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But noble Odysseus remained in the hall, plotting the suitors’ death with Athena. At once he spoke winged words to Telemachus: “Telemachus, we must put all the weapons of war away inside. When the suitors miss them and question you, soothe them with gentle words: ‘I have put them out of the smoke. They no longer look as they did when Odysseus left them here and sailed for Troy; the breath of the fire has disfigured them.

“‘And a god put another, graver thought into my mind: you might grow drunk, quarrel among yourselves, and wound one another, disgracing both the feast and your courtship. Iron itself draws a man to violence.’”

So he spoke, and Telemachus obeyed his dear father. Calling his nurse Eurycleia out to him, he said: “Nurse, come, keep the women in their rooms while I put my father’s fine weapons away in the storeroom. They have lain neglected through the house, spoiled by smoke, ever since my father went away. I was still a child then.

“Now I want to put them where the breath of the fire cannot reach them.” His loving nurse Eurycleia answered: “If only, my child, you would at last take thought for the house and learn to guard all its possessions!

“But come, who will go with you and carry a light? You will not let the maids come out, though they could light your way.” Thoughtful Telemachus answered her: “This stranger will. I will not have anyone idle who eats my bread, however far he may have come.”

So he spoke, and she let his words stand. She shut the doors of the well-appointed hall. Then Odysseus and his glorious son sprang up and began carrying in the helmets, the bossed shields, and the sharp-pointed spears. Before them Pallas Athena held a golden lamp and shed a lovely light.

Then Telemachus spoke at once to his father: “Father, what a wonder meets my eyes! The walls of the hall, the handsome crossbeams, the rafters of fir, and the towering pillars all shine before me as though a fire were blazing.

“Surely one of the gods who hold the broad heavens is here.” Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Be silent. Keep your thoughts to yourself and ask no questions. This is the way of the gods who dwell on Olympus.

“Now go to bed. I will remain here to sound out the women and your mother further. In her grief she will question me about everything.” So he spoke, and Telemachus went through the hall by the light of blazing torches to the chamber where he always slept when sweet sleep came upon him. There he lay down now and waited for holy Dawn.

But noble Odysseus remained in the hall, plotting the suitors’ death with Athena. Then wise Penelope came out of her chamber, like Artemis or golden Aphrodite.

Beside the fire they set her chair, inlaid with ivory and silver, and she sat down. The craftsman Icmalius had made it long ago, with a footstool fitted to its frame; over it a great fleece was spread.

There wise Penelope took her seat. The white-armed maids came from the hall and cleared away the heaps of food, the tables, and the cups from which the arrogant men had drunk. They emptied the embers from the braziers onto the ground, then piled them high with fresh wood to give both light and warmth.

Then Melantho again began to abuse Odysseus: “Stranger, are you still here to plague us, prowling through the house at night and spying on the women? Out with you, wretch! Be content with your supper, or you will soon be driven out with a burning brand.”

Resourceful Odysseus glowered at her and said: “Wretched woman, why do you bear me such a bitter grudge? Is it because I am dirty, dressed in rags, and beg my way through the land? Necessity drives me.

“That is the lot of beggars and wandering men. I too once lived in a wealthy house among my fellows, blessed with prosperity, and often gave to a wanderer, whoever he might be and whatever need had brought him. I had servants beyond counting and all the other things that make men live well and be called rich.

“But Zeus, the son of Cronus, brought it all to ruin; such, I suppose, was his will. So take care, woman, that you do not lose all the beauty by which you now outshine the other maids. Your mistress may turn angry and punish you, or Odysseus may return: there is still room for hope.

“And even if he has indeed perished and will never come home, by Apollo’s grace he has a son now such as Telemachus. No woman in these halls can misbehave without his knowing it; he is no longer a child.”

So he spoke, and wise Penelope heard him. She rebuked the maid, addressing her by name: “You brazen creature, you shameless bitch! I am well aware of your outrageous conduct, and you will pay for it with your own head. You knew perfectly well—you heard it from my own lips—that I meant to question this stranger here in my hall about my husband, for I am sorely troubled.”

Then she spoke to the housekeeper Eurynome: “Eurynome, bring a stool and put a fleece on it, so that the stranger may sit and talk with me and listen to what I say. I wish to question him.”

So she spoke, and Eurynome hurried to bring a polished stool and spread a fleece upon it. There long-suffering, noble Odysseus sat down. Wise Penelope began their conversation: “Stranger, I myself will ask you first: who are you, and where do you come from? Where is your city, and who are your parents?”

Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Lady, no mortal on the boundless earth could find fault with you. Your fame reaches the broad heavens, like that of a blameless king who fears the gods and rules over many mighty men, upholding justice. Under his good rule the dark earth bears wheat and barley, the trees are heavy with fruit, the flocks bear young unfailingly, the sea yields fish, and his people flourish.

“So question me here in your house about anything else, but do not ask about my family or my native land, lest the memory fill my heart with still more pain. I have sorrow enough already. Nor is it right for me to sit weeping and lamenting in another man’s house: endless mourning does no good. One of your servants, or you yourself, might take offence and say I was swimming in tears because wine had clouded my wits.”

Wise Penelope answered him: “Stranger, the immortals destroyed my beauty, my figure, and all my excellence when the Argives sailed for Ilium, and my husband Odysseus went with them. If he were to return and care for my life, my fame would be greater and more glorious.

“But now I grieve; so many sorrows has a god brought down upon me. All the princes who rule the islands—Dulichium, Same, and wooded Zacynthus—and those who dwell here in clear-seen Ithaca, all court me against my will and consume my household.

“That is why I give no thought to strangers or suppliants, or even heralds, who serve the public. Longing for Odysseus, I waste my heart away. They press for marriage; I spin out schemes.

“First a god inspired me to set up a great loom in the hall and weave a shroud, fine and very broad. At once I told them: ‘Young men, my suitors, since noble Odysseus is dead, eager though you are for marriage, wait until I finish this cloth, so that my thread will not have been spun in vain. It is a burial shroud for the lord Laertes, against the day when the cruel doom of pitiless death lays him low. I would not have any Achaean woman in the land reproach me because a man who won such wealth should lie without a winding-sheet.’

“So I spoke, and their proud hearts yielded. Then by day I would weave at the great loom, but at night, with torches set beside me, I would unravel it. For three years I kept my secret and deceived the Achaeans. But when the fourth year came, as the seasons rolled on and the months waned and many days passed by, then, through the fault of my maids—those shameless bitches—they came upon me, caught me, and angrily reproached me.

“So I finished it against my will, under compulsion. Now I can neither escape the marriage nor devise another scheme. My parents strongly urge me to marry, and my son chafes at the way these men devour his wealth. He understands it now: he is a grown man, fully able to care for his own house, a man to whom Zeus grants honour.

“But even so, tell me your family and where you come from. You cannot have sprung from the oak or the rock of ancient story.” Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Honoured wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, will you never cease questioning me about my birth?

“Then I will tell you, though you will burden me with still more sorrow than I bear. That is what happens when a man has been away from his homeland as long as I have, wandering through many cities and enduring pain. Yet even so I will answer what you ask and wish to know.

“There is a land called Crete in the midst of the wine-dark sea, beautiful and fertile, with water all around it. Countless people live there, and ninety cities stand upon it. Many languages mingle there: Achaeans dwell in it, great-hearted native Cretans, Cydonians, Dorians in their three tribes, and noble Pelasgians.

“Among its cities is great Knossos, where Minos ruled, holding converse with mighty Zeus every ninth year. He was the father of my father, great-hearted Deucalion. Deucalion fathered me and lord Idomeneus. Idomeneus sailed for Ilium in his curved ships with the sons of Atreus. My renowned name is Aethon; I am the younger, while he was older and the better man.

“There I saw Odysseus and gave him hospitality. For the force of the wind drove him to Crete when he was bound for Troy, sweeping him off course beyond Malea. He anchored at Amnisus, where the cave of Eileithyia stands, in a difficult harbour, and barely escaped the storm.

“At once he went up to the city and asked for Idomeneus, saying that he was a dear and honoured guest-friend of his. But it was already the tenth or eleventh day since Idomeneus had sailed in his curved ships for Ilium.

“So I took him to my house and entertained him well, welcoming him warmly, for there was abundance in my home. For the companions who had come with him I gathered barley meal and sparkling wine from the people and provided cattle for slaughter, so that they might eat their fill.

“There the noble Achaeans stayed twelve days, for a mighty north wind penned them in, so fierce that a man could scarcely keep his feet even on land: some hostile god had raised it. But on the thirteenth day the wind fell, and they put to sea.”

He fashioned many lies that bore the likeness of truth. As she listened, her tears flowed and her flesh seemed to melt away. As snow melts on the mountain heights when the east wind thaws what the west wind has piled there, and the rivers swell with its melting streams, so her lovely cheeks melted as she shed tears, weeping for the husband who sat beside her. Odysseus pitied his weeping wife in his heart, but his eyes remained motionless between their lids, as though they were horn or iron. By cunning he concealed his tears.

When she had found relief in her tearful lament, she spoke to him again: “Now, stranger, I mean to test you, to see whether you truly entertained my husband and his godlike companions there in your house, as you say.

“Tell me what clothes he wore, what he himself was like, and about the companions who followed him.” Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Lady, it is hard to tell after so long a time. This is already the twentieth year since he left that place and departed from my homeland. Yet I will tell you as my heart recalls him.

“Noble Odysseus wore a thick purple cloak, double-folded, and it was fastened with a golden brooch fitted with twin clasps. On its face was a cunningly wrought design: a hound held a dappled fawn between its forepaws, gripping it as it struggled. Everyone marvelled at them: though both were gold, the hound seemed to clutch the fawn and throttle it, while the fawn kicked its legs, struggling to escape.

“I noticed too the shining tunic against his skin, fine as the skin of a dried onion, so soft it was, and bright as the sun. Many women gazed at him in wonder.

“And I will tell you something else; take it to heart. I do not know whether Odysseus had worn these clothes at home, whether one of his companions had given them to him as he boarded his swift ship, or whether some guest-friend had done so. Odysseus was loved by many; few Achaeans were his equal.

“I too gave him a bronze sword, a handsome purple cloak, double-folded, and a fringed tunic, and sent him off with honour aboard his well-benched ship. A herald accompanied him, a little older than himself, and I will tell you what he was like.

“He was round-shouldered, dark-skinned, and curly-haired; his name was Eurybates. Odysseus valued him above all his other companions because their minds were in accord.” So he spoke, and stirred in her a still stronger longing to weep, for she recognized the sure tokens Odysseus had described.

When she had found relief in her tearful lament, she answered him: “Stranger, though I pitied you before, from now on you shall be loved and honoured in my house. For I myself gave him those clothes you speak of, taking them folded from the storeroom, and I fastened the shining brooch upon him for his adornment. But I shall never welcome him home again to his dear native land.

“It was an evil fate that sent Odysseus out in his hollow ship to see that accursed Ilium—may its very name perish!” Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Honoured wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, do not mar your lovely flesh any longer or waste your heart with mourning for your husband. Not that I blame you: a woman mourns even for a husband less worthy than Odysseus, when she has lost the man she married in her youth, whose love she shared and whose children she bore. And they say Odysseus was like the gods.

“But cease your weeping and listen to my words. I will tell you truly and hide nothing: I have lately heard news of Odysseus and his return. He is alive and nearby, in the fertile land of the Thesprotians, and is bringing home many splendid treasures, gifts he has gathered among the people. But he lost his faithful companions and his hollow ship on the wine-dark sea as he sailed from the island of Thrinacia, for Zeus and Helios were angry with him: his companions had killed the cattle of the Sun.

“They all perished in the surging sea, but a wave cast him ashore astride his ship’s keel, in the land of the Phaeacians, who are close kin to the gods. They honoured him with all their hearts, as though he were a god, gave him many gifts, and wished to send him home unharmed themselves. Odysseus could have been here long ago, but he thought it more profitable to travel far and wide gathering wealth. In the arts of gain Odysseus surpasses all mortal men; no other could rival him.

“So Pheidon, king of the Thesprotians, told me. As he poured a libation in his house, he swore to me that a ship had been launched and a crew stood ready to take Odysseus home to his own dear country.

“But he sent me off first, for a ship of Thesprotian men happened to be sailing for wheat-rich Dulichium. He showed me all the wealth Odysseus had gathered. The treasures lying in the king’s house would maintain another man’s descendants to the tenth generation.

“He said Odysseus had gone to Dodona to hear the will of Zeus from the god’s high-crested oak: how he should return to his dear native land after his long absence, openly or in secret.

“So he is safe and will be here very soon. He will not remain far from his friends and his native land much longer. I will give you my oath on it. Let Zeus, highest and greatest of the gods, be my first witness, and the hearth of blameless Odysseus to which I have come: all these things shall happen as I say.

“Within this very month Odysseus will return, as the old moon wanes and the new begins.” Wise Penelope answered him: “If only, stranger, your words might come true! You would soon know such kindness and receive so many gifts from me that anyone who met you would call you blessed.

“But in my heart I foresee what will happen: neither will Odysseus return home, nor will you obtain an escort. There are no masters now in this house such as Odysseus was among men—if ever he truly lived—to welcome honoured strangers and speed them on their way.

“But come, maids, wash him and prepare a bed, with bedding, cloaks, and shining coverlets, so that he may lie warm until Dawn takes her golden throne. Early in the morning bathe him and anoint him, so that he may sit in the hall beside Telemachus and enjoy his meal. It will go hard with any of those men who torments him and wounds his heart: he shall accomplish nothing more in this house, however fiercely he may rage.

“For how, stranger, could you learn whether I surpass other women in judgement and prudent thought, if you were to dine in my hall unkempt and clothed in rags? Human life is short.

“If a man is harsh and harbours harsh thoughts, all mortals call down suffering upon him while he lives, and mock him when he dies. But if a man is blameless and his thoughts are blameless, his guests spread his fame far and wide among mankind, and many speak of his goodness.”

Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Honoured wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, cloaks and shining coverlets became hateful to me when first I left the snowy mountains of Crete aboard a long-oared ship. I will lie as I have lain through sleepless nights before. Many a night have I passed on a wretched bed, waiting for holy Dawn upon her lovely throne.

“Nor does the washing of my feet give my heart any pleasure. No woman among the servants of your household shall touch my feet, unless there is some old woman, trustworthy and wise, who has suffered in her heart as much as I have. I would not begrudge such a woman the touch of my feet.”

Wise Penelope answered him: “Dear stranger, never has so thoughtful a man among all our guests from distant lands come to my house. Everything you say is spoken with such wisdom and good sense. I have an old woman here whose mind is full of prudent counsel. She nursed that unhappy man and tended him well, taking him into her arms when his mother first bore him. She shall wash your feet, though she is feeble now.

“Come, wise Eurycleia, rise and wash this man, who is your master’s age. By now Odysseus too must have feet and hands like these, for men grow old quickly in adversity.”

So she spoke, and the old woman covered her face with her hands, shed hot tears, and uttered a cry of grief: “Oh, my child, I can do nothing for you! Surely Zeus has hated you beyond all other men, though your heart revered the gods.

“No mortal ever burned so many rich thighbones for Zeus who delights in thunder, or so many choice hecatombs, as you gave him, praying that you might reach a prosperous old age and rear your glorious son. Yet now, from you alone, he has utterly taken away the day of homecoming.

“Perhaps the women of distant strangers mocked him too when he came to some great house, just as all these bitches mock you. To escape their insults and their shameless treatment, you will not let them wash you. But Icarius’ daughter, wise Penelope, has asked me, and I am willing.

“So I will wash your feet, for Penelope’s sake and for your own, for grief stirs deep within my heart. But listen now to what I say. Many suffering strangers have come here, yet never have I seen anyone so like Odysseus as you are in figure, voice, and feet.”

Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Old woman, all who have seen us both with their own eyes say that we are very much alike, just as you yourself so shrewdly observe.”

So he spoke, and the old woman took the shining basin in which she washed his feet. She poured in plenty of cold water, then added hot. Odysseus sat beside the hearth and quickly turned towards the darkness, for suddenly the thought had struck him that, as she handled him, she might recognize his scar and all would be revealed.

She drew near and began to wash her master. At once she recognized the scar a boar had once given him with its white tusk when he went to Parnassus to visit Autolycus and his sons. Autolycus was his mother’s noble father, who surpassed all men in thievery and cunning oaths. The god Hermes himself had granted him those gifts, for Autolycus burned the thighbones of lambs and kids to please him, and the god gladly attended him.

Autolycus had once come to the fertile land of Ithaca and found his daughter’s newborn son. As he finished supper, Eurycleia laid the baby upon his knees and said to him: “Autolycus, find a name yourself to give your daughter’s dear son. He has long been prayed for.”

Autolycus answered her: “My son-in-law and daughter, give him the name I tell you. I have come here bearing anger towards many men and women throughout the nourishing earth. Let his name therefore be Odysseus, a name to remember that anger. And when he has grown and comes to the great house of his mother’s kin on Parnassus, where my possessions lie, I will give him some of them and send him home rejoicing.”

For those gifts Odysseus came, so that Autolycus might bestow them. Autolycus and his sons greeted him with clasped hands and gentle words. His mother’s mother, Amphithea, threw her arms around Odysseus and kissed his head and both his lovely eyes.

Autolycus ordered his glorious sons to prepare a feast, and they obeyed him. At once they brought in a five-year-old bull, flayed and dressed it, and cut it into pieces. Skilfully they sliced the meat, threaded it on spits, roasted it with care, and divided the portions.

So all day long until sunset they feasted, and no one lacked his proper share. When the sun went down and darkness came, they lay down and took the gift of sleep.

When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, Autolycus’ sons went hunting with their hounds, and noble Odysseus went with them. They climbed the steep, wooded slopes of Parnassus and soon reached its windswept folds.

The Sun was just striking the fields as he rose from the deep, gently flowing stream of Ocean when the hunters reached a valley. Before them the hounds went searching out the tracks, and behind came the sons of Autolycus. Among them noble Odysseus strode close to the dogs, brandishing his long-shadowed spear.

There in a dense thicket lay a huge boar. No force of the moist-blowing winds could penetrate it, no bright sunbeam could strike through, nor could rain pass all the way within. So dense it was, and beneath it lay a great drift of fallen leaves.

The sound of men’s and dogs’ feet reached the boar as they pressed forward. Out of the thicket he came to face them, his bristles raised, fire flashing from his eyes, and stood close before them. Odysseus was the first to rush at him, lifting his long spear in his strong hand, eager to strike. But the boar was quicker and struck him above the knee, darting sideways and tearing a long gash in his flesh with its tusk, though it did not reach the bone.

Odysseus struck him in the right shoulder, and the point of the shining spear passed straight through. The boar fell squealing in the dust, and its life flew away. Autolycus’ dear sons tended Odysseus, skilfully bound the wound of that noble, godlike man, and stopped the dark blood with a charm. Then they hurried back to their dear father’s house.

Autolycus and his sons healed him well, gave him splendid gifts, and soon sent him home rejoicing to his dear homeland of Ithaca. His father and his honoured mother welcomed him with joy and questioned him about everything, asking how he had received the scar. He told them the whole story: how a boar had struck him with its white tusk while he was hunting on Parnassus with the sons of Autolycus.

As the old woman passed her hands over the scar, she recognized it by touch and let his foot fall. His leg dropped into the basin; the bronze rang out, the basin tipped to one side, and the water spilled across the floor.

Joy and anguish seized her heart together. Her eyes filled with tears, and her voice caught in her throat. Touching Odysseus’ chin, she said: “You are truly Odysseus, my dear child! I did not know you until I had touched my master with my own hands.”

She looked towards Penelope, wishing to tell her that her dear husband was in the house. But Penelope could neither meet her gaze nor take notice, for Athena had turned her thoughts aside. Odysseus reached out with his right hand and caught the nurse by the throat; with the other he drew her close and said:

“Nurse, why do you wish to destroy me? You yourself nursed me at your breast. Now, after enduring countless hardships, I have come home in the twentieth year. But since you have recognized me and a god has put the knowledge in your heart, keep silent. Let no one else in the house discover it.

“For I tell you this, and it shall surely be fulfilled: if a god brings the proud suitors down beneath my hands, I will not spare you, nurse though you are, when I kill the other serving women in my house.”

Wise Eurycleia answered him: “My child, what words have escaped the barrier of your teeth! You know how firm and unyielding my spirit is. I will hold fast as solid rock or iron.

“And I will tell you something else; take it to heart. If a god brings the proud suitors down beneath your hands, then I will tell you which women in the house dishonour you and which are innocent.”

Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Nurse, why should you name them? There is no need. I will watch them myself and learn to know each one. Only keep silent, and leave the rest to the gods.”

So he spoke, and the old woman went through the hall to fetch water for his feet, since all the first water had spilled. When she had washed him and rubbed him richly with oil, Odysseus drew his stool close to the fire again to warm himself, covering the scar with his rags.

Wise Penelope began to speak to them: “Stranger, I myself will ask you just a little more. Soon it will be time for pleasant rest, for anyone whom sweet sleep may overcome, however troubled he may be.

“But a god has given me grief beyond measure. By day I find relief in mourning and lamenting as I attend to my own work and the work of my maids within the house. But when night comes and sleep takes hold of everyone, I lie in bed, and sharp anxieties crowd thick about my aching heart, tormenting me as I mourn.”

“As Pandareus’ daughter, the woodland nightingale, sings sweetly when spring has just begun, perched among the thick leaves of the trees, and pours out her many-toned voice in ever-changing strains, mourning her dear child Itylus, King Zethus’ son, whom she once killed with a bronze blade in her folly, so my heart is torn this way and that: should I stay beside my son and keep everything safe—my possessions, my servants, and this great high-roofed house—out of reverence for my husband’s bed and regard for what people say? Or should I now follow whichever of the Achaeans who court me in these halls is noblest and offers boundless marriage gifts?

“While my son was still a child, heedless and innocent, he would not let me marry and leave my husband’s house. But now that he is grown and has reached the full measure of youth, he begs me to leave this house and return to my father, so bitterly does he resent the wasting of his wealth, which the Achaeans are devouring.

“But come, listen to this dream of mine and interpret it. I have twenty geese about the house that come out of the water to eat wheat, and I delight in watching them. A great hook-beaked eagle came down from the mountain, broke all their necks, and killed them. They lay in a heap in the hall, while he soared into the bright sky.

“I wept and wailed, though it was only a dream, and the lovely-haired Achaean women gathered around me as I mourned pitifully because the eagle had killed my geese. But he came back and settled on a projecting roof beam, and in a human voice he soothed me, saying, ‘Take heart, daughter of far-famed Icarius. This is no dream, but a happy vision that will come true.

“‘The geese are the suitors. I was the eagle before, but now I have returned as your husband, and I shall bring a wretched death upon every suitor.’ So he spoke, and honey-sweet sleep released me. Looking around, I saw the geese in the hall, feeding on wheat beside their trough, just as before.”

Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Lady, there is no way to turn this dream aside and give it another meaning, since Odysseus himself has told you how it will come true. Destruction plainly awaits the suitors, every one of them. Not one will escape death and doom.”

Wise Penelope answered him: “Stranger, dreams are baffling things, their meaning obscure, and not all of them come true for mortals. There are two gates through which the fleeting dreams pass: one is made of horn, the other of ivory. Those that come through sawn ivory deceive us, bearing words that find no fulfilment; but those that pass out through polished horn bring true things to fulfilment, whenever a mortal sees them.

“Yet I do not think my strange dream came from there, welcome though it would be to my son and me. But I will tell you something else; take it to heart. The ill-fated dawn is coming that will part me from Odysseus’ house, for now I shall set a contest: those axes, all twelve, which he used to stand in a row in his hall, like the props beneath a ship’s keel. Standing far away, he would shoot an arrow through them.

“Now I shall set this contest before the suitors. Whichever of them most easily strings the bow in his hands and shoots an arrow through all twelve axes, I shall follow him, leaving this house where I came as a bride, so beautiful and so richly stocked. I think I shall remember it even in my dreams.”

Then resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Honoured wife of Odysseus, son of Laertes, do not put off this contest in your halls any longer. Resourceful Odysseus will return here before these men, for all their handling of the polished bow, can string it and shoot through the iron.”

Wise Penelope answered him: “Stranger, if you were willing to sit beside me in the hall and keep delighting me with your talk, sleep would never fall upon my eyelids. But mortals cannot remain sleepless for ever. The immortals have allotted a share of everything to mortal people upon the grain-giving earth.

“So I shall go upstairs and lie down in my bed, which has become a place of sorrow, always drenched with my tears since Odysseus went away to see that accursed city, Ilium, whose very name I shudder to speak.

“There I shall lie. But you may sleep here in the house, either spreading bedding on the floor or letting the servants make you a bed.” With these words she went up to her bright upper chamber, not alone: her serving women went with her.

When she had reached the upper chamber with her serving women, she wept for Odysseus, her beloved husband, until bright-eyed Athena shed sweet sleep upon her eyelids.