Prevod

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, Telemachus, the dear son of godlike Odysseus, bound his fine sandals beneath his feet and took up a sturdy spear that fitted his hand. Eager to be off to town, he spoke to his swineherd: “Father, I am going to the city so that my mother may see me. I do not think she will cease her bitter weeping and tearful lamentation until she sees me with her own eyes. But here are my instructions to you.

“Take this unfortunate stranger to town, so that he may beg his food there. Whoever wishes can give him a crust and a cup to drink. I cannot support everyone, burdened as I am with sorrows of my own. If the stranger takes great offense, it will be the worse for him. I prefer to speak the truth.”

Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “My friend, I have no wish to be kept here myself. A beggar is better off seeking his food in town than in the countryside. Whoever wishes will give me something.

“I am no longer of an age to stay on a farm and obey every order a master gives me. Go, then. This man, as you have instructed, will take me there as soon as I have warmed myself by the fire and the day grows mild.

“These clothes of mine are wretched indeed. I fear the morning frost may overcome me, and you say the town is far away.” So he spoke, and Telemachus strode swiftly out through the farmyard, sowing ruin for the suitors.

When he reached the well-built house, he carried his spear to a tall pillar and stood it there, then went inside, crossing the stone threshold. His nurse Eurycleia was the first by far to see him, as she spread fleeces over the richly worked chairs. Bursting into tears, she came straight toward him. The other slave women of steadfast Odysseus gathered around him too, lovingly kissing his head and shoulders.

Then wise Penelope came from her chamber, looking like Artemis or golden Aphrodite. Weeping, she threw her arms around her dear son and kissed his head and both his lovely eyes. Through her grief she spoke winged words: “You have come, Telemachus, my sweet light! I thought I would never see you again, when you sailed away secretly to Pylos, against my wishes, to seek news of your dear father.

“Come, tell me what you saw on your journey.” Thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Mother, do not stir me to grief or trouble the heart within my breast, now that I have escaped sheer destruction. Wash yourself, put clean clothes upon your body, and go upstairs with your women. Pray to all the gods and vow to offer perfect hecatombs, if Zeus will bring about a day of reckoning.

“I will go to the meeting place to summon a stranger who followed me home from there. I sent him ahead with my godlike companions, and told Peiraeus to take him to his house and entertain him kindly and honor him until I came.”

So he spoke, and his words did not go unheeded. She washed herself, put clean clothes upon her body, and prayed to all the gods, vowing to offer perfect hecatombs if Zeus would bring about a day of reckoning.

Then Telemachus went out through the hall, spear in hand, with two swift dogs following him. Athena shed a wondrous grace upon him, and all the people gazed in admiration as he came.

The arrogant suitors gathered around him, speaking fair words while deep in their hearts they plotted evil. But he avoided their throng and went to sit where Mentor, Antiphus, and Halitherses were sitting, old friends of his father from the beginning. They questioned him about everything.

Then Peiraeus, famed for his spear, came up to them, bringing the stranger through the city to the meeting place. Telemachus did not remain apart from his guest for long, but went to his side. Peiraeus spoke first: “Telemachus, send women to my house at once, so that I may send you the gifts Menelaus gave you.”

Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Peiraeus, we do not know how these affairs will end. If the arrogant suitors murder me secretly in my hall and divide all my father’s possessions, I would rather you had those gifts and enjoyed them than any of these men. But if I sow death and destruction for them, then bring the gifts gladly to my house, and gladly I will receive them.”

With these words he led the much-traveled stranger home. When they reached the well-built house, they laid their cloaks on chairs and seats, then stepped into the smooth-polished baths and washed.

When the slave women had bathed them and anointed them with oil, and clothed them in thick cloaks and tunics, they stepped out of the baths and sat on chairs. A maid brought water in a beautiful golden pitcher and poured it over a silver basin for them to wash their hands, then drew a polished table beside them.

The worthy housekeeper brought bread and set it before them, adding many dishes and giving freely of what was in store. His mother sat opposite, beside a pillar of the hall, reclining in a chair and spinning fine yarn.

They reached for the good food set before them. When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, wise Penelope began to speak: “Telemachus, I shall go upstairs and lie on my bed, that bed of sorrow, forever drenched with my tears since Odysseus went to Ilium with the sons of Atreus. Yet before the arrogant suitors return to this house, you have not brought yourself to tell me plainly what news, if any, you have heard of your father’s return.”

Thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “Then, Mother, I will tell you the whole truth. We went to Pylos and to Nestor, shepherd of his people. He welcomed me into his lofty house and treated me with loving kindness, as a father treats a young son who has returned from abroad after a long absence. So kindly did he and his glorious sons care for me.

“But he said he had heard from no man on earth whether steadfast Odysseus was alive or dead. Instead, he sent me on with horses and a well-built chariot to the son of Atreus, Menelaus, famed for his spear.

“There I saw Helen of Argos, for whose sake Argives and Trojans suffered so much by the gods’ will. Menelaus, loud in the war cry, asked me at once what need had brought me to holy Lacedaemon. I told him the whole truth, and then he answered me with these words: ‘Shame on them! So they would lie in the bed of a strong-hearted man, cowards though they are!

“‘As when a doe has laid her newborn, suckling fawns in a mighty lion’s lair, then wanders over the mountain slopes and grassy valleys to graze, and the lion comes back to his den and brings a hideous death upon them both, so Odysseus will bring a hideous death upon those men.

“‘Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo, if only Odysseus would meet the suitors as he was that day in well-built Lesbos, when he rose to wrestle Philomeleides in a challenge and threw him mightily, while all the Achaeans rejoiced! They would all find a swift death and a bitter wedding.

“‘But as for what you ask and entreat me to tell you, I will neither turn aside from the truth nor deceive you. Of all that the unerring Old Man of the Sea told me, I will not hide or conceal a single word.

“‘He said he had seen him on an island, suffering bitterly in the halls of the nymph Calypso, who keeps him there against his will. He cannot reach his native land, for he has neither ships with oars nor companions to carry him over the sea’s broad back.’ So spoke the son of Atreus, Menelaus, famed for his spear.

“When I had finished my business there, I came home. The immortals gave me a following wind and brought me swiftly to my own dear country.” So he spoke, stirring the heart within her breast. Then godlike Theoclymenus addressed them: “Honored wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, he does not know for certain, but listen to my words. I will prophesy truly to you and hide nothing. Let Zeus first among the gods be my witness, and this hospitable table, and the hearth of noble Odysseus to which I have come: Odysseus is already in his native land, resting or moving about, learning of these evil deeds. He is here, and he is sowing ruin for all the suitors. Such was the bird omen I observed as I sat aboard the well-benched ship, and I declared it to Telemachus.”

Wise Penelope answered him: “Stranger, if only your words might be fulfilled! You would soon know such kindness and receive so many gifts from me that anyone who met you would call you fortunate.”

While they spoke together, the suitors were amusing themselves outside Odysseus’ house, throwing discuses and hunting spears on the level ground where they had so often displayed their insolence.

But when it was time for dinner, and flocks came in from the fields on every side, driven by the usual herdsmen, Medon spoke to them. Of all the heralds, he was the one they liked best, and he attended their feasts. “Young men, now that you have all enjoyed your sports, come into the house so that we may prepare the meal. It is no bad thing to dine at the proper hour.”

So he spoke, and they rose and went, obeying his words. When they reached the well-built house, they laid their cloaks on chairs and seats, and slaughtered great sheep and fat goats, fattened hogs and a heifer from the herd, preparing their feast. Meanwhile Odysseus and the noble swineherd were making ready to leave the country for the town.

The swineherd, a leader of men, spoke first: “Stranger, since you are determined to go to town today, as my master ordered—though I myself would rather leave you here to guard the farm, I respect and fear him, lest he reproach me afterward, and a master’s rebukes are harsh—come, let us go. The day is already far advanced, and soon, toward evening, you will find it colder.”

Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “I know, I understand. You are advising a man who sees your meaning. Let us go, then, and you lead the way throughout. But give me a staff, if you have one cut somewhere, to lean on, for you say the road is very slippery.”

With that he slung his wretched bag over his shoulders, tattered all over, with a twisted cord for its strap. Eumaeus gave him a staff to his liking, and the two set out, leaving the dogs and herdsmen behind to guard the farm. He led his master toward the city, looking like a pitiful old beggar, leaning on a stick, with miserable rags about his body.

As they walked along the rugged road and drew near the town, they came to the well-built, clear-flowing fountain where the townspeople fetched their water. Ithacus, Neritus, and Polyctor had built it. A grove of water-loving poplars circled it on every side, and cold water streamed down from a rock above. Over it stood an altar to the nymphs, where all wayfarers made offerings. There Melantheus, son of Dolius, came upon them, driving goats that were the finest in all his herds for the suitors’ dinner. Two herdsmen followed with him.

When he saw them, he began to rail at them, addressing them with outrageous, shameful words that stirred Odysseus’ heart: “Now here is a villain leading a villain! As always, the gods bring like to like.

“Where are you taking this glutton, you miserable swineherd, this troublesome beggar who spoils our feasts? He will stand at every doorway, rubbing his shoulders against the posts, begging scraps—not swords or cauldrons! If you gave him to me to guard my farm, clean the pens, and carry leafy branches to the kids, he could drink whey and put some flesh on those thighs.

“But since he has learned nothing but wicked ways, he will not care to turn his hand to work. He would rather go cringing through the country, begging to feed his bottomless belly. But I tell you this, and it will surely happen: if he comes to the house of godlike Odysseus, many a footstool flung from men’s hands will batter his ribs about his head as he is pelted through the hall.”

So he spoke, and as he passed he foolishly kicked Odysseus on the hip. But he could not knock him off the path: Odysseus stood firm. He pondered whether to spring at him and kill him with his staff, or lift him up and dash his head against the ground.

But he endured it and restrained himself. The swineherd looked Melantheus full in the face and rebuked him, then raised his hands and prayed aloud: “Nymphs of the fountain, daughters of Zeus, if ever Odysseus burned for you the thighbones of lambs and kids, wrapped in rich fat, fulfill this wish of mine: let that man return, and let a god guide him here! Then he would scatter all the finery you now flaunt so insolently, forever roaming the town, while worthless herdsmen ruin your flocks.”

Melanthius the goatherd answered him: “Well, well, what talk from this vicious dog! One day I will carry him far from Ithaca in a black, well-benched ship, so that his sale may fetch me a handsome living.

“If only silver-bowed Apollo would strike Telemachus down in the hall today, or the suitors kill him, as surely as Odysseus’ day of homecoming has perished far away!” With these words he left them to make their slow way onward, while he hurried ahead and soon reached his master’s house.

He went straight inside and sat among the suitors opposite Eurymachus, whom he favored most. Those serving set a portion of meat before him, and the worthy housekeeper brought him bread to eat. Meanwhile Odysseus and the noble swineherd came near and halted, and the sound of the hollow lyre reached them, for Phemius was striking up a song. Odysseus took the swineherd by the hand and said: “Eumaeus, this is surely the beautiful house of Odysseus. It is easy to recognize, even among many others.

“One building follows another, and the courtyard is enclosed by a wall with a coping, and the double doors are strongly made. No man could easily force his way in. I can tell that many men are feasting inside, for the smell of roasting meat rises up, and the lyre sounds within—the lyre that the gods made the companion of feasts.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him: “You recognized it easily, as you are no fool in other matters either. But come, let us consider what we should do. Either you go first into the well-built house and mingle with the suitors, while I remain here, or, if you prefer, wait here and I will go ahead. But do not linger, lest someone notice you outside and throw something at you or strike you. I advise you to keep that in mind.”

Then much-enduring, noble Odysseus answered him: “I know, I understand. You are advising a man who sees your meaning. Go ahead, then, and I will remain here.

“I am no stranger to blows and missiles. My heart is patient, for I have suffered many hardships in battle and among the waves. Let this be added to them. But there is no hiding the demands of a hungry belly, that accursed thing which brings so many troubles upon men. For its sake well-benched ships are fitted out to cross the barren sea and carry ruin to their enemies.”

While they spoke together, a dog lying there raised his head and ears: Argos, the dog of steadfast Odysseus. His master himself had reared him long ago, but before he could enjoy him he had sailed for holy Ilium. In former days the young men used to take him out to hunt wild goats, deer, and hares. But now, with his master gone, he lay neglected on a great heap of mule and cattle dung piled before the doors, waiting for Odysseus’ slaves to carry it away and manure his great estate. There lay the dog Argos, infested with ticks.

Now, when he sensed Odysseus near, he wagged his tail and dropped both ears, but he no longer had the strength to come closer to his master. Odysseus turned his eyes aside and wiped away a tear, easily hiding it from Eumaeus, then quickly asked him: “Eumaeus, it is a strange thing to see this dog lying in the dung.

“He is beautifully formed, but I cannot tell whether he once had speed to match his looks, or whether he was merely one of those dogs men feed at their tables, kept by their masters only for show.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him: “Indeed, this is the dog of a man who died far away. If he were still in form and prowess what he was when Odysseus left him to go to Troy, you would marvel at his speed and strength.

“No wild creature he pursued ever escaped him in the depths of the thick forest, for he was a master at tracking too. But now misery has taken hold of him. His master has perished far from his country, and the careless women do not tend him.

“Slaves no longer care to do their rightful work when their masters are no longer there to rule them. For far-seeing Zeus takes away half a man’s worth when the day of slavery overtakes him.”

With these words he entered the well-built house and went straight through the hall among the lordly suitors. But the doom of black death seized Argos the moment he had seen Odysseus again, in the twentieth year.

Godlike Telemachus was the first by far to see the swineherd coming through the hall, and quickly beckoned him over. Eumaeus looked around and took a stool lying nearby, where the carver used to sit as he divided the plentiful meat among the suitors feasting in the hall. He carried it over and set it opposite Telemachus at his table, then sat down. A herald took a portion of meat and set it before him, with bread lifted from a basket.

Soon afterward Odysseus slipped into the house, looking like a pitiful old beggar, leaning on a stick, with miserable rags about his body. He sat on the ashwood threshold inside the doors, leaning against the cypress doorpost that a carpenter had once skillfully smoothed and straightened to the line.

Telemachus called the swineherd to him, taking a whole loaf from the beautiful basket and as much meat as his hands could hold. “Take these to the stranger and give them to him. Tell him to go around and beg from every one of the suitors. Shame is no good companion for a man in need.”

So he spoke, and the swineherd went when he heard the command. Standing close to Odysseus, he spoke winged words: “Stranger, Telemachus gives you this, and tells you to go around and beg from every one of the suitors. He says shame is no good thing for a beggar.”

Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Lord Zeus, grant that Telemachus may prosper among men, and may everything he desires in his heart come to pass.”

With that he received the food in both hands and set it down before his feet on his wretched bag. He ate while the singer sang in the hall, and just as he finished his meal, the inspired singer ceased.

The suitors raised a clamor through the hall. Then Athena stood close to Odysseus, son of Laertes, and urged him to gather crusts from the suitors, so that he might learn which of them were decent and which lawless. Yet even so, she was not to save any of them from destruction.

He set off to beg from each man in turn, moving to the right and stretching out his hand on every side, as though he had long been a beggar. They pitied him and gave, marveling at him and asking one another who he was and where he came from.

Then Melanthius the goatherd spoke among them: “Listen to me, suitors of our glorious queen, about this stranger, for I have seen him before. The swineherd brought him here, but I do not know for certain what ancestry he claims.”

So he spoke, and Antinous rebuked the swineherd: “You notorious swineherd, why did you bring this fellow to town? Have we not enough other vagabonds already, troublesome beggars who spoil our feasts?

“Are you displeased that men gather here to devour your master’s livelihood, and so you have invited this one too?” And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered him: “Antinous, noble though you are, your words are not noble. Who would go abroad to invite a stranger home unless he were one of those who practice a public craft—a prophet, a healer of sickness, a worker in wood, or an inspired singer whose songs delight us?

“Such men are welcomed everywhere throughout the boundless earth. But no one would invite a beggar to eat away his substance. Yet of all the suitors you are always the harshest to Odysseus’ slaves, and to me above all. But I do not care, so long as wise Penelope and godlike Telemachus are alive in this house.”

Thoughtful Telemachus answered him: “Be quiet. Do not waste many words replying to this man. Antinous is always accustomed to provoke us with bitter insults, and he urges the others on as well.”

Then he spoke winged words to Antinous: “Antinous, how kindly you care for me, like a father for his son, when you order me to drive this stranger from the hall with harsh commands! May the gods never bring that about.

“Take something and give it to him. I do not begrudge it; indeed, I urge you to do so. Do not hold back out of regard for my mother or any of the slaves in godlike Odysseus’ house. But no such thought is in your breast: you would much rather eat yourself than give to someone else.”

Antinous answered him: “Telemachus, you lofty talker, unrestrained in spirit, what a speech you have made! If all the suitors gave him as much as I will, this house would keep him at a distance for three months.”

So he spoke, and reached beneath the table to display the footstool on which he rested his sleek feet as he feasted. But all the others gave, filling the bag with bread and meat. Odysseus was just about to return to the threshold and taste the Achaeans’ charity, but first he stood beside Antinous and spoke: “Give me something, friend. You seem to me not the worst of the Achaeans, but the best, for you look like a king.

“Therefore you should give me a better share of bread than the others, and I would spread your fame throughout the boundless earth. I too once lived prosperously among men in a wealthy house, and often gave to a wanderer, whoever he might be and whatever need brought him. I had slaves beyond counting, and many other possessions by which men live well and are called wealthy.

“But Zeus, son of Cronus, brought me to ruin—for such, I suppose, was his will. He sent me on the long voyage to Egypt with far-roaming pirates, to bring about my destruction. In the river of Egypt I moored my curved ships.

“There I ordered my trusty companions to remain by the ships and guard them, and sent scouts out to the lookout points. But they yielded to their own arrogance and violent impulses, and at once began laying waste the Egyptians’ lovely fields, carrying off their wives and little children and killing the men. Soon the alarm reached the city.

“Hearing the shouting, they came at daybreak. The whole plain filled with foot soldiers and horses and the flashing of bronze. Then Zeus, who delights in thunder, cast a deadly panic upon my companions, and not one had the courage to stand and face them, for destruction surrounded us on every side.

“There they killed many of us with sharp bronze, and led the rest away alive to work for them by force. As for me, they gave me to a stranger who happened to be there, Dmetor, son of Iasus, who ruled mightily over Cyprus. From there I have now come here, enduring hardship.”

Antinous answered him: “What god has brought us this plague, this nuisance at our feast? Stand out there in the middle, away from my table, or you may soon find yourself in an Egypt and Cyprus bitter indeed! What a bold and shameless beggar you are!

“You stand beside each man in turn, and they give recklessly, since no one feels restraint or pity when giving away another’s goods, and each has plenty before him.” Resourceful Odysseus drew back and answered: “Well, well, your heart does not match your looks after all! You would not give even salt from your own house to a suppliant, when you sit here at another man’s table and cannot bring yourself to take a morsel of bread and give it to me, though plenty lies before you.”

So he spoke, and Antinous grew angrier still at heart. Scowling at him, he spoke winged words: “Now I think you will not get back out of this hall unscathed, since you have even begun to insult me.”

With that he seized the footstool and hurled it, striking Odysseus on the right shoulder, high on his back. But he stood firm as a rock, and Antinous’ missile did not stagger him. Silently he shook his head, brooding on revenge.

Then he went back to the threshold and sat down, laying down his well-filled bag, and addressed the suitors: “Listen to me, suitors of our glorious queen, while I tell you what the heart within my breast commands.

“There is no real bitterness or grief in a man’s heart when he is struck while fighting for his own possessions, his cattle or his white-fleeced sheep. But Antinous has struck me for the sake of this wretched belly, this accursed thing that brings so many troubles upon men.

“Yet if beggars have gods and Furies to defend them, may death overtake Antinous before his wedding.” Antinous, son of Eupeithes, answered him: “Sit still and eat, stranger, or go somewhere else. Keep talking like that, and the young men may drag you through the house by hand or foot and tear the skin from your whole body.”

So he spoke, but they were all deeply indignant, and one of the proud young men would say: “Antinous, you did wrong to strike that unfortunate wanderer. You are doomed if he proves to be some god from heaven!

“For the gods take on all manner of shapes and go about our cities in the guise of strangers from distant lands, observing the violence and good conduct of men.” So the suitors spoke, but he paid no heed to their words.

Telemachus nursed a great anguish in his heart at the blow, yet let no tear fall from his eyes. Silently he shook his head, brooding on revenge. When wise Penelope heard that the stranger had been struck in the hall, she said among her women: “May Apollo, famed for his bow, strike you down in just that way!”

Then Eurynome the housekeeper said to her: “If only our prayers could be fulfilled! Not one of them would reach fair-throned Dawn.” Wise Penelope answered her: “Nurse, they are all hateful, for they plot evil, but Antinous most of all is like black death.

“Some unfortunate stranger is wandering through the house, begging from the men, driven by poverty. All the others gave to him and filled his bag, but this man struck him on the right shoulder with a footstool.”

So she spoke among her serving women as she sat in her chamber, while noble Odysseus ate his meal. Then she called the noble swineherd to her and said: “Go, good Eumaeus, and tell the stranger to come here, so that I may greet him and ask whether he has heard anything of steadfast Odysseus, or seen him with his own eyes. He seems to have traveled far.”

And you, swineherd Eumaeus, answered her: “My queen, if only the Achaeans would keep quiet for you! The tales he tells would enchant your heart. I kept him three nights and three days in my hut, for I was the first he came to after escaping from a ship, yet he has not finished telling of his sufferings.

“As a man gazes at a singer taught by the gods to sing lovely tales to mortals, and his listeners long to hear him without end whenever he sings, so this man enchanted me as he sat beside me in my house.”

“He says he is an old guest-friend of Odysseus through his father, and that he lives in Crete, where the descendants of Minos dwell. From there he has now made his way here, driven from place to place and suffering many hardships. He declares that he has heard of Odysseus, alive and nearby, in the rich land of the Thesprotians, and says he is bringing many treasures home to this house.”

Then thoughtful Penelope answered him: “Go and call him here, so that he can tell me himself, face to face. As for these men, let them sit at the doors and amuse themselves, or here in the halls, since their hearts are so merry.

“Their own possessions lie untouched at home, their grain and sweet wine, which their servants consume. But they come to our house day after day, slaughtering cattle and sheep and fat goats, feasting and drinking the fiery wine without restraint. Our wealth is being squandered. For there is no man here like Odysseus to ward off ruin from the house.

“If Odysseus should come back to his native land, he and his son would soon make these men pay for their violence.” So she spoke, and Telemachus gave a mighty sneeze that rang fearfully through the hall. Penelope laughed, and at once addressed Eumaeus with winged words: “Go, call the stranger here into my presence.

“Do you not see how my son has sneezed at all my words? Surely, then, death will come to every one of the suitors: not one will escape death and doom. And I will tell you something else; take it to heart. If I find that everything he tells me is true, I will clothe him in a cloak and tunic, fine garments.”

So she spoke, and the swineherd went when he had heard her message. Standing close to Odysseus, he addressed him with winged words: “Old friend, thoughtful Penelope, the mother of Telemachus, is calling for you. Despite all the sorrows she has suffered, her heart urges her to question you about her husband.

“If she finds that everything you tell her is true, she will clothe you in a cloak and tunic, the things you need most. As for food, you can fill your belly by begging through the country; whoever wishes will give you something.”

Then steadfast, noble Odysseus answered him: “Eumaeus, I would gladly tell the whole truth to Icarius’ daughter, thoughtful Penelope. I know her husband well, for we have shared the same suffering.

“But I am afraid of this crowd of brutal suitors, whose arrogance and violence reach the iron sky. Just now, when that man struck me as I walked through the hall, though I had done no wrong, and caused me pain, neither Telemachus nor anyone else did anything to protect me.

“So now tell Penelope, eager though she is, to wait in her chambers until the sun has set. Then let her ask me about her husband’s homecoming, and seat me nearer the fire, for the clothes I wear are wretched. You know that yourself, since it was to you I first came for help.”

So he spoke, and the swineherd went when he had heard his message. As he crossed the threshold, Penelope said to him: “You have not brought him, Eumaeus. What does the wanderer mean by this?

“Is he afraid of someone’s violence, or is he simply ashamed to come into the hall? A beggar does himself no good by being shy.” And you, Eumaeus the swineherd, answered her: “He speaks reasonably, as anyone else might who wished to escape the brutality of overbearing men.

“He asks you to wait until the sun has set. And it would be far better for you yourself, my queen, to speak with the stranger alone and hear what he has to say.” Then thoughtful Penelope answered him: “The stranger is no fool. He sees things as they truly are. Surely nowhere among mortal men are there any who act with such arrogance and devise such wicked deeds.”

So she spoke, and the good swineherd went back among the suitors, having delivered the whole message. At once he addressed Telemachus with winged words, holding his head close so the others would not hear: “My dear boy, I am going away to look after the pigs and everything there, your livelihood and mine. You must see to everything here.

“Above all, keep yourself safe, and take care that no harm comes to you. Many of the Achaeans are plotting evil. May Zeus destroy them before they bring disaster upon us.” Then wise Telemachus answered him: “It shall be as you say, father. But have your evening meal before you go. Come at dawn and bring fine beasts for sacrifice. Everything here will be the concern of the immortals and me.”

So he spoke, and Eumaeus sat down again on the polished stool. When he had satisfied his appetite with food and drink, he set off for his pigs, leaving the courtyard and the hall full of banqueters. They were taking their pleasure in dancing and song, for evening had already come.