Spoiler! :
But great Odysseus had not forgotten the words of Tiresias, seer of Thebes.
So when young Dawn with her rose red fingers shone once more
that great man of war told his loyal wife
Icarius’ daughter the radiant Penelope,
and his son, the royal Telemachus, “I have told you before
and I shall tell you again of the message imparted to me
by the ghost of man who knows the future that the gods have lain before us.
‘Go forth once more, you must…’ he told me then,
‘carry your well-planed oar until you come
to a race of people who know nothing of the sea,
whose food is never seasoned with salt, strangers all
to ships with their crimson prows and long slim oars,
wings that make ships fly. And here is your sign—
unmistakable, clear, so clear you cannot miss it:
When another traveler falls in with you and calls
that weight across your shoulder a fan to winnow grain,
then plant your bladed, balanced oar in the earth
and sacrifice fine beasts to the lord god of the sea,
Poseidon—a ram, a bull, and a ramping wild boar—
then journey home and render noble offerings up
to the deathless gods who rule the vaulting skies,
to all the gods in order.
And at last your own death will steal upon you…
a gentle, painless death, far from the sea it comes
to take you down, borne down with the years in ripe old age
with all your people there in blessed peace around you.’
A command to melt the heart of the strongest man
and I nearly lost heart then and there among the wandering, drifting dead.”
“And what of us, noble father, here in your house?”
inquired the good Prince Telemachus, “what if the families
of the men we killed, the reckless Suitors whose blood and brains mingled
with the dirt on the floor of the great hall of our home
thanks to Pallas with glinting gray eyes
decide that now is the time to strike, with Odysseus son of Laertes gone,
and only his son newly grown to manhood left home to defend the palace—
what if they decide that now is the time to strike back
and avenge the death of their sons and cousins
by slaughtering the family of King Odysseus
and plundering his goods; swilling his glowing wine,
raping the serving maids and feasting as though there was no tomorrow?”
“Apt son, but off the mark,” replied canny Odysseus,
“Would Pallas Athena, that fearsome goddess, allow such a thing
after supporting us so plainly? Surely, we have sacrificed
more than our share of rams and bulls to that goddess.
No, shining Athena will protect this palace when I am gone.”
Winning words, and Pallas sent a sign.
An owl winged past outside, though the day was full
flying directly in front of the god-sent sun.
An unmistakable omen, and the son of Odysseus rejoiced at heart.
Now the royal son of Laertes called for his fond old nurse Eurycleia,
she alone he trusted in matters of such importance
for she had suckled him at her own teat those many years ago.
“Come, nurse, draw off some wine in leather skins
mellowed and seasoned as befits a king—
and pack rations such as a man might need,
barley in well-stitched leather bags,
meal, your stone ground best. And call the men to fetch
a ram, a bull, and a ramping wild boar.
In fact, have them fit the animals with harnesses
so that they may carry their own rations and mine as well.
Food for at least forty days as befits one man and three beasts.”
Eurycleia, heartsick at her master’s hasty departure,
hastened to his bidding, packing barley and mellowed wine for the great king,
ordering the animals to be brought and saddled with the provisions.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more,
the man who had traveled far was bathed by Eurycleia—
the woman rubbed smooth oil over his skin—
and he donned a tyrian purple tunic fastened with a silver brooch.
And long-enduring great Odysseus set on his way,
leading a ram, a bull, and a ramping wild boar laden with rations
and carrying his well-planed oar on his broad back.
Icarius’ royal daughter Penelope retreated to her chamber
and fell to weeping; sunk in grief as a mother who has glimpsed
her newborn baby, only to find it dead and lifeless in her arms
turning blue and cold even as her warm tears fall
and she presses it to her breast but the lifeless head falls limp
and no searching mouth latches to the teat;
so Penelope wept for her husband Odysseus
until watchful Athena sealed her eyes with welcome sleep.
As strong Odysseus walked away from Ithaca,
Athena watched and instilled ambrosia in his limbs, filled his heavy heart with hope
and appeared to him, like Alcimus’ son Mentor to the life.
“Where headed, good Odysseus? I daresay no short journey
awaits you, laden with such fine beasts and such provisions.
Surely some god has sent you on a quest—Pallas, Apollo,
or almighty Zeus himself.”
“Not a god, my friend,” the great man replied,
“the ghost of Tiresias, the blind Theban prophet has sent me on this journey
to make peace with lord Poseidon who rocks the earth.
Travel I must to a race of people who know nothing of the sea,
whose food is never seasoned with salt, strangers all
to ships with their crimson prows and long slim oars,
wings that make ships fly. And when a stranger falls in beside me
and calls that weight across my shoulder a fan to winnow grain,
then I might plant my bladed, balanced oar in the earth
and sacrifice these fine beasts to the lord god of the sea.”
“Well, friend,” returned the goddess,
“I surely wish you the best of luck on your travels.
And here, take my words to heart now.
Go now to Ithaca’s rocky seaport—at the very end of the long beaches
you will find a man, Alcmaeon his name.
He will give you passage to the mainland, true,
with your load as well and your bladed, balanced oar.
No ship of his has ever sunk bearing a traveler towards his destination.”
Winged words with a lucky ring and Laertes’ son rejoiced.
So the great man set off for the seaport of Ithaca on foot.
Reaching it, he sought out the sailor Alcmaeon—a burly man
with sinuous forearms tan from working under Helios’ rays
and calloused by rope that men twist and beat from animal sinews.
“Friend,” the king called with winged words, “I am King Odysseus,
recently returned from the Trojan War—I know, those long years ago
but still, you must have heard my story
sung by a traveling bard—or have caught some rumor from Zeus himself.
Now a new quest drives me on, laden with beasts—true;
a ram, a bull, and a wild ramping boar; and this oar across my shoulders.
Go far I must, to Greece’s mainland and travel until I find a city
where men know nothing of the sea and never season their food with salt.
But as for my request of you, my fine friend? Mentor sent me here,
that god among men, to ask you for passage—you in particular
he recommended for this task. He told me that you are a man
whose boat never sinks, who the gods favor.”
So sly Odysseus persuaded, and his words softened
the heart of brawny Alcmaeon, who answered the king,
“Surely, friend, it would be wrong to deny a man in need,
especially a king, if you are who you say. Come,
stow your beasts and oar aboard my ship
and I will take you wherever you need to go;
to the very corners of the earth, should you wish it.”
The only son of Laertes rejoiced at this and hastened to bring aboard
his possessions and store them deep in the ship’s sturdy hull,
and now regaining the deck Odysseus stood beside Alcmaeon
and watched as his native land faded from view once more.
When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more,
Alcmaeon’s sturdy ship made landing on a port of Greece
whereupon tactful Odysseus thanked the good shipman heartily
and took his leave, taking a dirt track away from the port.
Now Athena came to him, instilled ambrosia in his limbs,
made the load lighter and the sun less draining for the great man.
For forty days and forty nights the big man trekked
under the watchful eye of the bright-eyed goddess
who made sure that his wine skin was never empty,
that his beasts never flagged.
But Odysseus grieved for his wife so long left behind
and when he lay down to rest at night
he wept for the sight of her and good Telemachus.
And so when young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more
the battle-weary warrior set out with an aching back
and a heavy heart. And all that day he walked,
not a soul in sight, nothing but the endless plains
until late in the afternoon, when the sun was descending in the sky,
a stranger hove into view; and Odysseus’ heavy heart lifted at the sight.
“Friend,” the weary man called, “please stop a moment
for an old traveler bent by troubles. Wait for me, friend
and take me to your city—do you live in a place where men eat bread
and sail in crimson-prowed ships on the wine-dark sea?
Or a strange land where men know nothing of the sea,
men whose food is never seasoned by salt?”
“Greetings, traveler,” returned the other,
“Surely any traveler sent by Zeus is a friend of mine.
But I don’t understand you. Who are you? where are you from?
your city? your parents? why are you here?
You have the bearing of a great man, sure
but only a fool would come out here on foot
with only this ram, bull, and wild ramping boar for company.
And your words, too, confuse me; we men here live on bread, surely
but what is this salt you speak of that seasons your food?
What of the sea that you mention? I know not the word.”
Long enduring Odysseus rejoiced at these words,
for the strong clear signs this stranger offered.
But tempted as he was to declare himself,
he held back. Better to probe this man first,
better to find out his intentions first
and wait for the sign that the ghost of Tiresias had indicated.
“My name, friend? I am Amphinomus of seagirt Ithaca.
My father was Nisos, my mother a concubine.
As for my travels, I am an exile now
and these beasts my only possessions—all that I have left in the world.
I killed a man on rocky Ithaca
and now I have fled for my life. Forty days I have walked
with not a soul in sight, but now take pity, friend.
Take me to your city—surely I have roamed far enough now,
surely I have suffered enough to appease the blithe gods.
But tell me, friend, whose land have I stumbled on now?
Who are you? are you a native here? your parents?”
“Surely, stranger. This is Pollona, home of the Polloses.
I am Ticyus, born and raised in Pollona.
No noble man by blood, but my father Pontius
is well respected among the elders of our city.
My mother—I am told that she was very beautiful
but I know not her name for my father will not speak of her.
He won her by his bronze spear doing battle in a faraway land
that our men traveled to in chariots drawn by sleek horses.
She was his prize, he killed her husband and took her home
and he loved her dearly, but she perished in childbirth.
But surely, stranger, you would like to come to my home
and rest your tired feet. We have food aplenty there
and you have yet to explain the meaning of the ‘salt’ and the ‘sea’
that you spoke of before. Besides, we will give you gifts,
gifts aplenty to befit a king. Surely, suppliants’ rights are sacred.
And this load on your back! This heavy fan to winnow grain,
surely you will come and take a rest from carrying it.
Although you are a strong man—I can see it in your posture,
the way you carry yourself, your sinewed and muscular back—
even the strongest man must eventually tire of carrying such a load.”
At this Odysseus rejoiced, as a bird flying south
to escape the chill of winter rejoices
when he finally sees the end of his journey
and joining his fellows in the warm places of their winter home,
cawing with relief and joy, he trades loving words with his female
and the two celebrate together the end of their travels,
so long-enduring Odysseus rejoiced at Ticyus’ words.
“Friend,” he cried, “speak no more. For you have ended my journey
with your words alone. Help me first, and then I will explain.”
Under Odysseus’ instructions, the two men dug a hole
and planted the bladed, balanced oar in the earth.
Then they built a fire and brought the animals near.
Odysseus began by slitting the neck of the ram.
Dark blood gushed forth and the life ebbed from his limbs—
they quartered him quickly, cut the thighbones out
and wrapped them round in fat,
a double fold sliced clean and topped with strips of flesh.
These they burned and over the fire poured out glistening wine.
Once they’d burned the bones and tasted the organs,
they sliced the rest into pieces, spitted them on the skewers
and raising points to the fire, broiled all the meats.
This they repeated for the bull and the wild ramping boar
and they poured out libations to the gods who rule the vaulting skies.
And finally great Odysseus revealed himself.
“Friend,” he said, “I must now reveal that I am not indeed Amphinomus,
who now prowls the house of Death
at the hands on my firstborn son, but Odysseus the commander,
King of Ithaca. And though I wish nothing more than to stay
and rest and feast to my heart’s content at your fine palace,
I must to Ithaca where my loyal wife and son await my return.
You see, I angered a god that Greeks who know the sea worship—
Poseidon his name, the god of the sea-blue mane who shakes the earth.
This is my repentance. But now I must return home
as a prophet once commanded, to sacrifice to all the gods in order.
Only then may I die a peaceful death,
far from the sea and surrounded by my people.”
Ticyus recognized the truth in the other man’s words
and his urgency to be gone, to be home.
“Surely, friend,” he cried. “Why, wait here
and I will be back with horses and a chariot.
No man will want for hospitality at my hands.
And sure, I will accompany you myself. I yearn to see
this sea that you speak of, taste this salt that seasons your men’s food.
Wait here and I will make haste.
Speak to no one, I will, and bring your chariot.
Sit now, stranger, and feast on this meat.”
Ticyus, true to his word, brought a chariot
for himself and Odysseus, drawn by two sleek horses
and the bladed, balanced oar of Laertes’ son Odysseus
disappeared from view as the sleek horses drew them on towards the sea,
those animals of Poseidon.
Ten days and ten nights they traveled
guided by bright-eyed Athena, who made sure that their wine skins were never empty,
that the horses’ strength never flagged.
When Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone for the tenth time,
the travelers, weary and hungry, reached Ithaca.
At the gates of Odysseus’ palace they met Eumaeas,
the loyal swineherd. “Master!” he cried, rushing to Odysseus,
embracing him, and kissing his cheeks.
“I wondered if I would ever lay eyes on you again!”
“Eumaeas,” replied Odysseus,
“We have a guest from a faraway land. Quick, order a feast.
Tell the serving maids to stoke the fire in the hall, and bring
a meal of bread and meat and fine olives seasoned with salt
for this fine friend of mine. And come,
order the maids to draw baths for us
rub this man down with oil, clad him in our finest.”
So royal Odysseus ordered, and Eumaeas hurried to comply.
Straight to the great kitchens he went, to order a feast
and tell the serving maids to stoke the fire in the hall.
Then baths were drawn by the maids
who bathed great Odysseus and the traveler,
rubbing them down in oil and dressing them in fine robes.
And finally regal Odysseus drew up a high, elaborate chair of honor,
over it draped a cloth, the one closest to the fire, for his guest
and brought a stool for him to rest his feet,
and he himself took a lower chair beside him.
Now at last Prince Telemachus came, and, kissing his father,
sat beside him and the stranger, welcoming both warmly.
“Father, you are back at last!
And look, a fine guest you have brought to us.
Surely a noble man, look at him! All the bearings of a king’s son.
But tell me, father, about your journey.
Was all to plan, is the vengeful Poseidon finally satisfied?”
“A difficult journey, my son
but Pallas Athena guided every step,” rejoined the father.
“As for the earthquake god, I have followed the instructions of Tiresias,
the blind seer of Thebes. Now we must make sacrifices to all the gods in order
and only then may I grow old here among my people in blessed peace.
But come now, the father of men and gods would curse us
if we were to deny this man bread and wine any longer.”
At this, a maid brought water in a graceful golden pitcher
and over a silver basin tipped it out
so they might rinse their hands,
then pulled a gleaming table to their side.
A staid housekeeper brought on bread to serve them,
appetizers aplenty too, lavish with her bounty.
A carver lifted platters of meat toward them,
meats of every sort, and set beside them golden cups
and time and again a page came around and poured them wine.
A herald brought the inspired bard Phemius an ornate lyre
he who had stayed on after the slaughter in Odysseus’ halls
to pay his debts to the family of the king.
A rippling prelude—he struck up the song of Odysseus’ battle at Troy.
Now reserved Penelope caught the bard’s inspired strains
from deep in her chambers, where she enshrined herself
praying to Pallas for her husband’s safe return.
So now, down the steep stair from her chamber she descended,
not alone: two of her women followed close behind.
And as she reached the bottom of the stair,
drawing her glistening veil across her cheeks
she moved swiftly forward, kneeling at Odysseus’ feet
she kissed his hands and cried out in thanks:
“Odysseus! I had wondered if I would see you again
but now I see my prayers come to pass!
Let us sacrifice to all the gods in order
but surely to wise Athena first, for she guided my prayers.”
So it was done,
and a grand sacrifice was prepared to all the gods in order
beginning with the bright-eyed goddess
and ending with Poseidon, god of the sea-blue mane who rocks the earth.
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