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Tell me, Muse, of the man of many turns, who wandered far and wide after he sacked the sacred citadel of Troy. He saw the cities of many peoples and learned their ways of thinking; he suffered many sorrows at sea, deep in his heart, struggling to save his own life and bring his companions home.

Yet even so he could not save his companions, though he longed to: they perished through their own reckless folly, the fools, who ate the cattle of Helios, the Sun, son of Hyperion. And he took from them the day of their return.

Begin wherever you will, goddess, daughter of Zeus, and tell us too their story. By then all the others who had escaped sheer destruction were home, safe from war and sea. He alone, longing for his homecoming and his wife, was held back by the queenly nymph Calypso, a goddess bright among goddesses, in her hollow caves, eager to make him her husband.

But when, in the turning of the years, the year came in which the gods had spun his fate to return home to Ithaca, not even there, among his own dear people, was he to be free of trials. All the gods pitied him except Poseidon, who raged relentlessly against godlike Odysseus until he reached his native land.

But Poseidon had gone to the Ethiopians far away, the Ethiopians who live divided at the ends of the earth, some where Hyperion sets and some where he rises, to receive a sacrifice of bulls and rams.

There he sat, delighting in the feast, while the other gods were gathered in the halls of Olympian Zeus. The father of gods and men began to speak, for his thoughts had turned to noble Aegisthus, whom far-famed Orestes, Agamemnon’s son, had killed. Remembering him, he addressed the immortals: “Ah, how mortals blame the gods! They say their troubles come from us, though they themselves, through their own reckless folly, suffer beyond their allotted share. So now Aegisthus, against his destined lot, married the wedded wife of Atreus’ son and killed him when he returned, though he knew the sheer destruction awaiting him. For we had warned him, sending Hermes, the keen-eyed slayer of Argus, to tell him neither to kill the man nor to court his wife: Orestes would avenge the son of Atreus when he came of age and longed for his own country.

“So Hermes spoke, with good intent, but could not persuade Aegisthus. Now he has paid for everything at once.” Then the goddess, bright-eyed Athena, answered him: “Our father, son of Cronus, highest of rulers, that man indeed lies dead by a fate he well deserved. So may anyone else perish who does such deeds. But my heart burns for wise Odysseus, unhappy man, who has long suffered far from those he loves on an island ringed by water, at the very navel of the sea.

“The island is wooded, and a goddess makes her home there, the daughter of baleful Atlas, who knows the depths of every sea and himself holds the tall pillars that keep earth and heaven apart.

“His daughter keeps the wretched, grieving man there, forever beguiling him with soft and coaxing words so that he may forget Ithaca. But Odysseus, yearning even to see the smoke rising from his native land, longs for death. Does not even your heart stir for him, Olympian? Did Odysseus not win your favor with sacrifices beside the Argive ships on the broad plain of Troy? Why are you so angry with him, Zeus?”

Then Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, answered her: “My child, what words have escaped the barrier of your teeth? How could I forget godlike Odysseus, who surpasses all mortals in wisdom and has offered more sacrifices than any other to the immortal gods who hold the wide heavens?

“No, it is Poseidon, the earth-holder, who bears him unrelenting anger for the Cyclops whose eye he blinded, godlike Polyphemus, mightiest of all the Cyclopes. The nymph Thoosa bore him, daughter of Phorcys, lord of the barren sea, after she lay with Poseidon in the hollow caves.

“Ever since, Poseidon the earth-shaker has not killed Odysseus, but drives him wandering far from his native land. Come, let all of us here consider his return and how he may reach home. Poseidon will put aside his anger, for he cannot stand alone against all the immortal gods and contend against their will.”

Then the goddess, bright-eyed Athena, answered him: “Our father, son of Cronus, highest of rulers, if it now pleases the blessed gods that resourceful Odysseus should return to his own home, let us send Hermes, the messenger, the slayer of Argus, to the island of Ogygia, so that he may tell the lovely-haired nymph without delay our unalterable decision: steadfast Odysseus is to return, and she must let him go. I myself will go to Ithaca to rouse his son and put courage in his heart, so that he may call the long-haired Achaeans to assembly and speak out against all the suitors, who are forever slaughtering his thronging sheep and his shambling, curved-horned cattle.

“I will send him to Sparta and sandy Pylos to ask after his dear father’s return, in case he may hear some news, and so that he himself may win a good name among men.” With these words she bound beneath her feet her beautiful sandals, immortal and golden, which carried her over the sea and the boundless earth as swiftly as the breath of the wind. She took up her mighty spear, tipped with sharp bronze, heavy, huge, and strong, with which she, the daughter of a mighty father, subdues the ranks of warriors against whom her anger burns.

Down she darted from the peaks of Olympus and stood in the land of Ithaca at the entrance to Odysseus’ house, on the threshold of the courtyard. In her hand she held the bronze spear, and she wore the likeness of a stranger, Mentes, leader of the Taphians.

There she found the arrogant suitors. They were amusing themselves with a game of counters before the doors, seated on the hides of cattle they themselves had killed. Heralds and busy servants attended them: some mixed wine and water in bowls, others washed the tables with porous sponges and set them out, while others carved great portions of meat.

Godlike Telemachus was the first by far to see her. He sat among the suitors, his heart troubled, imagining his noble father: if only he would come from somewhere, scatter the suitors through the house, regain his honor, and rule his own home.

Thinking these thoughts as he sat among the suitors, he caught sight of Athena. He went straight to the entrance, indignant at heart that a stranger should be left standing so long at the door. Coming near, he took her right hand and received her bronze spear, and spoke to her in winged words: “Welcome, stranger. You will find friendship here. When you have eaten, you can tell us what you need.”

With that he led the way, and Pallas Athena followed. Once they were inside the lofty house, he carried the spear to a tall pillar and set it in a polished spear-rack, where many other spears of steadfast Odysseus stood. Then he led her to a beautiful, richly worked chair and seated her, spreading a linen cloth beneath her; a footstool stood beneath her feet.

Beside her he placed an ornamented chair for himself, away from the other men, the suitors, so that his guest, distressed by their uproar, would not lose his pleasure in the meal among such insolent company, and so that he could question him about his absent father.

A maid brought water in a beautiful golden pitcher and poured it over a silver basin for them to wash their hands, then drew up a polished table. A respected housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, adding many dishes, generous with the food at hand. A carver brought platters of meat of every kind and placed golden cups beside them, while a herald came often to pour their wine.

Then the arrogant suitors entered. They sat in rows on chairs and seats; heralds poured water over their hands, serving women heaped bread in baskets, and young men filled the mixing bowls to the brim with drink.

They reached for the good food set before them. When the suitors had satisfied their desire for food and drink, their thoughts turned to other pleasures, song and dancing, the crowning delights of a feast. A herald placed a beautiful lyre in the hands of Phemius, who sang among the suitors under compulsion.

He struck the strings and began a lovely song. But Telemachus spoke to bright-eyed Athena, leaning his head close so the others would not hear: “Dear stranger, will you be offended by what I say?

“These men have nothing to think of but the lyre and song. It is easy for them: they consume another man’s livelihood without paying for it, a man whose white bones may be rotting in the rain somewhere on the mainland, or rolling in the waves at sea.

“If they saw him return to Ithaca, they would all pray to be swifter of foot rather than richer in gold and clothing. But now he has perished by some cruel fate, and there is no comfort for us, even if someone on earth should say that he will come. The day of his return is lost.

“But come, tell me this, and tell me truly: who are you, and where do you come from? Where is your city, and who are your parents? What kind of ship brought you here? How did the sailors bring you to Ithaca, and who did they claim to be?

“For I hardly suppose you came here on foot. And tell me this truthfully too, so that I may know: is this your first visit, or are you an old guest-friend of my father’s? Many other men used to come to our house, for he too traveled widely among men.”

Then the goddess, bright-eyed Athena, answered him: “I will tell you all this quite truthfully. I am Mentes, son of wise Anchialus, and I rule the Taphians, who love the oar.

“Now I have put in here with my ship and crew, sailing over the wine-dark sea to people of another tongue, to Temese in search of copper, with a cargo of gleaming iron. My ship lies out in the country, away from the town, in the harbor of Rheithron beneath wooded Neion.

“Our families have been guest-friends from long ago, as you can learn if you go and ask the old hero Laertes. They say he no longer comes to town, but lives apart in the country, suffering his sorrows, with an old serving woman who sets food and drink beside him whenever weariness takes hold of his limbs as he drags himself along the slope of his vineyard.

“I have come now because they said your father was back among his people. But the gods must be hindering his journey. For noble Odysseus is not yet dead upon the earth. He is still alive somewhere, held captive on the wide sea, on an island ringed by water, in the hands of fierce and savage men who keep him there against his will.

“Now I will make a prophecy, as the immortals put it in my heart and as I believe it will come to pass, though I am no seer and have no sure knowledge of birds. He will not be away from his dear native land much longer, even if iron chains hold him. He will find a way to return, for he is a man of many devices.

“But come, tell me this, and tell me truly: are you indeed Odysseus’ own son, grown so tall? Your head and your beautiful eyes are remarkably like his. We often met in those days before he sailed to Troy, where the other Argive chiefs went too in their hollow ships. Since then I have not seen Odysseus, nor has he seen me.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Stranger, I will tell you quite truthfully. My mother says I am his son, but I myself do not know. No one has ever known his own begetting.

“If only I had been the son of some fortunate man whom old age overtook among his own possessions. But as it is, they say I am the son of the most ill-fated of all mortal men, since you ask me that.”

Then the goddess, bright-eyed Athena, answered him: “Surely the gods have not decreed that your family shall be without a name in days to come, since Penelope has borne such a son as you. But come, tell me this, and tell me truly: what feast is this, and who are these people? What have you to do with it?

“Is it a banquet or a wedding? It is certainly no meal to which each brings his share. They seem to me to be feasting in your house with outrageous insolence. Any decent man who came among them would be indignant at the many shameful things he saw.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Stranger, since you ask and question me about this, our house was once, it seems, prosperous and honored, while that man was still among his people. But now the gods have willed otherwise, devising evil: they have made him vanish as no other man has vanished. I should not grieve so much even for his death, if he had fallen among his companions in the land of Troy, or in the arms of friends after he had wound up the war.

“Then all the Achaeans would have raised a burial mound for him, and he would have won great glory for his son in days to come. But now the Harpies have swept him away without glory. He is gone, unseen, unheard of, and has left me grief and lamentation. Nor is he the only reason for my mourning and my sighs, for the gods have brought me other bitter troubles.

“All the leading men who rule the islands, Dulichium and Same and wooded Zacynthus, and all who lord it over rocky Ithaca, court my mother and consume my house.

“She neither refuses the hateful marriage nor can bring it to an end, while they eat away my estate. Soon they will tear me to pieces too.” Then Pallas Athena spoke to him in anger: “Ah, how sorely you need the absent Odysseus to lay his hands upon these shameless suitors!

“If only he would come now and stand in the outer doorway of his house, with helmet, shield, and two spears, the man he was when I first saw him in our own house, drinking and making merry, on his way back from Ephyra, from Ilus, son of Mermerus! For Odysseus had gone there too in his swift ship, seeking a deadly poison with which to smear his bronze-tipped arrows. But Ilus would not give it to him, for he stood in awe of the everlasting gods. My father gave it to him, so dearly did he love him. If Odysseus came among the suitors as he was then, they would all meet a swift death and find their courtship bitter.

“But these things lie in the lap of the gods: whether he will return and take vengeance in his own halls or not. You, however, I urge to consider how to drive the suitors from your house.

“Come now, listen and attend to what I say. Tomorrow summon the Achaean warriors to assembly and tell them all your mind, with the gods as witnesses. Order the suitors to scatter to their own homes. And if your mother’s heart urges her to marry, let her return to the house of her powerful father. Her people will arrange the wedding and prepare the many gifts that should accompany a beloved daughter.

“For yourself, I have this sound advice, if you will take it. Fit out the best ship you can with twenty oarsmen and go in search of news of your long-absent father. Some mortal may tell you something, or you may hear a rumor sent by Zeus, which more than anything carries news among men.

“First go to Pylos and question noble Nestor; from there go to Sparta, to fair-haired Menelaus, for he was the last of the bronze-clad Achaeans to return. If you hear that your father is alive and coming home, then, hard-pressed though you are, you can endure another year. But if you hear that he is dead and gone, return to your dear native land, raise a burial mound for him, and celebrate his funeral with all the offerings that are fitting; then give your mother to a husband.

“When you have finished and done all this, consider in your mind and heart how you may kill the suitors in your own halls, whether by stealth or openly. You must not cling to childish ways: you are no longer a child.

“Have you not heard what glory noble Orestes won among all men when he killed his father’s murderer, the scheming Aegisthus, who had slain his famous father? You too, my friend—for I see you are tall and handsome—must be brave, so that generations yet to come may speak well of you.

“Now I will go down to my swift ship and my companions, who must be impatient as they wait for me. Take these matters to heart, and remember what I have said.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Stranger, you speak with kindness, as a father to his son, and I will never forget your words.

“But come, stay a little longer, eager though you are to be on your way, so that after you have bathed and refreshed your heart, you may go to your ship happy, carrying a gift, something precious and very beautiful, to keep as a remembrance of me, such as guest-friends give one another.”

Then the goddess, bright-eyed Athena, answered him: “Do not detain me now, for I am eager to be on my way. Whatever gift your heart prompts you to give me, give it when I return, to carry home. Choose something very fine, and you shall have a worthy gift in exchange.”

With these words bright-eyed Athena departed, flying up and away like a bird. She put strength and courage in his heart and made him think of his father even more than before. Reflecting on it, he was filled with wonder, for he realized that his guest had been a god.

At once the godlike young man went back among the suitors. The famous singer was singing to them, and they sat listening in silence. His song was of the Achaeans’ grievous return from Troy, which Pallas Athena had ordained for them.

From her upper chamber, the daughter of Icarius, thoughtful Penelope, heard and understood the inspired song. She came down the tall staircase of her house, not alone: two serving women followed her.

When that noble woman reached the suitors, she stood beside a pillar of the solidly built hall, holding her shining veil before her cheeks, with a faithful maid standing on either side.

Then, in tears, she spoke to the inspired singer: “Phemius, you know many other songs that charm men’s hearts, deeds of men and gods such as singers celebrate. Sit here and sing them one of those, and let them drink their wine in silence. But stop this sorrowful song, which forever wears away the heart within my breast, for an unforgettable grief has fallen on me beyond all others.

“So dearly do I miss that man, whose memory never leaves me, whose fame is spread through Hellas and the heart of Argos.” Then thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “My mother, why begrudge the faithful singer the pleasure of singing as his spirit moves him? It is not the singers who are to blame, but Zeus, who gives to each of us who toil for bread whatever lot he wills.

“There is no blame in this man for singing of the Danaans’ bitter fate. People praise most the song that comes newest to their ears. Let your heart and spirit bear to listen. Odysseus was not the only man to lose his day of homecoming at Troy: many others perished too.

“Go back to your own rooms and attend to your work, the loom and the distaff, and bid your servants go about their tasks. Speech is the concern of men, of all men, but mine above all, for the authority in this house is mine.”

Astonished, she went back to her rooms, taking her son’s thoughtful words to heart. She went upstairs with her serving women and wept for Odysseus, her dear husband, until bright-eyed Athena cast sweet sleep upon her eyelids.

The suitors raised an uproar through the shadowy halls, and all prayed to lie beside her in bed. Then thoughtful Telemachus began to speak: “You suitors of my mother, with your overbearing insolence, for now let us feast and take our pleasure, but let there be no shouting. It is a fine thing to listen to such a singer as this, whose voice is like a god’s.

“But tomorrow morning let us all go and sit in assembly, so that I may tell you plainly to leave my house. Find your feasts elsewhere, eating your own possessions, taking turns from house to house.

“But if you think it better and more profitable to destroy one man’s livelihood without paying for it, devour it then. I will call upon the everlasting gods, in the hope that Zeus may grant a reckoning. Then you may perish here in this house, and no payment be exacted for your deaths.”

So he spoke, and they all bit their lips, astonished at how boldly Telemachus addressed them. Then Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: “Telemachus, surely the gods themselves are teaching you lofty speech and bold words. May the son of Cronus never make you king in sea-girt Ithaca, though it is yours by inheritance from your father.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Antinous, will you be offended by what I say? I would gladly accept that too, if Zeus should give it. Do you think it the worst fate a man can have?

“It is no bad thing to be king. A king’s house soon grows rich, and he himself is held in greater honor. But there are many other Achaean chiefs in sea-girt Ithaca, young and old; one of them may have the kingship, since noble Odysseus is dead. But I shall be master of my own house and of the slaves whom noble Odysseus took as plunder for me.”

Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered him: “Telemachus, it lies in the lap of the gods which of the Achaeans shall be king in sea-girt Ithaca. May you keep your own possessions and rule your own house.

“May no man ever come to strip you of your wealth by force against your will, so long as Ithaca remains inhabited. But, my good friend, I want to ask you about the stranger. Where does this man come from? What country does he claim as his own? Where are his family and his native fields?

“Has he brought some news of your father’s return, or has he come here on business of his own? How suddenly he sprang up and was gone, without waiting for us to get to know him! He certainly did not look like a man of low birth.”

Then thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Eurymachus, my father’s homecoming is lost. I no longer believe any news that may come, nor do I heed any prophecy that my mother may seek from a seer she has called into the house.

“This stranger is an old guest-friend of my father’s, from Taphos. He says he is Mentes, son of wise Anchialus, and he rules the Taphians, who love the oar.” So Telemachus spoke, though in his heart he knew it had been an immortal goddess.

They turned to dancing and delightful song, enjoying themselves as they waited for evening to come. While they made merry, dark evening fell; then each went home to sleep.

But Telemachus went to his bedroom, built high in the beautiful courtyard in a place with a view on every side, and there he sought his bed, turning many things over in his mind. With him, carrying blazing torches, went faithful Eurycleia, daughter of Ops, son of Peisenor. Laertes had once bought her with his own wealth when she was still in the first bloom of youth, paying the price of twenty oxen. He honored her in his house as much as his devoted wife, but never shared her bed, for he wished to avoid his wife’s anger. She it was who carried the blazing torches beside Telemachus; of all the serving women she loved him most, and had nursed him when he was little.

He opened the doors of his well-built chamber, sat down on the bed, and took off his soft tunic, placing it in the wise old woman’s hands. She folded and smoothed the tunic and hung it on a peg beside the carved bedstead. Then she went out of the room, drew the door shut by its silver handle, and pulled the bolt into place with its strap.

There, all night long, wrapped in soft sheep’s wool, he pondered in his heart the journey Athena had set before him.