights this as crucial because lightning, as a symbol of Zeus, represents the kingship of Odysseus.[37] Odysseus is associated with Zeus throughout both the Iliad and the Odyssey.[40]

Omens are another example of a type scene in the Odyssey. Two important parts of an omen type scene are the recognition of the omen, followed by its interpretation.[37] In the Odyssey, all of the bird omens — with the exception of the first — show large birds attacking smaller birds.[37][35] Accompanying each omen is a wish which can be either explicitly stated or only implied.[37] For example, Telemachus wishes for vengeance[41] and for Odysseus to be home,[42] Penelope wishes for Odysseus’ return,[43] and the suitors wish for the death of Telemachus.[44]

Textual history

Composition

The date of the poem is a matter of serious disagreement among classicists. In the middle of the 8th century BCE, the inhabitants of Greece began to adopt a modified version of the Phoenician alphabet to write down their own language.[45] The Homeric poems may have been one of the earliest products of that literacy, and if so, would have been composed some time in the late 8th century.[46] Inscribed on a clay cup found in Ischia, Italy, are the words “Nestor’s cup, good to drink from.”[47] Some scholars, such as Calvert Watkins, have tied this cup to a description of King Nestor’s golden cup in the Iliad.[48] If the cup is an allusion to the Iliad, that poem’s composition can be dated to at least 700–750 BCE.[45]

Dating is similarly complicated by the fact that the Homeric poems, or sections of them, were performed regularly by rhapsodes for several hundred years.[45] The Odyssey as it exists today is likely not significantly different.[46] Aside from minor differences, the Homeric poems gained a canonical place in the institutions of ancient Athens by the 6th century.[49] In 566 BCE, Peisistratos instituted a civic and religious festival called the Panathenaia, which featured performances of Homeric poems.[49] These are significant because a “correct” version of the poems had to be performed, indicating that a particular version of the text had become canonised.[50]

Textual tradition

Portrait by the Italian painter Domenico Ghirlandaio of the Greek Renaissance scholar Demetrios Chalkokondyles, who produced the first printed edition of the Odyssey in 1488

The Iliad and the Odyssey were widely copied and used as school texts in lands where the Greek language was spoken throughout antiquity.[51][52] Scholars may have begun to write commentaries on the poems as early as the time of Aristotle in the 4th century BCE.[51] In the 3rd and 2nd centuries BCE, scholars affiliated with the Library of Alexandria — particularly Zenodotus of Ephesus and Aristarchus of Samothrace — edited the Homeric poems, wrote commentaries on them, and helped establish the canonical texts.[53]

The Iliad and the Odyssey remained widely studied and used as school texts in the Byzantine Empire during the Middle Ages.[51][52] The Byzantine Greek scholar and archbishop Eustathios of Thessalonike (c. 1115–1195/6 CE) wrote exhaustive commentaries on both of the Homeric epics that became seen by later generations as authoritative;[51][52] his commentary on the Odyssey alone spans nearly 2,000 oversized pages in a twentieth-century edition.[51] The first printed edition of the Odyssey, known as the editio princeps, was produced in 1488 by the Greek scholar Demetrios Chalkokondyles, who had been born in Athens and had studied in Constantinople.[51][52] His edition was printed in Milan by a Greek printer named Antonios Damilas.[52]

Since the late 19th century, many papyri containing parts or even entire chapters of the Odyssey have been found in Egypt, with content different from later medieval versions.[54] In 2018, the Greek Cultural Ministry revealed the discovery of a clay tablet near the Temple of Zeus, containing 13 verses from the Odyssey’s 14th Rhapsody to Eumaeus. While it was initially reported to date from the 3rd century AD, the date still needs to be confirmed.[55][56]

English translations

Influence

Front cover of James Joyce’s Ulysses

The influence of the Homeric texts can be difficult to summarise because of how greatly they have impacted the popular imagination and cultural values.[61] The Odyssey and the Iliad formed the basis of education for members of ancient Mediterranean society. That curriculum was adopted by Western humanists,[62] meaning the text was so much a part of the cultural fabric that it became irrelevant whether an individual had read it.[63] As such, the influence of the Odyssey has reverberated through over a millennium of writing. The poem topped a poll of experts by BBC Culture to find literature’s most enduring narrative.[3][64] It is widely regarded by western literary critics as a timeless classic,[65] and remains one of the oldest works of extant literature commonly read by Western audiences.[66]

Literature

In Canto XXVI of the Inferno, Dante Alighieri meets Odysseus in the eighth circle of hell, where Odysseus himself appends a new ending to the Odyssey in which he never returns to Ithaca and instead continues his restless adventuring.[23] Edith Hall suggests that Dante’s depiction of Ulysses became understood as a manifestation of Renaissance colonialism and othering, with the cyclops standing in for “accounts of monstrous races on the edge of the world”, and his defeat as symbolising “the Roman domination of the western Mediterranean”.[31]

Irish poet James Joyce’s modernist novel Ulysses (1922) was significantly influenced by the Odyssey. Joyce had encountered the figure of Odysseus in Charles Lamb’s Adventures of Ulysses, an adaptation of the epic poem for children, which seems to have established the Latin name in Joyce’s mind.[67][68] Ulysses, a re-telling of the Odyssey set in Dublin, is divided into 18 sections (“episodes”) which can be mapped roughly onto the 24 books of the Odyssey.[69] Joyce claimed familiarity with the original Homeric Greek, but this has been disputed by some scholars, who cite his poor grasp of the language as evidence to the contrary.[70] The book, and especially its stream of consciousness prose, is widely considered foundational to the modernist genre.[71]

Modern writers have revisited the Odyssey to highlight the poem’s female characters. Canadian writer Margaret Atwood adapted parts of the Odyssey for her novella, The Penelopiad (2000). The novella focuses on Odysseus’ wife, Penelope,[72] and the twelve female slaves hanged by Odysseus at the poem’s ending, an image which haunted her.[73] Atwood’s novella comments on the original text, wherein Odysseus’ successful return to Ithaca symbolises the restoration of a patriarchal system.[73] Similarly, Madeline Miller’s Circe (2018) revisits the relationship between Odysseus and Circe on Aeaea.[74] As a reader, Miller was frustrated by Circe’s lack of motivation in the original poem, and sought to explain her capriciousness.[75] The novel recontextualises the sorceress’ transformations of sailors into pigs from an act of malice into one of self-defence, given that she has no superhuman strength with which to repel attackers.[76]

Film and television adaptations

Ulysses (1954) is a film adaptation starring Kirk Douglas as Ulysses, Silvana Mangano as Penelope and Circe, and Anthony Quinn as Antinous.[77]
L’Odissea (1968) is an Italian-French-German-Yugoslavian television miniseries praised for its faithful rendering of the original epic.[78]
Ulysses 31 (1981) is a Japanese-French anime that updates the ancient setting into a 31st-century space opera.
Nostos: The Return (1989) is an Italian film about Odysseus’ homecoming. Directed by Franco Piavoli, it relies on visual storytelling and has a strong focus on nature.[79]
Ulysses’ Gaze (1995), directed by Theo Angelopoulos, has many of the elements of the Odyssey set against the backdrop of the most recent and previous Balkan Wars.[80]
The Odyssey (1997) is a television miniseries directed by Andrei Konchalovsky and starring Armand Assante as Odysseus and Greta Scacchi as Penelope.[81]
O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000) is a crime comedy-drama film written, produced, co-edited and directed by the Coen Brothers, and is very loosely based on Homer’s poem.[82]

Opera and music

Il ritorno d’Ulisse in patria, first performed in 1640, is an opera by Claudio Monteverdi based on the second half of Homer’s Odyssey.[83]
Rolf Riehm composed an opera based on the myth, Sirenen — Bilder des Begehrens und des Vernichtens (Sirens — Images of Desire and Destruction) which premiered at the Oper Frankfurt in 2014.[84]
Robert W. Smith’s second symphony for concert band, The Odyssey, tells four of the main highlights of the story in the piece’s four movements: The Iliad, The Winds of Poseidon, The Isle of Calypso, and Ithaca.[85]

References

Citations

^ “Odyssey”. Random House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. Archived from the original on 2016–02–29.
^ “Odyssey”. Britannica.
^ Jump up to:a b Haynes, Natalie. “The greatest tale ever told?”. BBC.com/culture. Archivedfrom the original on 2020–06–19.
^ Myrsiades, Kostas (2019). “1. Telemachus’ Journey (Od 1–4)”. Reading Homer’s Odyssey. Rutgers University Press. ISBN 9781684481361. […] is a long oral narrative poem of 12,109 lines
^ Haslam, M. W. (1976). “Homeric Words and Homeric Metre: Two Doublets Examined (λείβω/εϊβω, γαΐα/αία)”. Glotta. 54 (3/4): 203. ISSN 0017–1298. JSTOR 40266365.
^ Foley, John Miles (2007). “”Reading” Homer through Oral Tradition”. College Literature. 34 (2): 1–28. ISSN 0093–3139. JSTOR 25115419.
^ Lattimore, Richmond (1951). The Iliad of Homer. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. p. 14.
^ Willcock, Malcolm L. (1976). A Companion to The Iliad: Based on the Translation by Richard Lattimore (2007 ed.). New York: Phoenix Books. p. 32. ISBN 978–0226898551.
^ Most, Glenn W. (1989). “The Structure and Function of Odysseus’ Apologoi”. Transactions of the American Philological Association (1974–). 119: 15–30. doi:10.2307/284257. JSTOR 284257.
^ Cairns, Douglas (2014). Defining Greek Narrative. Edinburgh University Press. p. 231. ISBN 9780748680108.
^ Carne-Ross, D. S. (1998). “The Poem of Odysseus.” In The Odyssey, translated by R. Fitzgerald. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. ISBN 978–0–374–52574–3. p. ixi.
^ Strabo, Geographica, 1.2.15, as cited in Finley, Moses. 1976. The World of Odysseus (revised ed.). p. 33.
^ Strabo, Geographica, 1.2.15, cited in Finley, Moses. 1976. The World of Odysseus(revised ed.). p. 33.
^ Lane (2008) summarizes the literature in notes and bibliography. Fox, Robin Lane. 2008. “Finding Neverland.” In Travelling Heroes in the Epic Age of Homer.
^ Jump up to:a b “The Geography of the Odyssey | Elizabeth Della Zazzera”. Lapham’s Quarterly. Archived from the original on 2020–10–08.
^ Struck, Peter T. “Map of Odysseus’ Journey”. www.classics.upenn.edu. Archived from the original on March 18, 2020.
^ West, Martin (1997). The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford. p. 403.
^ West, Martin (1997). The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford. 402–17.
^ West, Martin (1997). The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford. p. 405.
^ West, Martin (1997). The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford. p. 406.
^ West, Martin (1997). The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford. 410.
^ West, Martin (1997). The East Face of Helicon: West Asiatic Elements in Greek Poetry and Myth. Oxford. p. 417.
^ Jump up to:a b c Mayor, Adrienne (2000). The First Fossil Hunters: Paleontology in Greek and Roman Times. Princeton University Press.
^ Jump up to:a b c Anderson, Graham (2000). Fairytale in the Ancient World. Routledge. pp. 127–31. ISBN 978–0–415–23702–4.
^ Jump up to:a b Bonifazi, Anna (2009). “Inquiring into Nostos and Its Cognates”. The American Journal of Philology. 130 (4): 481–510. ISSN 0002–9475. JSTOR 20616206.
^ Jump up to:a b c d Thornton, Agathe (1970). “The Homecomings of the Achaeans.” Pp. 1–15 in People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey. Dunedin: University of Otago with London: Methuen.
^ Jump up to:a b c d e Thornton, Agathe (1970). “The Wanderings of Odysseus.” Pp. 16–37 in People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey. Dunedin: University of Otago with London: Methuen.
^ “Calypso and Odysseus Archived 2016–05–02 at the Wayback Machine.” Greek Myths & Greek Mythology (2010). Retrieved 5 May 2020.
^ Homer, Odyssey, 8.566. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Homer, Odyssey 6.4–5. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Jump up to:a b c Reece, Steve. 1993. The Stranger’s Welcome: Oral Theory and the Aesthetics of the Homeric Hospitality Scene. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.
^ Jump up to:a b c d Thornton, Agathe (1970). “Guest-Friendship.” Pp. 38–46 in People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey. Dunedin: University of Otago with London: Methuen.
^ Homer, Odyssey, 17.415–44. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Hainsworth, J. B. (December 1972). “The Odyssey — Agathe Thornton: People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey. Pp. xv+163. London: Methuen, 1970. Cloth, £2·40”. The Classical Review. 22 (3): 320–321. doi:10.1017/s0009840x00996720. ISSN 0009–840X.
^ Jump up to:a b c Edwards, Mark W. 1992. “Homer and the Oral Tradition.” Oral Tradition7(2):284–330.
^ Jump up to:a b c d e Thornton, Agathe (1970). “Testing.” Pp. 47–51 in People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey. Dunedin: University of Otago with London: Methuen.
^ Jump up to:a b c d e f g Thornton, Agathe (1970). “Omens.” Pp. 52–57 in People and Themes in Homer’s Odyssey. Dunedin: University of Otago with London: Methuen.
^ Homer, Odyssey 20.103–4. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Homer, Odyssey 21.414. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Kundmueller, Michelle (2013). “Following Odysseus Home: an Exploration of the Politics of Honor and Family in the Iliad, Odyssey, and Plato’s Republic”. American Political Science. Rochester, NY: 7. SSRN 2301247
^ Homer, Odyssey 2.143–5. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Homer, Odyssey 15.155–9. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Homer, Odyssey 19.136. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Homer, Odyssey 20.240–43. (Lattimore 1975)
^ Jump up to:a b c Wilson, Emily (2018). “Introduction: When Was The Odyssey Composed?”. The Odyssey. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. p. 21. ISBN 978–0393089059.
^ Jump up to:a b Wilson, Emily (2018). “Introduction: When Was The Odyssey Composed?”. The Odyssey. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. p. 23. ISBN 978–0393089059.
^ “From carnage to a camp beauty contest: the endless allure of Troy”. the Guardian. 2019–11–13. Archived from the original on 2020–01–09.
^ Watkins, Calvert (1976). “Observations on the “Nestor’s Cup” Inscription”. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology. 80: 25–40. doi:10.2307/311231. ISSN 0073–0688. JSTOR 311231.
^ Jump up to:a b Davison, J. A. (1955). “Peisistratus and Homer”. Transactions and Proceedings of the American Philological Association. 86: 1–21. doi:10.2307/283605. ISSN 0065–9711. JSTOR 283605.
^ Wilson, Emily (2018). “Introduction: When Was The Odyssey Composed?”. The Odyssey. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. p. 21. “In 566 BCE, Pisistratus, the tyrant of the city (which was not yet a democracy), instituted a civic and religious festival, the Panathenaia, which included a poetic competition, featuring performances of the Homeric poems. The institution is particularly significant because we are told that the Homeric poems had to be performed “correctly,” which implies the canonization of a particular written text of The Iliad and The Odyssey at this date.”
^ Jump up to:a b c d e f g Lamberton, Robert (2010). “Homer”. In Grafton, Anthony; Most, Glenn W.; Settis, Salvatore (eds.). The Classical Tradition. Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, England: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. pp. 449–452. ISBN 978–0–674–03572–0.
^ Jump up to:a b c d e Browning, Robert (1992). “The Byzantines and Homer”. In Lamberton, Robert; Keaney, John J. (eds.). Homer’s Ancient Readers: The Hermeneutics of Greek Epic’s Earliest Exegetes. Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press. pp. 134–148. ISBN 978–0–6916–5627–4.
^ Haslam, Michael (2012). “Text and Transmission”. The Homer Encyclopedia. doi:10.1002/9781444350302.wbhe1413. ISBN 978–1405177689.
^ “Oldest Greek Fragment of Homer Discovered on Clay Tablet”. Smithonian. 2018. Archived from the original on 2019–01–23.
^ Tagaris, Karolina (July 10, 2018). Heavens, Andrew (ed.). “‘Oldest known extract’ of Homer’s Odyssey discovered in Greece”. Reuters. Archived from the original on March 24, 2019.
^ “Homer Odyssey: Oldest extract discovered on clay tablet”. BBC. July 10, 2018. Archived from the original on September 1, 2020.
^ Wilson, Emily (2017–07–07). “Found in translation: how women are making the classics their own”. The Guardian. ISSN 0261–3077. Archived from the original on 2020–07–29.
^ Wilson, Emily (2017–07–07). “Found in translation: how women are making the classics their own”. the Guardian. Archived from the original on 2020–07–29.
^ Jump up to:a b Wilson, Emily (2018). The Odyssey. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. p. 86. ISBN 978–0393356250. For instance, in the scene where Telemachus oversees the hanging of the slaves who have been sleeping with the suitors, most translations introduce derogatory language (“sluts” or “whores”), suggesting that these women are being punished for a genuinely objectionable pattern of behavior, as if their sexual history actually justified their deaths. The original Greek does not label these slaves with any derogatory language. Many contemporary translators render Helen’s “dog-face” as if it were equivalent to “shameless Helen” (or “Helen the bitch”). I have kept the metaphor (“hounded”), and have also made sure that my Helen, like that of the original, refrains from blaming herself for what men have done in her name.
^ Wilson, Emily (December 8, 2017). “A Translator’s Reckoning With the Women of The Odyssey”. The New Yorker. Archived from the original on 2020–08–06.
^ Kenner, Hugh (1971). The Pound Era. University of California Press. p. 50.
^ Hall, Edith (2008). The Return of Ulysses: A Cultural History of Homer’s Odyssey. New York: I. B. Tauris & Co. p. 25. ISBN 978–1–84511–575–3. The two Homeric epics formed the basis of the education of every- one in ancient Mediterranean society from at least the seventh century BCE; that curriculum was in turn adopted by Western humanists.
^ Ruskin, John (1868). The Mystery of Life and its Arts. Cambridge University Press. All Greek gentlemen were educated under Homer. All Roman gentlemen, by Greek literature. All Italian, and French, and English gentlemen, by Roman literature, and by its principles.
^ Bahr, Arthur. “Foundation of Western Literature”. MIT Open Courseware. Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Archived from the original on 6 November 2016.
^ Cartwright, Mark. “Odyssey”. World History Encyclopedia. Archived from the original on 4 July 2017.
^ North, Anna (2017–11–20). “Historically, men translated the Odyssey. Here’s what happened when a woman took the job”. Vox. Archived from the original on 2020–06–27.
^ Gorman (1939), p. 45.
^ Jaurretche, Colleen (2005). Beckett, Joyce and the art of the negative. European Joyce studies. 16. Rodopi. p. 29. ISBN 978–90–420–1617–0.
^ “Ulysses”, The Oxford Companion to English Literature (1995), edited Margaret Drabble. Oxford UP, 1996, p. 1023
^ Ames, Keri Elizabeth (2005). “Joyce’s Aesthetic of the Double Negative and His Encounters with Homer’s “Odyssey””. European Joyce Studies. 16: 15–48. ISSN 0923–9855. JSTOR 44871207 — via JSTOR. First of all, Joyce did own and read Homer in the original Greek, but his expertise was so minimal that he cannot justly be said to have known Homer in the original. Any typical young classical scholar in the second year of studying Greek would already possess more faculty with Homer than Joyce ever managed to achieve.
^ The Bloomsbury Guides to English Literature: The Twentieth Century, ed. Linda R. Williams. London: Bloomsbury, 1992, pp. 108–109.
^ Beard, Mary (2005–10–28). “Review: Helen of Troy | Weight | The Penelopiad | Songs on Bronze”. The Guardian. ISSN 0261–3077. Archived from the original on 2016–03–26.
^ Jump up to:a b “Margaret Atwood: A personal odyssey and how she rewrote Homer”. The Independent. 2005–10–28. Archived from the original on 2020–07–07.
^ “Circe by Madeline Miller review — myth, magic and single motherhood”. the Guardian. 2018–04–21. Archived from the original on 2020–06–14.
^ “‘Circe’ Gets A New Motivation”. NPR.org. Archived from the original on 2018–04–25.
^ Messud, Claire (2018–05–28). “December’s Book Club Pick: Turning Circe Into a Good Witch (Published 2018)”. The New York Times. ISSN 0362–4331. Archived from the original on 2020–09–06.
^ Wilson, Wendy S.; Herman, Gerald H. (2003). World History On The Screen: Film And Video Resources:grade 10–12. Walch Publishing. p. 3. ISBN 9780825146152. Archived from the original on 2020–01–05.
^ Garcia Morcillo, Marta; Hanesworth, Pauline; Lapeña Marchena, Óscar (11 February 2015). Imagining Ancient Cities in Film: From Babylon to Cinecittà. Routledge. p. 139. ISBN 9781135013172.
^ Lapeña Marchena, Óscar (2018). “Ulysses in the Cinema: The Example of Nostos, il ritorno (Franco Piavoli, Italy, 1990)”. In Rovira Guardiola, Rosario (ed.). The Ancient Mediterranean Sea in Modern Visual and Performing Arts: Sailing in Troubled Waters. Imagines — Classical Receptions in the Visual and Performing Arts. London: Bloomsbury Academic. p. 98. ISBN 978–1–4742–9859–9.
^ Grafton, Anthony; Most, Glenn W.; Settis, Salvatore (2010). The Classical Tradition. Cambridge, Massachusetts and London, England: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. p. 653. ISBN 978–0–674–03572–0.
^ Roman, James W. (2005). From Daytime to Primetime: The History of American Television Programs. Greenwood Publishing Group. p. 267. ISBN 9780313319723.
^ Siegel, Janice (2007). “The Coens’ O Brother, Where Art Thou? and Homer’s Odyssey”. Mouseion: Journal of the Classical Association of Canada. 7 (3): 213–245. doi:10.1353/mou.0.0029. ISSN 1913–5416. S2CID 163006295. Archived from the original on 2020–08–06.
^ “Monteverdi’s ‘The Return of Ulysses’”. NPR. Archived from the original on 2017–02–24.
^ Griffel, Margaret Ross (2018). “Sirenen”. Operas in German: A Dictionary. Rowman & Littlefield. p. 448. ISBN 9781442247970.
^ “The Iliad (from The Odyssey (Symphony №2))”. www.alfred.com. Archivedfrom the original on 2020–08–08.

Bibliography

Lattimore, Richmond, trans. 1975. The Odyssey of Homer. New York: Harper & Row.

Library resources about
Odyssey

External links

Look up odyssey in Wiktionary, the free dictionary.

Wikisource has original text related to this article:

The Odyssey

Greek Wikisource has original text related to this article:

Ὀδύσσεια

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Wikiversity has learning resources about The Odyssey

The Odyssey (in Ancient Greek) on Perseus Project
The Odyssey, translated by William Cullen Bryant at Standard Ebooks
The Odysseys of Homer, together with the shorter poems by Homer, trans. by George Chapman at Project Gutenberg
The Odyssey, trans. by Alexander Pope at Project Gutenberg
The Odyssey, trans. by William Cowper at Project Gutenberg
The Odyssey, trans. by Samuel H. Butcher and Andrew Lang at Project Gutenberg
The Odyssey, trans. by Samuel Butler at Project Gutenberg
The Odyssey, trans. by A. T. Murray (1919) on Perseus Project

The Odyssey public domain audiobook at LibriVox
BBC audio file — In our time BBC Radio 4 [discussion programme, 45 mins]
The Odyssey Comix — A detailed retelling and explanation of Homer’s Odyssey in comic-strip format by Greek Myth Comix
The Odyssey — Annotated text and analyses aligned to Common Core Standards
“Homer’s Odyssey: A Commentary” by Denton Jaques Snider on Project Gutenberg

“Athena Inspires the Prince Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns … driven time and again off course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy. Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds, many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea, fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home. But he could not save them from disaster, hard as he strove — the recklessness of their own ways destroyed them all, the blind fools, they devoured the cattle of the Sun and the Sungod blotted out the day of their return. Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus, start from where you will — sing for our time too. By now, all the survivors, all who avoided headlong death were safe at home, escaped the wars and waves. But one man alone … his heart set on his wife and his return — Calypso, the bewitching nymph, the lustrous goddess, held him back, deep in her arching caverns, craving him for a husband. But then, when the wheeling seasons brought the year around, that year spun out by the gods when he should reach his home, Ithaca — though not even there would he be free of trials, even among his loved ones — then every god took pity, all except Poseidon. He raged on, seething against the great Odysseus till he reached his native land. But now Poseidon had gone to visit the Ethiopians worlds away, Ethiopians off at the farthest limits of mankind, a people split in two, one part where the Sungod sets and part where the Sungod rises. There Poseidon went to receive an offering, bulls and rams by the hundred — far away at the feast the Sea-lord sat and took his pleasure. But the other gods, at home in Olympian Zeus’s halls, met for full assembly there, and among them now the father of men and gods was first to speak, sorely troubled, remembering handsome Aegisthus, the man Agamemnon’s son, renowned Orestes, killed. Recalling Aegisthus, Zeus harangued the immortal powers: “Ah how shameless — the way these mortals blame the gods. From us alone, they say, come all their miseries, yes, but they themselves, with their own reckless ways, compound their pains beyond their proper share. Look at Aegisthus now … above and beyond his share he stole Atrides’ wife, he murdered the warlord coming home from Troy though he knew it meant his own total ruin. Far in advance we told him so ourselves, dispatching the guide, the giant-killer Hermes. ‘Don’t murder the man,’ he said, ‘don’t court his wife. Beware, revenge will come from Orestes, Agamemnon’s son, that day he comes of age and longs for his native land.’ So Hermes warned, with all the good will in the world, but would Aegisthus’ hardened heart give way? Now he pays the price — all at a single stroke.” And sparkling-eyed Athena drove the matter home: “Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king, surely he goes down to a death he earned in full! Let them all die so, all who do such things. But my heart breaks for Odysseus, that seasoned veteran cursed by fate so long — far from his loved ones still, he suffers torments off on a wave-washed island rising at the center of the seas. A dark wooded island, and there a goddess makes her home, daughter of Atlas, wicked Titan who sounds the deep in all its depths, whose shoulders lift on high the colossal pillars thrusting earth and sky apart. Atlas’ daughter it is who holds Odysseus captive, luckless man — despite his tears, forever trying to spellbind his heart with suave, seductive words and wipe all thought of Ithaca from his mind. But he, straining for no more than a glimpse of hearth-smoke drifting up from his own land, Odysseus longs to die … Olympian Zeus, have you no care for him in your lofty heart? Did he never win your favor with sacrifices burned beside the ships on the broad plain of Troy? Why, Zeus, why so dead set against Odysseus?” “My child,” Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied, “what nonsense you let slip through your teeth. Now, how on earth could I forget Odysseus? Great Odysseus who excels all men in wisdom, excels in offerings too he gives the immortal gods who rule the vaulting skies? No, it’s the Earth-Shaker, Poseidon, unappeased, forever fuming against him for the Cyclops whose giant eye he blinded: godlike Polyphemus, towering over all the Cyclops’ clans in power. The nymph Thoosa bore him, daughter of Phorcys, lord of the barren salt sea — she met Poseidon once in his vaulted caves and they made love. And now for his blinded son the earthquake god — though he won’t quite kill Odysseus — drives him far off course from native land. But come, all of us here put heads together now, work out his journey home so Odysseus can return. Lord Poseidon, I trust, will let his anger go. How can he stand his ground against the will of all the gods at once — one god alone?” Athena, her eyes flashing bright, exulted, “Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king! If now it really pleases the blissful gods that wise Odysseus shall return — home at last — let us dispatch the guide and giant-killer Hermes down to Ogygia Island, down to announce at once to the nymph with lovely braids our fixed decree: Odysseus journeys home — the exile must return! While I myself go down to Ithaca, rouse his son to a braver pitch, inspire his heart with courage to summon the flowing-haired Achaeans to full assembly, speak his mind to all those suitors, slaughtering on and on his droves of sheep and shambling longhorn cattle. Next I will send him off to Sparta and sandy Pylos, there to learn of his dear father’s journey home. Perhaps he will hear some news and make his name throughout the mortal world.” So Athena vowed and under her feet she fastened the supple sandals, ever-glowing gold, that wing her over the waves and boundless earth with the rush of gusting winds. She seized the rugged spear tipped with a bronze point — weighted, heavy, the massive shaft she wields to break the lines of heroes the mighty Father’s daughter storms against. And down she swept from Olympus’ craggy peaks and lit on Ithaca, standing tall at Odysseus’ gates, the threshold of his court. Gripping her bronze spear, she looked for all the world like a stranger now, like Mentes, lord of the Taphians. There she found the swaggering suitors, just then amusing themselves with rolling dice before the doors, lounging on hides of oxen they had killed themselves. While heralds and brisk attendants bustled round them, some at the mixing-bowls, mulling wine and water, others wiping the tables down with sopping sponges, setting them out in place, still other servants jointed and carved the great sides of meat. First by far to see her was Prince Telemachus, sitting among the suitors, heart obsessed with grief. He could almost see his magnificent father, here … in the mind’s eye — if only he might drop from the clouds and drive these suitors all in a rout throughout the halls and regain his pride of place and rule his own domains! Daydreaming so as he sat among the suitors, he glimpsed Athena now and straight to the porch he went, mortified that a guest might still be standing at the doors. Pausing beside her there, he clasped her right hand and relieving her at once of her long bronze spear, met her with winged words: “Greetings, stranger! Here in our house you’ll find a royal welcome. Have supper first, then tell us what you need.” He led the way and Pallas Athena followed. Once in the high-roofed hall, he took her lance and fixed it firm in a burnished rack against a sturdy pillar, there where row on row of spears, embattled Odysseus’ spears, stood stacked and waiting. Then he escorted her to a high, elaborate chair of honor, over it draped a cloth, and here he placed his guest with a stool to rest her feet. But for himself he drew up a low reclining chair beside her, richly painted, clear of the press of suitors, concerned his guest, offended by their uproar, might shrink from food in the midst of such a mob. He hoped, what’s more, to ask him about his long-lost father. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so they might rinse their hands, then pulled a gleaming table to their side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. A carver lifted platters of meat toward them, meats of every sort, and set beside them golden cups and time and again a page came round and poured them wine. But now the suitors trooped in with all their swagger and took their seats on low and high-backed chairs. Heralds poured water over their hands for rinsing, serving maids brought bread heaped high in trays and the young men brimmed the mixing-bowls with wine. They reached out for the good things that lay at hand, and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink the suitors set their minds on other pleasures, song and dancing, all that crowns a feast. A herald placed an ornate lyre in Phemius’ hands, the bard who always performed among them there; they forced the man to sing. A rippling prelude — and no sooner had he struck up his rousing song than Telemachus, head close to Athena’s sparkling eyes, spoke low to his guest so no one else could hear: “Dear stranger, would you be shocked by what I say? Look at them over there. Not a care in the world, just lyres and tunes! Easy for them, all right, they feed on another’s goods and go scot-free — a man whose white bones lie strewn in the rain somewhere, rotting away on land or rolling down the ocean’s salty swells. But that man — if they caught sight of him home in Ithaca, by god, they’d all pray to be faster on their feet than richer in bars of gold and heavy robes. But now, no use, he’s died a wretched death. No comfort’s left for us … not even if someone, somewhere, says he’s coming home. The day of his return will never dawn. Enough. Tell me about yourself now, clearly, point by point. Who are you? where are you from? your city? your parents? What sort of vessel brought you? Why did the sailors land you here in Ithaca? Who did they say they are? I hardly think you came this way on foot! And tell me this for a fact — I need to know — is this your first time here? Or are you a friend of father’s, a guest from the old days? Once, crowds of other men would come to our house on visits — visitor that he was, when he walked among the living.” Her eyes glinting, goddess Athena answered, “My whole story, of course, I’ll tell it point by point. Wise old Anchialus was my father. My own name is Mentes, lord of the Taphian men who love their oars. And here I’ve come, just now, with ship and crew, sailing the wine-dark sea to foreign ports of call, to Temese, out for bronze — our cargo gleaming iron. Our ship lies moored off farmlands far from town, riding in Rithron Cove, beneath Mount Nion’s woods. As for the ties between your father and myself, we’ve been friends forever, I’m proud to say, and he would bear me out if you went and questioned old lord Laertes. He, I gather, no longer ventures into town but lives a life of hardship, all to himself, off on his farmstead with an aged serving-woman who tends him well, who gives him food and drink when weariness has taken hold of his withered limbs from hauling himself along his vineyard’s steep slopes. And now I’ve come — and why? I heard that he was back … your father, that is. But no, the gods thwart his passage. Yet I tell you great Odysseus is not dead. He’s st”

Muttering so, great Odysseus crept out of the bushes, stripping off with his massive hand a leafy branch from the tangled olive growth to shield his body, hide his private parts. And out he stalked as a mountain lion exultant in his power strides through wind and rain and his eyes blaze and he charges sheep or oxen or chases wild deer but his hunger drives him on to go for flocks, even to raid the best-defended homestead. So Odysseus moved out … about to mingle with all those lovely girls, naked now as he was, for the need drove him on, a terrible sight, all crusted, caked with brine — they scattered in panic down the jutting beaches. Only Alcinous’ daughter held fast, for Athena planted courage within her heart, dissolved the trembling in her limbs, and she firmly stood her ground and faced Odysseus, torn now — Should he fling his arms around her knees, the young beauty, plead for help, or stand back, plead with a winning word, beg her to lead him to the town and lend him clothing? This was the better way, he thought. Plead now with a subtle, winning word and stand well back, don’t clasp her knees, the girl might bridle, yes. He launched in at once, endearing, sly and suave: “Here I am at your mercy, princess — are you a goddess or a mortal? If one of the gods who rule the skies up there, you’re Artemis to the life, the daughter of mighty Zeus — I see her now — just look at your build, your bearing, your lithe flowing grace … But if you’re one of the mortals living here on earth, three times blest are your father, your queenly mother, three times over your brothers too. How often their hearts must warm with joy to see you striding into the dances — such a bloom of beauty. True, but he is the one more blest than all other men alive, that man who sways you with gifts and leads you home, his bride! I have never laid eyes on anyone like you, neither man nor woman … I look at you and a sense of wonder takes me. Wait, once I saw the like — in Delos, beside Apollo’s altar — the young slip of a palm-tree springing into the light. There I’d sailed, you see, with a great army in my wake, out on the long campaign that doomed my life to hardship. That vision! Just as I stood there gazing, rapt, for hours … no shaft like that had ever risen up from the earth — so now I marvel at you, my lady: rapt, enthralled, too struck with awe to grasp you by the knees though pain has ground me down. Only yesterday, the twentieth day, did I escape the wine-dark sea. Till then the waves and the rushing gales had swept me on from the island of Ogygia. Now some power has tossed me here, doubtless to suffer still more torments on your shores. I can’t believe they’ll stop. Long before that the gods will give me more, still more. Compassion — princess, please! You, after all that I have suffered, you are the first I’ve come to. I know no one else, none in your city, no one in your land. Show me the way to town, give me a rag for cover, just some cloth, some wrapper you carried with you here. And may the good gods give you all your heart desires: husband, and house, and lasting harmony too. No finer, greater gift in the world than that … when man and woman possess their home, two minds, two hearts that work as one. Despair to their enemies, joy to all their friends. Their own best claim to glory.” “Stranger,” the white-armed princess answered staunchly, “friend, you’re hardly a wicked man, and no fool, I’d say — it’s Olympian Zeus himself who hands our fortunes out, to each of us in turn, to the good and bad, however Zeus prefers … He gave you pain, it seems. You simply have to bear it. But now, seeing you’ve reached our city and our land, you’ll never lack for clothing or any other gift, the right of worn-out suppliants come our way. I’ll show you our town, tell you our people’s name. Phaeacians we are, who hold this city and this land, and I am the daughter of generous King Alcinous. All our people’s power stems from him.” She called out to her girls with lovely braids: “Stop, my friends! Why run when you see a man? Surely you don’t think him an enemy, do you? There’s no one alive, there never will be one, who’d reach Phaeacian soil and lay it waste. The immortals love us far too much for that. We live too far apart, out in the surging sea, off at the world’s end — no other mortals come to mingle with us. But here’s an unlucky wanderer strayed our way and we must tend him well. Every stranger and beggar comes from Zeus, and whatever scrap we give him he’ll be glad to get. So, quick, my girls, give our newfound friend some food and drink and bathe the man in the river, wherever you find some shelter from the wind.” At that they came to a halt and teased each other on and led Odysseus down to a sheltered spot where he could find a seat, just as great Alcinous’ daughter told them. They laid out cloak and shirt for him to wear, they gave him the golden flask of suppling olive oil and pressed him to bathe himself in the river’s stream. Then thoughtful Odysseus reassured the handmaids, “Stand where you are, dear girls, a good way off, so I can rinse the brine from my shoulders now and rub myself with oil … how long it’s been since oil touched my skin! But I won’t bathe in front of you. I would be embarrassed — stark naked before young girls with lovely braids.” The handmaids scurried off to tell their mistress. Great Odysseus bathed in the river, scrubbed his body clean of brine that clung to his back and broad shoulders, scoured away the brackish scurf that caked his head. And then, once he had bathed all over, rubbed in oil and donned the clothes the virgin princess gave him, Zeus’s daughter Athena made him taller to all eyes, his build more massive now, and down from his brow she ran his curls like thick hyacinth clusters full of blooms. As a master craftsman washes gold over beaten silver — a man the god of fire and Queen Athena trained in every fine technique — and finishes off his latest effort, handsome work, so she lavished splendor over his head and shoulders now. And down to the beach he walked and sat apart, glistening in his glory, breathtaking, yes, and the princess gazed in wonder … then turned to her maids with lovely braided hair: “Listen, my white-armed girls, to what I tell you. The gods of Olympus can’t be all against this man who’s come to mingle among our noble people. At first he seemed appalling, I must say — now he seems like a god who rules the skies up there! Ah, if only a man like that were called my husband, lived right here, pleased to stay forever … Enough. Give the stranger food and drink, my girls.” They hung on her words and did her will at once, set before Odysseus food and drink, and he ate and drank, the great Odysseus, long deprived, so ravenous now — it seemed like years since he had tasted food. The white-armed princess thought of one last thing. Folding the clothes, she packed them into her painted wagon, hitched the sharp-hoofed mules, and climbing up herself, Nausicaa urged Odysseus, warmly urged her guest, “Up with you now, my friend, and off to town we go. I’ll see you into my wise father’s palace where, I promise you, you’ll meet all the best Phaeacians. Wait, let’s do it this way. You seem no fool to me. While we’re passing along the fields and plowlands, you follow the mules and wagon, stepping briskly with all my maids. I’ll lead the way myself. But once we reach our city, ringed by walls and strong high towers too, with a fine harbor either side … and the causeway in is narrow; along the road the rolling ships are all hauled up, with a slipway cleared for every vessel. There’s our assembly, round Poseidon’s royal precinct, built of quarried slabs planted deep in the earth. Here the sailors tend their black ships’ tackle, cables and sails, and plane their oarblades down. Phaeacians, you see, care nothing for bow or quiver, only for masts and oars and good trim ships themselves — we glory in our ships, crossing the foaming seas! But I shrink from all our sea-dogs’ nasty gossip. Some old salt might mock us behind our backs — we have our share of insolent types in town and one of the coarser sort, spying us, might say, ‘Now who’s that tall, handsome stranger Nausicaa has in tow? Where’d she light on him? Her husband-to-be, just wait! But who — some shipwrecked stray she’s taken up with, some alien from abroad? Since nobody lives nearby. Unless it’s really a god come down from the blue to answer all her prayers, and to have her all his days. Good riddance! Let the girl go roving to find herself a man from foreign parts. She only spurns her own — countless Phaeacians round about who court her, nothing but our best.’ So they’ll scoff … just think of the scandal that would face me then. I’d find fault with a girl who carried on that way, flouting her parents’ wishes — father, mother, still alive — consorting with men before she’d tied the knot in public. No, stranger, listen closely to what I say, the sooner to win your swift voyage home at my father’s hands. Now, you’ll find a splendid grove along the road — poplars, sacred to Pallas — a bubbling spring’s inside and meadows run around it. There lies my father’s estate, his blooming orchard too, as far from town as a man’s strong shout can carry. Take a seat there, wait a while, and give us time to make it into town and reach my father’s house. Then, when you think we’re home, walk on yourself to the city, ask the way to my father’s palace, generous King Alcinous. You cannot miss it, even an innocent child could guide you there. No other Phaeacian’s house is built like that: so grand, the palace of Alcinous, our great hero. Once the mansion and courtyard have enclosed you, go, quickly, across the hall until you reach my mother. Beside the hearth she sits in the fire’s glare, spinning yarn on a spindle, sea-blue wool — a stirring sight, you’ll see … she leans against a pillar, her ladies sit behind. And my father’s throne is drawn up close beside her; there he sits and takes his wine, a mortal like a god. Go past him, grasp my mother’s knees — if you want to see the day of your return, rejoicing, soon, even if your home’s a world away. If only the queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your own grand house, your native land at last.” At that she touched the mules with her shining whip and they quickly left the running stream behind. The team trotted on, their hoofs wove in and out. She drove them back with care so all the rest, maids and Odysseus, could keep the pace on foot, and she used the whip discreetly. The sun sank as they reached the hallowed grove, sacred to Athena, where Odysseus stopped and sat and said a prayer at once to mighty Zeus’s daughter: “Hear me, daughter of Zeus whose shield is thunder — tireless one, Athena! Now hear my prayer at last, for you never heard me then, when I was shattered, when the famous god of earthquakes wrecked my craft. Grant that here among the Phaeacian people I may find some mercy and some love!” So he prayed and Athena heard his prayer but would not yet appear to him undisguised. She stood in awe of her Father’s brother, lord of the sea who still seethed on, still churning with rage against the great Odysseus till he reached his native land. Book VII Phaeacia’s Halls and Gardens Now as Odysseus, long an exile, prayed in Athena’s grove, the hardy mule-team drew the princess toward the city. Reaching her father’s splendid halls, she reined in, just at the gates — her brothers clustering round her, men like gods, released the mules from the yoke and brought the clothes indoors as Nausicaa made her way toward her bedroom. There her chambermaid lit a fire for her — Eurymedusa, the old woman who’d come from Apiraea years ago, when the rolling ships had sailed her in and the country picked her out as King Alcinous’ prize, for he ruled all the Phaeacians, they obeyed him like a god. Once, she had nursed the white-armed princess in the palace. Now she lit a fire and made her supper in the room.

At the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow aAt the same time, Odysseus set off toward the city. Pallas Athena, harboring kindness for the hero, drifted a heavy mist around him, shielding him from any swaggering islander who’d cross his path, provoke him with taunts and search out who he was. Instead, as he was about to enter the welcome city, the bright-eyed goddess herself came up to greet him there, for all the world like a young girl, holding a pitcher, standing face-to-face with the visitor, who asked, “Little girl, now wouldn’t you be my guide to the palace of the one they call Alcinous? The king who rules the people of these parts. I am a stranger, you see, weighed down with troubles, come this way from a distant, far-off shore. So I know no one here, none at all in your city and the farmlands round about.” “Oh yes, sir, good old stranger,” the bright-eyed goddess said, “I’ll show you the very palace that you’re after — the king lives right beside my noble father. Come, quietly too, and I will lead the way. Now not a glance at anyone, not a question. The men here never suffer strangers gladly, have no love for hosting a man from foreign lands. All they really trust are their fast, flying ships that cross the mighty ocean. Gifts of Poseidon, ah what ships they are — quick as a bird, quick as a darting thought!” And Pallas Athena sped away in the lead as he followed in her footsteps, man and goddess. But the famed Phaeacian sailors never saw him, right in their midst, striding down their streets. Athena the one with lovely braids would not permit it, the awesome goddess poured an enchanted mist around him, harboring kindness for Odysseus in her heart. And he marveled now at the balanced ships and havens, the meeting grounds of the great lords and the long ramparts looming, coped and crowned with palisades of stakes — an amazing sight to see … And once they reached the king’s resplendent halls the bright-eyed goddess cried out, “Good old stranger, here, here is the very palace that you’re after — I’ve pointed you all the way. Here you’ll find our princes dear to the gods, busy feasting. You go on inside. Be bold, nothing to fear. In every venture the bold man comes off best, even the wanderer, bound from distant shores. The queen is the first you’ll light on in the halls. Arete, she is called, and earns the name: she answers all our prayers. She comes, in fact, from the same stock that bred our King Alcinous. First came Nausithous, son of the earthquake god Poseidon and Periboea, the lovely, matchless beauty, the youngest daughter of iron-willed Eurymedon, king of the overweening Giants years ago. He led that reckless clan to its own ruin, killed himself in the bargain, but the Sea-lord lay in love with Periboea and she produced a son, Nausithous, that lionheart who ruled Phaeacia well. Now, Nausithous had two sons, Rhexenor and Alcinous, but the lord of the silver bow, Apollo, shot Rhexenor down — married, true, yet still without a son in the halls, he left one child behind, a daughter named Arete. Alcinous made the girl his wife and honors her as no woman is honored on this earth, of all the wives now keeping households under their husbands’ sway. Such is her pride of place, and always will be so: dear to her loving children, to Alcinous himself and all our people. They gaze on her as a god, saluting her warmly on her walks through town. She lacks nothing in good sense and judgment — she can dissolve quarrels, even among men, whoever wins her sympathies. If only our queen will take you to her heart, then there’s hope that you will see your loved ones, reach your high-roofed house, your native land at last.” And with that vow the bright-eyed goddess sped away, over the barren sea, leaving welcome Scheria far behind, and reaching Marathon and the spacious streets of Athens, entered Erechtheus’ sturdy halls, Athena’s stronghold. Now as Odysseus approached Alcinous’ famous house a rush of feelings stirred within his heart, bringing him to a standstill, even before he crossed the bronze threshold … A radiance strong as the moon or rising sun came flooding through the high-roofed halls of generous King Alcinous. Walls plated in bronze, crowned with a circling frieze glazed as blue as lapis, ran to left and right from outer gates to the deepest court recess. Solid golden doors enclosed the palace. Up from the bronze threshold silver doorposts rose with silver lintel above, and golden handle hooks. And dogs of gold and silver were stationed either side, forged by the god of fire with all his cunning craft to keep watch on generous King Alcinous’ palace now, his immortal guard-dogs, ageless, all their days. Inside to left and right, in a long unbroken row from farthest outer gate to the inmost chamber, thrones stood backed against the wall, each draped with a finely spun brocade, women’s handsome work. Here the Phaeacian lords would sit enthroned, dining, drinking — the feast flowed on forever. And young boys, molded of gold, set on pedestals standing firm, were lifting torches high in their hands to flare through the nights and light the feasters down the hall. And Alcinous has some fifty serving-women in his house: some, turning the handmill, grind the apple-yellow grain, some weave at their webs or sit and spin their yarn, fingers flickering quick as aspen leaves in the wind and the densely woven woolens dripping oil droplets. Just as Phaeacian men excel the world at sailing, driving their swift ships on the open seas, so the women excel at all the arts of weaving. That is Athena’s gift to them beyond all others — a genius for lovely work, and a fine mind too. Outside the courtyard, fronting the high gates, a magnificent orchard stretches four acres deep with a strong fence running round it side-to-side. Here luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pomegranates and pears, and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark. And the yield of all these trees will never flag or die, neither in winter nor in summer, a harvest all year round for the West Wind always breathing through will bring some fruits to the bud and others warm to ripeness — pear mellowing ripe on pear, apple on apple, cluster of grapes on cluster, fig crowding fig. And here is a teeming vineyard planted for the kings, beyond it an open level bank where the vintage grapes lie baking to raisins in the sun while pickers gather others; some they trample down in vats, and here in the front rows bunches of unripe grapes have hardly shed their blooms while others under the sunlight slowly darken purple. And there by the last rows are beds of greens, bordered and plotted, greens of every kind, glistening fresh, year in, year out. And last, there are two springs, one rippling in channels over the whole orchard — the other, flanking it, rushes under the palace gates to bubble up in front of the lofty roofs where the city people come and draw their water. Such the gifts, the glories showered down by the gods on King Alcinous’ realm. And there Odysseus stood, gazing at all this bounty, a man who’d borne so much … Once he’d had his fill of marveling at it all, he crossed the threshold quickly, strode inside the palace. Here he found the Phaeacian lords and captains tipping out libations now to the guide and giant-killer Hermes, the god to whom they would always pour the final cup before they sought their beds. Odysseus went on striding down the hall, the man of many struggles shrouded still in the mist Athena drifted round him, till he reached Arete and Alcinous the king. And then, the moment he flung his arms around Arete’s knees, the godsent mist rolled back to reveal the great man. And silence seized the feasters all along the hall — seeing him right before their eyes, they marveled, gazing on him now as Odysseus pleaded, “Queen, Arete, daughter of godlike King Rhexenor! Here after many trials I come to beg for mercy, your husband’s, yours, and all these feasters’ here. May the gods endow them with fortune all their lives, may each hand down to his sons the riches in his house and the pride of place the realm has granted him. But as for myself, grant me a rapid convoy home to my own native land. How far away I’ve been from all my loved ones — how long I have suffered!” Pleading so, the man sank down in the ashes, just at the hearth beside the blazing fire, while all the rest stayed hushed, stock-still. At last the old revered Echeneus broke the spell, the eldest lord in Phaeacia, finest speaker too, a past master at all the island’s ancient ways. Impelled by kindness now, he rose and said, “This is no way, Alcinous. How indecent, look, our guest on the ground, in the ashes by the fire! Your people are holding back, waiting for your signal. Come, raise him up and seat the stranger now, in a silver-studded chair, and tell the heralds to mix more wine for all so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred. And let the housekeeper give our guest his supper, unstinting with her stores.” Hearing that, Alcinous, poised in all his majesty, took the hand of the seasoned, worldly-wise Odysseus, raised him up from the hearth and sat him down in a burnished chair, displacing his own son, the courtly Lord Laodamas who had sat beside him, the son he loved the most. A maid brought water soon in a graceful golden pitcher and over a silver basin tipped it out so the guest might rinse his hands, then pulled a gleaming table to his side. A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve him, appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty. As long-suffering great Odysseus ate and drank, the hallowed King Alcinous called his herald: “Come, Pontonous! Mix the wine in the bowl, pour rounds to all our banqueters in the house so we can pour out cups to Zeus who loves the lightning, champion of suppliants — suppliants’ rights are sacred.” At that Pontonous mixed the heady, honeyed wine and tipped first drops for the god in every cup, then poured full rounds for all. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. Now, our feast finished, home you go to sleep. But at dawn we call the elders in to full assembly, host our guest in the palace, sacrifice to the gods and then we turn our minds to his passage home, so under our convoy our new friend can travel back to his own land — no toil, no troubles — soon, rejoicing, even if his home’s a world away. And on the way no pain or hardship suffered, not till he sets foot on native ground again. There in the future he must suffer all that Fate and the overbearing Spinners spun out on his life line the very day his mother gave him birth … But if he’s one of the deathless powers, out of the blue, the gods are working now in strange, new ways. Always, up to now, they came to us face-to-face whenever we’d give them grand, glorious sacrifices — they always sat beside us here and shared our feasts. Even when some lonely traveler meets them on the roads, they never disguise themselves. We’re too close kin for that, close as the wild Giants are, the Cyclops too.” “Alcinous!” wary Odysseus countered, “cross that thought from your mind. I’m nothing like the immortal gods who rule the skies, either in build or breeding. I’m just a mortal man. Whom do you know most saddled down with sorrow? They are the ones I’d equal, grief for grief. And I could tell a tale of still more hardship, all I’ve suffered, thanks to the gods’ will. But despite my misery, let me finish dinner. The belly’s a shameless dog, there’s nothing worse. Always insisting, pressing, it never lets us forget — destroyed as I am, my heart racked with sadness, sick with anguish, still it keeps demanding, ‘Eat, drink!’ It blots out all the memory of my pain, commanding, ‘Fill me up!’ But you, at the first light of day, hurry, please, to set your unlucky guest on his own home soil. How much I have suffered … Oh just let me see my lands, my serving-men and the grand high-roofed house — then I can die in peace.” All burst into applause, urging passage home for their newfound friend, his pleading rang so true. And once they’d poured libations out and drunk to their hearts’ content, each one made his way to rest in his own house. But King Odysseus still remained at hall, seated beside the royal Alcinous and Arete as servants cleared the cups and plates away. The white-armed Queen Arete took the lead; she’d spotted the cape and shirt Odysseus wore, fine clothes she’d made herself with all her women, so now her words flew brusquely, sharply: “Stranger, I’ll be the first to question you — myself. Who are you? Where are you from? Who gave you the clothes you’re wearing now? Didn’t you say you reached us roving on the sea?” “What hard labor, queen,” the man of craft replied, “to tell you the story of my troubles start to finish. The gods on high have given me my share. Still, this much I will tell you … seeing you probe and press me so intently. There is an island, Ogygia, lying far at sea, where the daughter of Atlas, Calypso, has her home, the seductive nymph with lovely braids — a danger too, and no one, god or mortal, dares approach her there. But I, cursed as I am, some power brought me to her hearth, alone, when Zeus with a white-hot bolt had crushed my racing warship down the wine-dark sea. There all the rest of my loyal shipmates died but I, locking my arms around my good ship’s keel, drifted along nine days. On the tenth, at dead of night, the gods cast me up on Ogygia, Calypso’s island, home of the dangerous nymph with glossy braids, and the goddess took me in in all her kindness, welcomed me warmly, cherished me, even vowed to make me immortal, ageless, all my days — but she never won the heart inside me, never. Seven endless years I remained there, always drenching with my tears the immortal clothes Calypso gave me. Then, at last, when the eighth came wheeling round, she insisted that I sail — inspired by warnings sent from Zeus, perhaps, or her own mind had changed. She saw me on my way in a solid craft, tight and trim, and gave me full provisions, food and mellow wine, immortal clothes to wear and summoned a wind to bear me onward, fair and warm. And seventeen days I sailed, making headway well; on the eighteenth, shadowy mountains slowly loomed … your land! My heart leapt up, unlucky as I am, doomed to be comrade still to many hardships. Many pains the god of earthquakes piled upon me, loosing the winds against me, blocking passage through, heaving up a terrific sea, beyond belief — nor did the whitecaps let me cling to my craft, for all my desperate groaning. No, the squalls shattered her stem to stern, but I, I swam hard, I plowed my way through those dark gulfs till at last the wind and current bore me to your shores. But here, had I tried to land, the breakers would have hurled me, smashed me against the jagged cliffs of that grim coast, so I pulled away, swam back till I reached a river, the perfect spot at last, or so it struck me, free of rocks, with a windbreak from the gales. So, fighting for life, I flung myself ashore and the godsent, bracing night came on at once. Clambering up from the river, big with Zeus’s rains, I bedded down in the brush, my body heaped with leaves, and a god poured down a boundless sleep upon me, yes, and there in the leaves, exhausted, sick at heart, I slept the whole night through and on to the break of day and on into high noon and the sun was wheeling down when sweet sleep set me free. And I looked up, and there were your daughter’s maids at play on the beach, and she, she moved among them like a deathless goddess! I begged her for help and not once did her sense of tact desert her; she behaved as you’d never hope to find in one so young, not in a random meeting — time and again the youngsters prove so flighty. Not she. She gave me food aplenty and shining wine, a bath in the river too, and gave me all this clothing. That’s my whole story. Wrenching to tell, but true.” “Ah, but in one regard, my friend,” the king replied, “her good sense missed the mark, this daughter of mine. She never escorted you to our house with all her maids but she was the first you asked for care and shelter.” “Your majesty,” diplomatic Odysseus answered, “don’t find fault with a flawless daughter now, not for my sake, please. She urged me herself to follow with her maids. I chose not to, fearing embarrassment in fact — what if you took offense, seeing us both together? Suspicious we are, we men who walk the earth.” “Oh no, my friend,” Alcinous stated flatly, “I’m hardly a man for reckless, idle anger. Balance is best in all things. Father Zeus, Athena and lord Apollo! if only — seeing the man you are, seeing we think as one — you could wed my daughter and be my son-in-law and stay right here with us. I’d give you a house and great wealth — if you chose to stay, that is. No Phaeacian would hold you back by force. The curse of Father Zeus on such a thing! And about your convoy home, you rest assured: I have chosen the day and I decree it is tomorrow. And all that voyage long you’ll lie in a deep sleep while my people sail you on through calm and gentle tides till you reach your land and house, or any place you please. True, even if landfall lies more distant than Euboea, off at the edge of the world … So say our crews, at least, who saw it once, that time they carried the gold-haired Rhadamanthys out to visit Tityus, son of Mother Earth. Imagine, there they sailed and back they came in the same day, they finished the homeward run with no strain at all. You’ll see for yourself how far they top the best — my ships and their young shipmates tossing up the whitecaps with their oars!” So he vowed and the Jong-enduring great Odysseus glowed with joy and raised a prayer and called the god by name: “Father Zeus on high — may the king fulfill his promises one and all! Then his fame would ring through the fertile earth and never die — and I should reach my native land at last!” And now as the two men exchanged their hopes, the white-armed queen instructed her palace maids to make a bed in the porch’s shelter, lay down some heavy purple throws for the bed itself, and over it spread some blankets, thick woolly robes, a warm covering laid on top. Torches in hand, they left the hall and fell to work at once, briskly prepared a good snug resting-place and then returned to Odysseus, urged the guest, “Up, friend, time for sleep. Your bed is made.” How welcome the thought of sleep to that man now … So there after many trials Odysseus lay at rest on a corded bed inside the echoing colonnade. Alcinous slept in chambers deep in his lofty house where the queen his wife arranged and shared their bed. Book VIII A Day for Songs and Contests When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more royal Alcinous, hallowed island king, rose from bed and great Odysseus, raider of cities, rose too. Poised in his majesty, Alcinous led the way to Phaeacia’s meeting grounds, built for all beside the harbored ships. Both men sat down on the polished stone benches side-by-side as Athena started roaming up and down the town, in build and voice the wise Alcinous’ herald, furthering plans for Odysseus’ journey home, and stopped beside each citizen, urged them all, “Come this way, you lords and captains of Phaeacia, come to the meeting grounds and learn about the stranger! A new arrival! Here at our wise king’s palace now, he’s here from roving the ocean, driven far off course — he looks like a deathless god!” Rousing their zeal, their curiosity, each and every man, and soon enough the assembly seats were filled with people thronging, gazing in wonder at the seasoned man of war … Over Odysseus’ head and shoulders now Athena lavished a marvelous splendor, yes, making him taller, more massive to all eyes, so Phaeacians might regard the man with kindness, awe and respect as well, and he might win through the many trials they’d pose to test the hero’s strength. Once they’d grouped, crowding the meeting grounds, Alcinous rose and addressed his island people: “Hear me, lords and captains of Phaeacia, hear what the heart inside me has to say. This stranger here, our guest — I don’t know who he is, or whether he comes from sunrise lands or the western lands of evening, but he has come in his wanderings to my palace; he pleads for passage, he begs we guarantee it. So now, as in years gone by, let us press on and grant him escort. No one, I tell you, no one who comes to my house will languish long here, heartsick for convoy home. Come, my people! Haul a black ship down to the bright sea, rigged for her maiden voyage — enlist a crew of fifty-two young sailors, the best in town, who’ve proved their strength before. Let all hands lash their oars to the thwarts then disembark, come to my house and fall in for a banquet, quickly. I’ll lay on a princely feast for all. So then, these are the orders I issue to our crews. For the rest, you sceptered princes here, you come to my royal halls so we can give this stranger a hero’s welcome in our palace — no one here refuse. Call in the inspired bard Demodocus. God has given the man the gift of song, to him beyond all others, the power to please, however the spirit stirs him on to sing.” With those commands Alcinous led the way and a file of sceptered princes took his lead, while the herald went to find the gifted bard. And the fifty-two young sailors, duly chosen, briskly following orders, went down to the shore of the barren salt sea. And once they reached the ship at the surf’s edge, first they hauled the craft into deeper water, stepped the mast amidships, canvas brailed, they made oars fast in the leather oarlock straps, moored her riding high on the swell, then disembarked and made their way to wise Alcinous’ high-roofed halls. There colonnades and courts and rooms were overflowing with crowds, a mounting host of people young and old. The king slaughtered a dozen sheep to feed his guests, eight boars with shining tusks and a pair of shambling oxen. These they skinned and dressed, and then laid out a feast to fill the heart with savor. In came the herald now, leading along the faithful bard the Muse adored above all others, true, but her gifts were mixed with good and evil both: she stripped him of sight but gave the man the power of stirring, rapturous song. Pontonous brought the bard a silver-studded chair, right amid the feasters, leaning it up against a central column — hung his high clear lyre on a peg above his head and showed him how to reach up with his hands and lift it down. And the herald placed a table by his side with a basket full of bread and cup of wine for him to sip when his spirit craved refreshment. All reached out for the good things that lay at hand and when they’d put aside desire for food and drink, the Muse inspired the bard to sing the famous deeds of fighting heroes — the song whose fame had reached the skies those days: The Strife Between Odysseus and Achilles, Peleus’ Son … how once at the gods’ flowing feast the captains clashed in a savage war of words, while Agamemnon, lord of armies, rejoiced at heart that Achaea’s bravest men were battling so. For this was the victory sign that Apollo prophesied at his shrine in Pytho when Agamemnon strode across the rocky threshold, asking the oracle for advice — the start of the tidal waves of ruin tumbling down on Troy’s and Achaea’s forces, both at once, thanks to the will of Zeus who rules the world. That was the song the famous harper sang but Odysseus, clutching his flaring sea-blue cape in both powerful hands, drew it over his head and buried his handsome face, ashamed his hosts might see him shedding tears. Whenever the rapt bard would pause in the song, he’d lift the cape from his head, wipe off his tears and hoisting his double-handled cup, pour it out to the gods. But soon as the bard would start again, impelled to sing by Phaeacia’s lords, who reveled in his tale, again Odysseus hid his face and wept. His weeping went unmarked by all the others; only Alcinous, sitting close beside him, noticed his guest’s tears, heard the groan in the man’s labored breathing and said at once to the master mariners around him, “Hear me, my lords and captains of Phaeacia! By now we’ve had our fill of food well-shared and the lyre too, our loyal friend at banquets. Now out we go again and test ourselves in contests, games of every kind — so our guest can tell his friends, when he reaches home, how far we excel the world at boxing, wrestling, jumping, speed of foot.” He forged ahead and the rest fell in behind. The herald hung the ringing lyre back on its peg and taking Demodocus by the hand, led him from the palace, guiding him down the same path the island lords had just pursued, keen to watch the contests. They reached the meeting grounds with throngs of people streaming in their trail as a press of young champions rose for competition. Topsail and Riptide rose, the helmsman Rowhard too and Seaman and Sternman, Surf-at-the-Beach and Stroke-Oar, Breaker and Bowsprit, Racing-the-Wind and Swing-Aboard and Seagirt the son of Greatfleet, Shipwrightson and the son of Launcher, Broadsea, rose up too, a match for murderous Ares, death to men — in looks and build the best of all Phaeacians after gallant Laodamas, the Captain of the People. Laodamas rose with two more sons of great Alcinous, Halius bred to the sea and Clytoneus famed for ships. And now the games began, the first event a footrace … They toed the line — and broke flat out from the start with a fast pack flying down the field in a whirl of dust and Clytoneus the prince outstripped them all by far, flashing ahead the length two mules will plow a