Prevod
When early-born, rosy-fingered Dawn appeared, the sacred majesty of Alcinous rose from his bed, and Zeus-born Odysseus, sacker of cities, rose as well. Alcinous led the way to the Phaeacians’ assembly ground, which stood beside their ships.
When they arrived, they sat side by side on polished stones. Meanwhile Pallas Athena went through the city in the likeness of wise Alcinous’ herald, planning a homecoming for great-hearted Odysseus. Standing beside each man, she said, “Come, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians, make your way to the assembly, to hear about the stranger who has just reached wise Alcinous’ house after wandering over the sea, a man like the immortals in stature.”
With these words she stirred the spirit and courage of every man. The assembly ground and its seats quickly filled with the gathering people, and many gazed in wonder at Laertes’ wise son. Athena poured a heavenly grace over his head and shoulders, making him look taller and more powerfully built, so that all the Phaeacians would welcome him with awe and respect, and he might accomplish the many feats in which they were to test him.
When they had gathered and were all together, Alcinous addressed them: “Listen, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians, while I tell you what the heart within my breast commands.
“This stranger—I do not know who he is—has come wandering to my house, whether from the peoples of the east or of the west. He urgently asks for passage home and begs us to make it certain. Let us arrange his escort, as we have done before.
“For no one else who comes to my house stays here long in sorrow for want of passage. Come, let us launch a black ship on the shining sea, one that has never sailed before, and let fifty-two young men be chosen from the people, the finest there have ever been.
“When you have all secured the oars at their benches, come ashore, and then come to my house and set about preparing a speedy feast. I shall provide generously for everyone. These are my orders for the young men. As for the rest of you, sceptre-bearing kings, come to my splendid house so that we may entertain the stranger in our halls; let no one refuse. And summon the inspired singer Demodocus, for a god has given him beyond all others the gift of delighting us with song, whatever his heart prompts him to sing.”
With these words he led the way, and the sceptre-bearing kings followed. A herald went to fetch the inspired singer, while the fifty-two chosen young men made their way, as he had ordered, to the shore of the barren sea.
When they reached the ship and the sea, they dragged the black vessel into deep water, set the mast and sails aboard, fitted the oars in leather loops, all in proper order, and spread the white sails.
They moored her well out in the water, then went to the great house of wise Alcinous. Porticoes, courtyards, and halls filled with the gathering men, a great company of young and old.
For them Alcinous slaughtered twelve sheep, eight white-tusked boars, and two shambling oxen. They skinned and dressed them, and prepared a delightful feast.
The herald came near, leading the honoured singer, whom the Muse loved above all others and had given both good and evil: she had taken away his sight, but given him sweet song.
For him Pontonous set a silver-studded chair among the guests, leaning it against a tall pillar. The herald hung his clear-toned lyre on a peg just above his head and showed him how to reach it with his hands. Beside him he placed a basket and a handsome table, and a cup of wine to drink whenever his heart desired.
They reached for the good food set ready before them. When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, the Muse stirred the singer to sing of the glorious deeds of men, from a tale whose fame then reached the broad heavens: the quarrel of Odysseus and Achilles, son of Peleus, how once at a rich feast of the gods they contended with fierce words, while Agamemnon, lord of men, rejoiced in his heart that the best of the Achaeans were quarrelling.
For so Phoebus Apollo had foretold to him at holy Pytho, when he crossed the stone threshold to consult the oracle. Then, through the designs of great Zeus, the beginning of calamity was rolling upon Trojans and Danaans alike.
So the renowned singer sang. But Odysseus took his great purple cloak in his strong hands and drew it over his head, hiding his handsome face, for he was ashamed to let the Phaeacians see the tears falling beneath his brows.
Whenever the inspired singer paused, Odysseus wiped his tears away, drew the cloak from his head, and, taking his two-handled cup, poured a libation to the gods. But whenever the singer began again, urged on by the Phaeacian nobles, who delighted in his words, Odysseus covered his head once more and wept.
His tears escaped the notice of all the others. Alcinous alone observed and understood, for he sat close beside him and heard his heavy groans. At once he addressed the oar-loving Phaeacians: “Listen, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians.
“We have now had our hearts’ fill of the shared feast and of the lyre, the companion of a lavish banquet. Now let us go outside and try our hands at every kind of contest, so that when our guest returns home he may tell his friends how far we surpass other men in boxing, wrestling, jumping, and running.”
With these words he led the way, and they followed. The herald hung the clear-toned lyre on its peg, took Demodocus by the hand, and led him from the hall. He guided him along the same road the other Phaeacian nobles had taken to watch the games.
They went to the assembly ground, and a vast crowd followed, thousands of people. Many fine young men stood up to compete. There were Acroneos, Ocyalus, and Elatreus, Nauteus, Prymneus, Anchialus, and Eretmeus, Ponteus and Proreus, Thoon and Anabesineos, and Amphialus, son of Polyneus, the son of Tecton. Euryalus too stood up, a match for man-destroying Ares, the son of Naubolus, who in face and form was the finest of all the Phaeacians after peerless Laodamas.
The three sons of noble Alcinous also stood up: Laodamas, Halius, and godlike Clytoneus. First they tried their speed on foot. The course stretched out before them from the starting line, and all at once they flew swiftly over the plain, raising the dust. Peerless Clytoneus was by far the finest runner. By the length of a furrow that mules plough in fallow land, he outstripped the others and reached the crowd, leaving them behind.
Next they tried the arduous wrestling, and in this Euryalus defeated all the champions. Amphialus excelled them all in jumping, while Elatreus was by far the best at throwing the discus, and Laodamas, Alcinous’ noble son, at boxing.
When they had all delighted their hearts with the games, Laodamas, son of Alcinous, spoke among them: “Come, friends, let us ask the stranger whether he knows and has practised any sport. He is not badly built: look at his thighs and calves, his two arms, his sturdy neck and mighty strength. Nor is he past his prime, though he has been broken by many hardships. For I say there is nothing worse than the sea for wearing a man down, however strong he may be.”
Euryalus answered him: “Laodamas, you have spoken well. Go yourself now and challenge him; put the matter to him.” When Alcinous’ noble son heard this, he stepped into the middle and addressed Odysseus: “Come, honoured stranger, try your hand at the games, if you have learned any sport. You look like a man who knows them. For there is no greater glory for a man, as long as he lives, than what he achieves with his own hands and feet.
“Come, make the attempt, and scatter the cares from your heart. Your journey will not be delayed much longer: already your ship is launched and your companions are ready.”
Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Laodamas, why do you urge me to this in mockery? My mind is more on sorrow than on games. I have already suffered much and endured many hardships, and now I sit in your assembly longing for my homecoming, pleading with your king and all your people.”
Then Euryalus answered, taunting him openly: “Indeed, stranger, I would not take you for a man skilled in any of the many sports practised among men. You seem more like someone who spends his days aboard a many-benched ship, the captain of a crew of traders, with an eye for cargo, keeping watch over the freight and the profits he can snatch. You do not look like an athlete.”
Resourceful Odysseus looked darkly at him and said: “Stranger, that was an ugly speech. You seem a reckless fellow. The gods do not grant every grace to every man—neither beauty, nor intelligence, nor eloquence.
“One man may be less striking in appearance, yet a god crowns his words with beauty, and people look on him with delight. He speaks with assurance and gentle modesty, stands out among the assembled people, and as he walks through the city they gaze on him as on a god.
“Another may look like the immortals, yet no grace crowns his speech. So it is with you: your appearance is splendid, and not even a god could improve it, but your mind is worthless.
“You have stirred the heart within my breast by speaking so improperly. I am not unskilled in games, as you claim. I believe I ranked among the foremost while I could still trust in my youth and in my hands.
“Now I am held fast by misery and pain, for I have endured much, passing through the wars of men and the grievous waves. Even so, despite all I have suffered, I shall try the games. Your words bite deep into the heart, and by speaking them you have provoked me.”
He spoke, and sprang up, cloak and all, and seized a discus larger and thicker, and considerably heavier, than those the Phaeacians had been throwing among themselves. He swung it round and hurled it from his powerful hand. The stone hummed, and the long-oared Phaeacians, those men renowned for ships, crouched to the ground beneath its rush. Flying swiftly from his hand, it sailed beyond all their marks. Athena, in the likeness of a man, marked where it fell and called out, “Even a blind man, stranger, could distinguish your mark by feeling for it, for it is not lost among the others but lies far ahead. Take heart in this contest: no Phaeacian will reach that throw, much less surpass it.”
So she spoke, and much-enduring, noble Odysseus rejoiced, glad to see a friendly supporter in the gathering. Then, with a lighter heart, he addressed the Phaeacians: “Reach that mark now, young men. Before long I expect to send another throw as far, or farther still.
“As for the other contests, let anyone whose heart and spirit urge him come and try me—you have angered me beyond endurance—in boxing, wrestling, or running. I refuse none of the Phaeacians, except Laodamas himself.
“For he is my host. Who would contend against a man who has welcomed him? A man must be foolish and worthless indeed to challenge his host at games in a foreign land. He only damages his own interests.
“But of the others I refuse no one and disdain no one. I wish to know them and test myself against them face to face. I am not poor at any of the sports men practise. I know well how to handle a polished bow. I would be the first to strike a man with an arrow in a throng of enemies, even if many comrades stood beside me, all shooting at the men.
“Only Philoctetes surpassed me with the bow in the land of Troy, when we Achaeans competed in archery. But I claim to be far better than all the rest who live on earth today and eat its bread.
“Yet I would not wish to rival the men of earlier times, neither Heracles nor Eurytus of Oechalia, who challenged even the immortals with their bows. That was why great Eurytus died young and never reached old age in his halls: Apollo grew angry and killed him because he challenged him to an archery contest.
“I can throw a spear farther than another man can shoot an arrow. Only in running do I fear that one of the Phaeacians might outstrip me. For I have been cruelly battered by the countless waves, and there was no constant supply of food aboard my craft. That has sapped the strength of my limbs.”
So he spoke, and all of them fell silent. Alcinous alone answered him: “Stranger, what you have said among us is not unwelcome. You wish to show the prowess that is yours, angered because this man stood before the gathering and insulted you. No mortal who knew in his heart how to speak fittingly would belittle your prowess. But now listen to my words, so that you may tell other heroes, when you feast in your own halls beside your wife and children, remembering our excellence and the accomplishments Zeus has granted us from our fathers’ days to this.
“We are not faultless boxers or wrestlers, but we run swiftly and are unrivalled at sea. Always we love feasting, the lyre, dancing, changes of clothing, warm baths, and our beds.
“Come then, you finest dancers of the Phaeacians, perform, so that when our guest returns home he may tell his friends how far we surpass others in seamanship, running, dancing, and song.
“And let someone go at once and bring Demodocus the clear-toned lyre that lies somewhere in our house.” So spoke godlike Alcinous, and the herald set off to fetch the hollow lyre from the king’s house.
The nine chosen stewards of the people, who managed every detail of the games, all rose. They levelled the dancing floor and cleared a fine broad space. The herald came near, bringing the clear-toned lyre to Demodocus, who then moved into the centre. Around him stood young men in the first bloom of youth, skilled dancers, and they struck the splendid dancing floor with their feet. Odysseus watched the flashing of their feet and marvelled in his heart.
Then the singer struck his lyre and began a beautiful song about the love of Ares and fair-crowned Aphrodite: how they first lay together secretly in the house of Hephaestus. Ares gave her many gifts and dishonoured the bed and marriage couch of lord Hephaestus. But Helios, who had seen them embracing in love, came at once to tell him.
When Hephaestus heard the bitter news, he went to his forge, brooding over vengeance in his heart. He set a great anvil on its block and hammered out bonds that could neither be broken nor undone, to hold them fast where they were.
When, in his anger at Ares, he had finished the snare, he went to the chamber where his own bed stood. He spread the bonds all round the bedposts, and many more hung down from the rafters overhead, fine as spiders’ webs. No one could have seen them, not even one of the blessed gods, so cunningly were they made.
When he had spread the whole snare around the bed, he pretended to leave for Lemnos, that well-built city, the land he loved most of all. Nor did Ares of the golden reins keep a blind watch. When he saw Hephaestus, the renowned craftsman, going away, he made for his house, yearning for the love of fair-crowned Cytherea.
She had just returned from her father, the mighty son of Cronus, and was sitting down. Ares entered the house, took her hand, and said, “Come, my love, let us go to bed and lie together. Hephaestus is no longer here among his people; by now he must be on his way to Lemnos, to the Sintians of the savage tongue.”
So he spoke, and she welcomed the thought of lying with him. They went to bed and lay down, and the cunning bonds of ingenious Hephaestus fell around them. They could neither move nor lift a limb.
Then at last they understood that there was no escape. The renowned lame god came near, having turned back before he reached the land of Lemnos, for Helios had kept watch for him and brought him word.
He went towards his house, sick at heart, and stood in the doorway, seized by savage anger. He gave a dreadful shout and called to all the gods: “Father Zeus, and all you other blessed gods who live for ever, come and see a sight to make you laugh—and rage! See how Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter, always dishonours me because I am lame, and loves destructive Ares because he is handsome and sound of limb, while I was born crippled. No one else is to blame but my two parents. Would they had never brought me into the world!
“But look how those two have climbed into my bed and lie there making love, while I look on in anguish. Yet I doubt they will lie like that much longer, however deeply they love each other. Soon neither will wish to stay in bed. Still, my cunning bonds will hold them until her father gives me back every bridal gift I handed him for his shameless daughter. His daughter may be beautiful, but she has no self-restraint.”
So he spoke, and the gods gathered at the house with its bronze floor. Poseidon the earth-holder came, and helpful Hermes, and lord Apollo, who strikes from afar. But the goddesses stayed at home, each out of modesty.
The gods, givers of good things, stood in the doorway, and unquenchable laughter rose among the blessed gods as they looked on the handiwork of ingenious Hephaestus. One would glance at his neighbour and say, “Evil deeds do not prosper. The slow catches the swift! See how Hephaestus, slow though he is, has caught Ares, the swiftest of all the gods who dwell on Olympus. Lame as he is, he has caught him by his craft. Now Ares must pay the adulterer’s fine.”
So they spoke to one another. Then lord Apollo, son of Zeus, addressed Hermes: “Hermes, son of Zeus, messenger and giver of good things, would you be willing to lie in bed beside golden Aphrodite, though held fast in mighty bonds?”
The messenger, slayer of Argus, answered him: “If only that might happen, lord Apollo, far-shooting god! Let three times as many endless bonds surround me, and let all you gods and goddesses look on, if only I might lie beside golden Aphrodite.”
So he spoke, and laughter rose among the immortal gods. But Poseidon did not laugh. He kept urging Hephaestus, the famed craftsman, to release Ares, and addressed him with winged words: “Set him free. I promise you that he will pay everything that is just, as you demand, in the presence of the immortal gods.”
The renowned lame god answered him: “Do not ask this of me, Poseidon, earth-holder. A worthless man’s guarantees are worthless too. How could I put you in bonds before the immortal gods if Ares went away, escaping both his debt and his chains?”
Poseidon the earth-shaker answered him: “Hephaestus, if Ares does escape his debt and flee away, I myself will pay you.” Then the renowned lame god replied, “I cannot refuse your word, nor would it be fitting.”
With that, mighty Hephaestus loosened the bonds. Once they were freed from the chains, strong though they were, the two sprang up at once. Ares went to Thrace, while laughter-loving Aphrodite travelled to Cyprus, to Paphos, where she has her sacred precinct and fragrant altar.
There the Graces bathed her and anointed her with the immortal oil that shines upon the everlasting gods, and clothed her in lovely garments, a wonder to behold. So the renowned singer sang, and Odysseus delighted in listening, as did the other long-oared Phaeacians, those men renowned for ships.
Then Alcinous ordered Halius and Laodamas to dance by themselves, since no one could rival them. They took in their hands a beautiful purple ball, made for them by skilful Polybus. One would bend backwards and toss it towards the shadowy clouds, while the other leapt high from the ground and caught it easily before his feet touched earth again.
When they had shown their skill at throwing the ball straight up, they danced upon the earth that feeds so many, swiftly changing places. The other young men stood around the dancing ground and beat time, and a great rhythmic din arose.
Then noble Odysseus addressed Alcinous: “Lord Alcinous, most distinguished of all your people, you boasted that your dancers were the finest, and indeed your words have been fulfilled. I look on them in awe.”
So he spoke, and the sacred majesty of Alcinous rejoiced. At once he addressed the oar-loving Phaeacians: “Listen, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians. Our guest seems to me a man of great understanding.
“Come, let us give him a guest-gift, as is fitting. Twelve eminent kings rule as leaders among our people, and I myself am the thirteenth. Let each of you bring him a freshly washed cloak, a tunic, and a talent of precious gold.
“Let us bring everything together at once, so that, with these gifts in his possession, our guest may go to supper with a joyful heart. And let Euryalus make amends to him with words and a gift, since what he said was far from fitting.”
So he spoke, and they all approved and urged that it be done. Each sent a herald to fetch his gifts. Then Euryalus answered him: “Lord Alcinous, most distinguished of all your people, I shall indeed make amends to the stranger, as you command.
“I will give him this sword, all of bronze, with a silver hilt and a sheath encased in freshly sawn ivory. It will be worth much to him.” With these words he placed the silver-studded sword in Odysseus’ hands and addressed him with winged words: “My greetings, honoured stranger. If any harsh word has been spoken, may the storm winds snatch it up and carry it away at once.
“May the gods grant that you reach your homeland and see your wife, since you have long suffered hardships far from those you love.” Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “My warm greetings to you too, friend, and may the gods grant you prosperity.
“May you never miss this sword that you have given me, making amends with your words.” He spoke, and slung the silver-studded sword over his shoulder. The sun was setting, and the splendid gifts were ready for him.
The noble heralds carried them to Alcinous’ house, and the sons of peerless Alcinous received the beautiful gifts and laid them beside their honoured mother. Alcinous led the company inside, and they sat down on lofty chairs.
Then mighty Alcinous addressed Arete: “Come, wife, bring a splendid chest, the finest you have, and put in it yourself a freshly washed cloak and a tunic. Have a bronze cauldron warmed over the fire and water heated, so that our guest may bathe and see all the gifts safely packed, which the noble Phaeacians have brought him here, and then enjoy the feast and listen to the singer’s song.
“I myself will give him this beautiful golden cup of mine, so that he may remember me all his days as he pours libations in his hall to Zeus and the other gods.” So he spoke, and Arete told the serving women to set a great three-legged cauldron over the fire as quickly as they could.
They set the bathing cauldron over the blazing fire, poured in water, and gathered wood to burn beneath it. The fire licked round the belly of the cauldron, and the water grew hot. Meanwhile Arete brought a beautiful chest from her chamber for the stranger and packed it with the splendid gifts, the clothing and gold the Phaeacians had given him. She herself added a cloak and a fine tunic, then addressed him with winged words: “Now see to the lid yourself and secure it quickly with a knot, so that no one may rob you on the journey when you are sleeping sweetly aboard the black ship.”
When much-enduring, noble Odysseus heard this, he fitted the lid at once and quickly secured it with an intricate knot that lady Circe had once taught him. Then the housekeeper invited him to step into the bath and wash. His heart rejoiced at the sight of the warm water, for he had not often known such care since leaving the house of lovely-haired Calypso.
While he was there, he had been cared for continually like a god. When the serving women had bathed him and anointed him with oil, and dressed him in a fine cloak and tunic, he left the bath and went to join the men at their wine. Nausicaa, with her god-given beauty, stood beside a pillar of the strongly built roof. She gazed at Odysseus in wonder and addressed him with winged words: “Farewell, stranger. When you are in your own country, remember me sometimes, for it is to me first that you owe the saving of your life.”
Resourceful Odysseus answered her: “Nausicaa, daughter of great-hearted Alcinous, may Zeus, the loud-thundering husband of Hera, grant that I return home and see the day of my homecoming. Then, even there, I would pray to you as to a goddess all my days, for you, maiden, saved my life.”
He spoke, and sat down on a chair beside King Alcinous. They were already serving portions of food and mixing the wine. The herald came near, leading the honoured singer, Demodocus, whom the people held in esteem, and seated him among the guests, leaning his chair against a tall pillar.
Then resourceful Odysseus cut a portion from the chine of a white-tusked boar, leaving the greater part behind, with rich fat all round it, and addressed the herald: “Herald, take this meat and give it to Demodocus to eat. Though I am grieving, I wish to honour him. For among all men on earth singers have their share of honour and respect, because the Muse has taught them the paths of song and loves the race of singers.”
So he spoke, and the herald carried it over and placed it in the hands of the worthy Demodocus, who received it with a joyful heart. They reached for the good food set ready before them. When they had satisfied their desire for food and drink, resourceful Odysseus addressed Demodocus: “Demodocus, I praise you above all mortal men.
“Either the Muse, daughter of Zeus, has taught you, or Apollo himself. For you sing with perfect truth of the fate of the Achaeans, all they did and suffered, and all the hardships they endured, as though you had been there yourself or heard it from one who was.
“But come, change your theme and sing of the making of the wooden horse, which Epeius built with Athena’s help, and which noble Odysseus once brought into the citadel as a trap, filled with the men who sacked Ilium.
“If you tell me this tale as it deserves, I shall at once declare to all mankind that a god has generously granted you the gift of inspired song.” So he spoke, and the singer, stirred by the god, began and unfolded his song, taking up the tale where the Argives had set fire to their huts, boarded their well-benched ships, and sailed away, while the others sat with renowned Odysseus in the Trojans’ assembly ground, hidden inside the horse. For the Trojans themselves had dragged it into their citadel.
There it stood, while they sat around it and debated at length, unable to decide. Three counsels divided them: to pierce the hollow timber with pitiless bronze, to drag it to the heights and hurl it down the rocks, or to leave it as a great offering to appease the gods. And this last was what would come to pass. For it was their fate to perish when their city enclosed the great wooden horse, where all the Argive champions sat, bringing slaughter and death to the Trojans.
He sang how the sons of the Achaeans poured out of the horse, leaving their hollow ambush, and ravaged the city. He sang of one man sacking one part of the steep city, another elsewhere, while Odysseus went like Ares to the house of Deiphobus with godlike Menelaus.
There, he sang, Odysseus dared the fiercest battle and at last prevailed through great-hearted Athena. So the renowned singer sang. But Odysseus was melting with grief, and tears ran from beneath his eyelids and wet his cheeks.
As a woman weeps, throwing her arms around her beloved husband, who has fallen before his city and his people, defending his town and children against the merciless day—as she sees him dying, gasping for breath, and clings to him with piercing cries, while men behind her strike her back and shoulders with their spears and lead her away into slavery, to a life of toil and misery, and her cheeks waste away with the most pitiful grief—so Odysseus shed sorrowful tears beneath his brows.
He shed his tears unnoticed by all the others, but Alcinous alone observed him and understood, for he sat close beside him and heard his heavy groans. At once he spoke to the oar-loving Phaeacians: “Listen, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians. Let Demodocus now put aside his clear-toned lyre, for the song he sings does not bring pleasure to us all.
“Ever since we began our meal and the inspired bard rose to sing, our guest has not ceased his sorrowful weeping. Some great grief must have taken hold of his heart. Come, let the singer stop, so that we may all enjoy ourselves alike, hosts and guest together; that is far better. For it is in honor of our guest that all this has been arranged—the passage home and the gifts we offer him in friendship.
“A stranger and a suppliant stands in a brother’s place to any man with even a little sense. So do not cunningly conceal the answers to what I ask you now; it is better that you speak openly.
“Tell us the name by which your mother and father called you at home, and the others who live in your city and round about it. For no one, whether lowly or noble, is altogether nameless once he is born: parents give every child a name at birth.
“Tell me, too, your country, your people, and your city, so that our ships may shape their course in thought and carry you there. For the Phaeacians’ ships have no helmsmen, nor do they have rudders like other ships. They themselves know the thoughts and intentions of men; they know the cities and fertile fields of every people, and swiftly cross the great gulf of the sea, veiled in mist and cloud. Never need they fear damage or destruction.
“Yet I once heard my father Nausithous say that Poseidon resented us because we carried everyone safely home. He said that one day the god would wreck a well-built ship of the Phaeacians as it returned from an escort across the misty sea, and hem our city in with a great mountain.
“So the old man spoke. The god may bring these things to pass or leave them unfulfilled, as his heart desires. But come, tell me this, and tell me truly: where have you wandered, and what lands of men have you reached? Tell me of their people and their well-settled cities—which were cruel and savage, with no regard for justice, and which welcomed strangers and held the gods in reverence.
“And tell me why you weep and grieve within your heart when you hear of the fate of the Argive Danaans and of Ilium. The gods brought that fate about and spun destruction for men, so that there might be a song for generations yet to come.
“Did some noble kinsman of yours fall before Ilium—a son-in-law or a father-in-law, those who are dearest to us after our own blood and kin? Or perhaps a good companion, a man who knew how to show you kindness? For a companion of sound understanding is no less dear than a brother.”
