Prevod

Meanwhile Hermes of Cyllene was summoning the souls of the suitors. In his hands he held his beautiful golden wand, with which he charms the eyes of those he chooses and wakes others from their sleep. With a wave of it he led them on, and they followed, gibbering.

As bats flit squeaking in the depths of a vast cavern when one falls from the cluster hanging on the rock, where they cling to one another, so the souls went together, gibbering; and gentle Hermes led them down the dank paths.

They passed the streams of Ocean and the White Rock, passed the gates of the Sun and the land of dreams, and soon reached the meadow of asphodel, where the souls dwell, the phantoms of the dead.

There they found the soul of Achilles, son of Peleus, and those of Patroclus, noble Antilochus, and Ajax, who in beauty and stature surpassed all the other Danaans except the peerless son of Peleus.

These were gathered about Achilles when the soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, drew near in sorrow. Around him were assembled the souls of all who had died with him in the house of Aegisthus and met their doom.

The soul of Peleus’ son was the first to address him: “Son of Atreus, we used to say that of all the warrior heroes you were ever dearest to Zeus who delights in thunder, because you ruled over so many mighty men in the land of the Trojans, where we Achaeans suffered such hardships.

“Yet even you were destined to meet destructive fate before your time—that fate which no man born can escape. Would that you had died and met your doom in the land of the Trojans, enjoying the royal honor that was yours! Then all the Achaeans would have raised a burial mound for you, and you would have won great glory for your son in days to come. Instead, you were doomed to perish by a most pitiful death.”

The soul of Atreus’ son answered him: “Fortunate son of Peleus, Achilles, peer of the gods! You died at Troy, far from Argos, and around you the best of the Trojan and Achaean warriors fell, fighting over your body. In a whirl of dust you lay, great in your fallen greatness, all your chariot fighting forgotten.

“We fought the whole day through, and would never have ceased from battle had Zeus not stopped us with a storm. When we had carried you out of the fighting to the ships, we washed your fair body with warm water and anointed it with oil, then laid you on a bier. Around you the Danaans shed many hot tears and cut their hair.

“Your mother came out of the sea with the immortal sea-nymphs when she heard the news. An unearthly cry arose over the water, and trembling seized all the Achaeans. They would have sprung up and fled to the hollow ships had not a man restrained them, one versed in the wisdom of many former days—Nestor, whose counsel had always proved the best. With their welfare at heart he addressed them: ‘Stand firm, Argives! Do not flee, young men of Achaea. This is his mother coming from the sea with the immortal sea-nymphs to mourn her dead son.’

“So he spoke, and the great-hearted Achaeans checked their flight. The daughters of the Old Man of the Sea stood around you, lamenting piteously, and clothed you in immortal garments. All nine Muses sang your dirge in turn with their lovely voices. Not one Argive could you have seen without tears, so moving was the clear-voiced Muse’s song.

“For seventeen days and nights we mourned you, immortal gods and mortal men together. On the eighteenth we gave you to the fire, slaughtering many fat sheep and shambling cattle around you.

“You burned in the garments of the gods, with abundant oil and sweet honey. Many Achaean warriors marched in armor around your blazing pyre, on foot and in chariots, and a great clamor arose. When the flame of Hephaestus had consumed you, at dawn we gathered your white bones, Achilles, in unmixed wine and oil. Your mother gave us a golden two-handled jar, saying it was a gift from Dionysus, the work of renowned Hephaestus.

“In it lie your white bones, glorious Achilles, mingled with those of the dead Patroclus, son of Menoetius. Apart lie the bones of Antilochus, whom you honored above all your other companions after Patroclus died.

“Over them we raised a great and splendid mound, we, the sacred host of Argive spearmen, on a jutting headland beside the broad Hellespont, so that men at sea might see it from afar, both those alive today and those yet to come.

“Your mother asked the gods for prizes of surpassing beauty and set them out in the arena for the finest of the Achaeans. You have attended the funerals of many heroes, when a king has died and young men gird themselves for the games and prizes are prepared. But those prizes above all would have filled your heart with wonder, had you seen them, so beautiful were the rewards that the goddess, silver-footed Thetis, set out in your honor. Truly you were dear to the gods.

“Thus even in death you have not lost your name: your noble fame shall live forever among all mankind, Achilles. But what pleasure is left for me, now that I have wound up the skein of war?

“For on my return Zeus devised a wretched death for me at the hands of Aegisthus and my accursed wife.” So they spoke to one another. Then Hermes the guide, the slayer of Argus, drew near, leading down the souls of the suitors whom Odysseus had slain. The two gazed at them in wonder and went straight toward them.

The soul of Agamemnon, son of Atreus, recognized renowned Amphimedon, the dear son of Melaneus, who had entertained him in his home in Ithaca. The soul of Atreus’ son was the first to speak: “Amphimedon, what befell you that you have all come down beneath the dark earth, all choice men of the same age? A man could not have gathered a finer company had he gone through a city picking its best.

“Did Poseidon overwhelm you in your ships, rousing cruel winds and towering waves? Or did hostile men destroy you on land as you drove off their cattle and fine flocks of sheep, or as you fought for their city and their women?

“Tell me, since I ask: I claim to be your guest-friend. Do you not remember when I came to your house with godlike Menelaus, to urge Odysseus to follow us to Ilium in our well-benched ships?

“A whole month passed before we crossed the broad sea, so hard was it to persuade Odysseus, sacker of cities.” The soul of Amphimedon answered him: “Most glorious son of Atreus, Agamemnon, king of men, I remember all you say, lord cherished by Zeus. And I shall tell you everything fully and truly, how the dreadful end that brought our deaths came about.

“We were courting the wife of Odysseus, who had long been absent. She would neither refuse the marriage she detested nor bring it to fulfillment, but plotted death and dark destruction for us. And she devised this further trick: she set up a great loom in her hall and began to weave a web, fine and very broad. Then she said to us: ‘Young men, my suitors, now that noble Odysseus is dead, eager though you are for my marriage, wait until I finish this cloth, so that my threads may not be wasted—a burial shroud for the hero Laertes, against the day when the fatal doom of grievous death strikes him down. I would not have any Achaean woman in the land reproach me if he who gained such wealth should lie without a winding-sheet.’

“So she spoke, and our proud hearts were persuaded. By day she would weave the great web, but at night, when she had torches set beside her, she would unravel it. For three years she deceived the Achaeans with this trick and won them over. But when the fourth year came, as the seasons rolled round, the months waned, and many days passed, one of her women who knew the truth told us, and we caught her unraveling the splendid web.

“So she finished it, unwillingly and under compulsion. When she had woven the great web, washed the shroud, and displayed it, shining like the sun or moon, then some malicious god brought Odysseus from somewhere to the outlying farm where the swineherd lived.

“There the dear son of noble Odysseus came, returning from sandy Pylos in his black ship. The two laid their plans for the suitors’ cruel death and came to the famous town. Odysseus came later, while Telemachus went ahead.

“The swineherd brought him in, dressed in miserable clothes, looking like a wretched old beggar leaning on a staff; foul rags covered his body. None of us could recognize him when he suddenly appeared, not even the older men among us. Instead, we abused him with insults and pelted him with missiles.

“For a while he endured the blows and insults in his own hall with a steadfast heart. But when the will of Zeus who bears the aegis roused him, he and Telemachus carried away the beautiful weapons, stored them in a chamber, and shot the bolts. Then, with great cunning, he prompted his wife to set the bow and the gray iron before the suitors as a contest for us doomed men—and the beginning of our slaughter.

“Not one of us could string the powerful bow; our strength fell far short. But when the great bow came into Odysseus’ hands, we all shouted that it must not be given to him, however much he pleaded. Telemachus alone urged them on and ordered it.

“Then noble, long-enduring Odysseus took it in his hand, strung the bow with ease, and shot through the iron. He went and stood on the threshold, poured out the swift arrows, glared about him fiercely, and struck down lord Antinous.

“Then he sent his deadly shafts at the others, aiming straight at them, and they fell thick and fast. It was clear that one of the gods was helping them, for at once they charged through the hall in their fury, killing on every side. Hideous groans arose as heads were struck, and the whole floor seethed with blood.

“That is how we died, Agamemnon. Even now our bodies lie uncared for in Odysseus’ hall, for our families in their homes do not yet know. They would wash the dark blood from our wounds, lay us out, and mourn us, for that is the honor owed the dead.”

The soul of Atreus’ son answered him: “Fortunate son of Laertes, Odysseus of many devices! Truly you won a wife of great virtue. How noble was the heart of faultless Penelope, Icarius’ daughter! How faithfully she remembered Odysseus, the husband of her youth! The fame of her virtue shall never perish: the immortals will fashion a lovely song for mortals in praise of steadfast Penelope. Not so the daughter of Tyndareus, who plotted evil deeds and killed the husband of her youth. A hateful song of her shall spread among mankind, and she will bring disgrace upon all women, even those who do good.”

So they spoke to one another as they stood in the halls of Hades, deep beneath the earth. Meanwhile Odysseus and his companions had left the town and soon reached the fair, well-tended farm of Laertes, which he himself had acquired long ago after much toil.

There stood his house, with outbuildings running all around it, where the slaves who labored for him ate, sat, and slept. An old Sicilian woman lived there too, tending the old man devotedly on his farm, far from the town.

There Odysseus said to the servants and his son: “Go into the well-built house now, and quickly slaughter the best of the pigs for dinner. I shall put my father to the test, to see whether he will know me and recognize me with his own eyes, or fail to recognize me after so long an absence.”

With these words he gave his weapons of war to the servants. They went quickly into the house, while Odysseus drew near the fruitful orchard to make his trial. As he went down into the great orchard, he found neither Dolius nor any of the servants or his sons. They had gone to gather stones for a wall around the orchard, and the old man Dolius had led them there.

He found his father alone in the well-tended orchard, hoeing around a tree. He wore a dirty tunic, patched and shabby, and had bound stitched leather gaiters around his legs to guard against scratches, with gloves on his hands against the brambles. On his head he wore a goatskin cap, deepening his look of sorrow.

When noble, long-enduring Odysseus saw him worn down by age and burdened with deep grief, he stood beneath a tall pear tree and shed tears. Then he pondered in his heart whether to kiss and embrace his father and tell him everything—how he had come back to his native land—or first to question him and test him thoroughly.

As he thought it over, it seemed better to test him first with probing words. With this in mind, noble Odysseus went straight toward him. His father, head bent low, was digging around the tree. His glorious son stood beside him and said: “Old man, you show no lack of skill in tending an orchard. Everything is well cared for: not a plant, not a fig tree, vine, olive, pear tree, or garden bed is neglected anywhere.

“But I will tell you something else—do not take offense. You yourself are not well cared for. Besides grievous old age, you suffer from filthy neglect and wear shabby clothes. Surely it is not for idleness that your master neglects you, nor is there anything of the slave in your looks or stature. You have the bearing of a king.

“You look like one who, having bathed and eaten, should sleep at ease, as is the right of old men. But come, tell me truly: whose slave are you? Whose orchard do you tend?

“And tell me this truthfully, so that I may know for certain: have I really come to Ithaca, as a man I met just now on my way here told me? He was not very sensible, for he would not explain things or listen to my question when I asked about a guest-friend of mine, whether he is still alive somewhere or has already died and gone to the halls of Hades.

“I will tell you about him; listen and take heed. Once, in my own dear country, I entertained a man who came to our house, and no stranger from far away was ever dearer to me among all who entered my home. He said that he came from Ithaca and that his father was Laertes, son of Arceisius.

“I brought him to my house and entertained him generously, welcoming him with all my heart, for I had great wealth at home. And I gave him gifts befitting a guest: seven talents of wrought gold, a mixing-bowl of solid silver patterned with flowers, twelve single cloaks, as many rugs, as many fine mantles, and tunics to match. Besides these, I gave him four beautiful women skilled in excellent handiwork, whom he chose for himself.”

Then his father answered him, shedding tears: “Stranger, you have indeed come to the land you seek, but violent and reckless men possess it. In vain you bestowed those countless gifts. Had you found him alive in the land of Ithaca, he would have sent you on your way with generous gifts in return and a kindly welcome, as is right when another has shown kindness first.

“But come, tell me truly: how many years have passed since you entertained that man, your unfortunate guest, my son—if ever I had a son—ill-fated man! Far from his friends and native land, the fishes have perhaps devoured him in the sea, or on land he has fallen prey to beasts and birds. His mother and I, who gave him life, never wrapped him in his shroud and mourned him. Nor did his richly dowered wife, steadfast Penelope, lament her husband on his bier and close his eyes, as was fitting, for that is the honor owed the dead.

“And tell me this truthfully, so that I may know: who are you, and where are you from? Where are your city and your parents? Where is the swift ship that brought you here with your gallant companions? Or did you come as a passenger on another man’s ship, and have they put you ashore and sailed away?”

Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “I shall tell you everything quite truly. I come from Alybas, where I live in a splendid house. I am the son of lord Apheidas, son of Polypemon, and my name is Eperitus. But some god drove me off my course from Sicania and brought me here against my will. My ship lies over there, off the open country, far from town.

“As for Odysseus, this is now the fifth year since he left that place and departed from my country, poor man. Yet the birds were favorable when he set out, flying on his right. Rejoicing in them, I sent him on his way, and he rejoiced as he departed. Our hearts still hoped that we would meet again as guest-friends and exchange splendid gifts.”

So he spoke, and a black cloud of grief enveloped Laertes. With both hands he scooped up the sooty dust and poured it over his gray head, groaning bitterly. Odysseus’ heart was stirred; as he looked at his dear father, a sharp pang of feeling stung his nostrils.

He sprang forward, threw his arms around him, and kissed him, saying: “Father, I am the very man you ask about. I have come back to my native land in the twentieth year. But cease your weeping and tearful lamentation.

“For I must tell you—and we must make haste—I have killed the suitors in our house, avenging their bitter insults and their wicked deeds.” Laertes answered him: “If you are indeed my son Odysseus, returned to this place, give me now some clear token, so that I may be sure.”

Resourceful Odysseus replied: “First look at this scar, where a boar struck me with its white tusk when I went to Parnassus. You and my honored mother sent me to Autolycus, my mother’s dear father, to receive the gifts he had promised me when he came here.

“Come, I will also tell you the trees you once gave me in this well-tended orchard. I was a little boy, following you through the garden and asking you for each one. We walked among them, and you told me the name of every tree.

“You gave me thirteen pear trees, ten apple trees, and forty fig trees. And you promised to give me fifty rows of vines, each bearing fruit in its own season. Grapes of every kind grow there, whenever the seasons of Zeus weigh down the branches from above.”

So he spoke, and his father’s knees and heart gave way as he recognized the sure tokens Odysseus had given him. He threw his arms around his dear son, and noble, long-enduring Odysseus drew him close as he fainted.

When he had recovered his breath and his senses returned, he spoke again: “Father Zeus, surely you gods still dwell on high Olympus, if the suitors have truly paid for their reckless insolence!

“But now I am terribly afraid that all the men of Ithaca will soon attack us here, and send messengers to rouse the cities of the Cephallenians on every side.” Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Take courage, and do not let such things trouble your heart.

“Let us go to the house near the orchard. I sent Telemachus ahead with the cowherd and the swineherd, to prepare our dinner as quickly as they could.” With these words the two went toward the handsome house.

When they reached the comfortable house, they found Telemachus, the cowherd, and the swineherd carving abundant meat and mixing the gleaming wine. Meanwhile, in his own house, the Sicilian maidservant bathed great-hearted Laertes, anointed him with oil, and wrapped a fine cloak around him. Athena stood beside the shepherd of the people and filled out his limbs, making him seem taller and sturdier than before.

He stepped from the bath, and his dear son marveled to see him face to face, looking like the immortal gods. He spoke to him in winged words: “Father, surely one of the everlasting gods has made you handsomer and taller to behold.”

Wise Laertes answered him: “If only, Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo, I had been yesterday in our house as I was when, ruling over the Cephallenians, I took Nericus, that well-built fortress on the mainland coast! If I had stood beside you with armor on my shoulders and fought off the suitors, I would have brought many of them to their knees in our hall, and your heart would have rejoiced.”

So they spoke to one another. When the others had finished their work and prepared the feast, they sat in order on chairs and seats. They were beginning their dinner when old Dolius arrived with his sons, weary from their labors. Their mother, the old Sicilian woman, had gone out to call them, she who had brought them up and who tended the old man Laertes devotedly now that age had overtaken him.

When they saw Odysseus and knew him in their hearts, they stood in the hall in amazement. But Odysseus gently chided them: “Old man, sit down to dinner, and all of you put aside your wonder. We have long been waiting here in the hall, eager to begin our meal, but always expecting you.”

So he spoke, and Dolius went straight toward him with both hands outstretched. He took Odysseus’ hand and kissed it at the wrist, then spoke to him in winged words: “Dear master, you have returned to us who longed for you so deeply, though we had ceased to hope. The gods themselves have brought you back. Welcome, a thousand welcomes, and may the gods grant you happiness!

“And tell me this truthfully, so that I may know: does wise Penelope already know for certain that you have returned, or shall we send a messenger?” Resourceful Odysseus answered him: “Old man, she knows already. Why should you trouble yourself about that?”

So he spoke, and Dolius sat down again on a polished stool. His sons likewise gathered around renowned Odysseus, greeting him warmly and clasping his hands. Then they sat in order beside Dolius, their father.

While they attended to their dinner in the hall, Rumor the messenger sped swiftly through the town, proclaiming the suitors’ dreadful death and doom. At the news, people came from every direction, gathering with cries and groans before Odysseus’ house. They carried the dead out of the house and buried their own. Those from other cities they placed aboard swift ships and entrusted to fishermen to take home. Then, grieving at heart, they went together to the assembly.

When they were gathered, Eupeithes rose to address them. Unrelenting grief lay in his heart for his son Antinous, the first man noble Odysseus had killed. Shedding tears for him, he spoke: “Friends, this man has devised a monstrous deed against the Achaeans. First he took many brave men away in his ships, lost his hollow ships, and lost his people. Now he has come back and killed the very best of the Cephallenians. Come, before he can hurry away to Pylos or holy Elis, where the Epeians rule, let us go against him. Otherwise we shall hang our heads forever. It will be a disgrace for generations to hear of, if we do not avenge ourselves on the murderers of our sons and brothers. For my part, life would hold no pleasure. I would rather die at once and join the dead.

“Come, let us go, before they cross the sea and escape us.” So he spoke in tears, and pity seized all the Achaeans. Then Medon and the inspired bard came up from Odysseus’ house, for sleep had released them. They stood in the midst of the assembly, and astonishment seized every man.

Medon, a man of sound judgment, addressed them: “Listen to me now, men of Ithaca. It was not against the will of the immortal gods that Odysseus accomplished these deeds. I myself saw an undying god standing close beside Odysseus, exactly like Mentor in appearance.

“At one moment the immortal god would appear before Odysseus, encouraging him; at another he would rush through the hall, throwing the suitors into confusion, and they fell thick and fast.” So he spoke, and pale fear seized them all.

Then the old hero Halitherses, son of Mastor, addressed them, for he alone could see both before and after. With their welfare at heart, he said: “Listen now, men of Ithaca, to what I have to say. Friends, it is through your own wickedness that these things have happened. You would not listen to me, nor to Mentor, shepherd of the people, and restrain your sons from their folly. In their wicked recklessness they committed terrible deeds, wasting the possessions and dishonoring the wife of a prince whom they said would never return.

“Now let this be the course we take. Listen to what I tell you: let us not march against him, lest someone bring disaster on himself.” So he spoke, and more than half sprang up with loud cries and left. The rest remained together where they were. His words had not pleased their hearts; they sided with Eupeithes, and at once rushed to fetch their armor.

When they had clothed themselves in gleaming bronze, they gathered before the spacious town. Eupeithes led them in his folly, thinking to avenge his son’s murder. Yet he was never to return: there he would meet his doom.

Meanwhile Athena addressed Zeus, son of Cronus: “Our Father, son of Cronus, highest of rulers, tell me what purpose you hold hidden in your heart. Will you prolong this cruel war and dreadful strife, or establish friendship between the two sides?”

Zeus the cloud-gatherer answered her: “My child, why do you question me about these things? Was it not you yourself who devised this plan, that Odysseus should return and take vengeance on those men?

“Do as you wish; but I will tell you what is fitting. Now that noble Odysseus has avenged himself on the suitors, let them swear solemn oaths, and let him remain their king for all his days. We in turn shall put the killing of their sons and brothers from their minds. Let them love one another as before, and let peace and prosperity abound.”

With these words he urged on Athena, who was already eager, and she darted down from the peaks of Olympus. Meanwhile, when the men had satisfied their desire for the pleasant food, noble, long-enduring Odysseus was the first to speak: “Let someone go outside and see whether they are already coming near.”

So he spoke, and a son of Dolius went out at his command. He stepped onto the threshold and saw them all close by. At once he spoke winged words to Odysseus: “Here they are, close upon us! Let us arm ourselves at once.”

So he spoke, and they sprang up and put on their armor, the four about Odysseus and the six sons of Dolius. Laertes and Dolius armed themselves as well, gray-haired though they were, warriors now by necessity.

When they had clothed themselves in gleaming bronze, they opened the doors and went out, Odysseus leading. Athena, daughter of Zeus, came near them in the likeness of Mentor, both in form and voice.

Noble, long-enduring Odysseus rejoiced at the sight of her, and at once addressed his dear son Telemachus: “Telemachus, now that you enter the place where men do battle and the best are proved, you will learn for yourself not to disgrace the line of your fathers. In strength and courage we have always excelled throughout the earth.”

Wise Telemachus answered him: “Dear father, if you wish, you shall see that with the spirit I have in me I will bring no disgrace upon your line, as you say.” So he spoke, and Laertes rejoiced: “What a day this is for me, dear gods! How glad I am! My son and grandson are vying with each other in valor.”

Bright-eyed Athena stood beside him and said: “Son of Arceisius, dearest by far of all my companions, pray to the bright-eyed maiden and to Father Zeus, then raise your long-shadowed spear and hurl it at once.”

So she spoke, and Pallas Athena breathed great strength into him. He prayed to the daughter of mighty Zeus, then raised his long-shadowed spear and hurled it at once, striking Eupeithes through his bronze-cheeked helmet.

But the shield did not stop the spear: the bronze point drove clean through. He fell with a thud, and his armor clattered about him. Odysseus and his glorious son charged into the front ranks, striking with swords and double-pointed spears.

And now they would have killed them all, leaving none to return home, had not Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, cried aloud and checked the whole host: “Men of Ithaca, cease this bitter fighting, so that you may part at once without bloodshed!”

So Athena spoke, and pale terror seized them. In their fear, their weapons flew from their hands and fell to the ground at the sound of the goddess’s voice. They turned toward the city, desperate to save their lives.

Then much-enduring, noble Odysseus gave a terrible shout, gathered himself, and swooped like a high-flying eagle. But at that moment the son of Cronus hurled a smoking thunderbolt, which fell before the bright-eyed daughter of the mighty father.

Then bright-eyed Athena spoke to Odysseus: “Son of Laertes, sprung from Zeus, resourceful Odysseus, hold back! End this strife of war that spares neither side, lest the son of Cronus, far-seeing Zeus, grow angry with you.”

So Athena spoke, and he obeyed, glad at heart. Then Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus who bears the aegis, established a sworn peace between the two sides, taking Mentor’s likeness in both form and voice.