Book XIV · Ῥαψωδία ξ

Meanwhile our guy bounced out of the harbour and locked onto the rough little goat-track,

grinding up through the woods over the ridges, straight to the exact spot Athena

had dropped a pin on: the swineherd, that absolute goat of a guy, the one minding the whole estate

the hardest out of all the help that Odysseus, that legend, had ever racked up.

And he clocked the man posted up out front in the porch, where he'd got himself a courtyard

proper big and proper lovely, the kind you could lap the full way round: this yard's the one the swineherd

had thrown up with his own two hands for the pigs while his lord was off ghosting somewhere,

zero help from the lady of the house, zero help from old man Laertes,

stacking it up out of quarry stone and crowning the whole wall with a hedge of thorny scrub.

packed in tight and shoulder-to-shoulder, splitting the black heartwood of oak to get it done.

And inside the yard he'd knocked up twelve pig-pens, all lined up

right next to each other, full-on beds for the pigs: and inside every single one

fifty ground-sleeping sows were penned in and posted, on lock,

way fewer in the count, because the godlike suitors kept thinning them out,

chowing them down nonstop, since the swineherd was forever sending up to the house

the fattest, finest hog of the whole well-fed bunch, every single time.

And those males clocked in at three hundred and sixty, that was the whole headcount.

the ones the swineherd raised himself, the head honcho running all the lads.

And the man himself was busy out there fitting sandals round his own two feet,

trimming a nice piece of ox-hide: meanwhile the rest of the crew

had scattered off, each one doing his own thing with the herded pigs,

basically forced to, to haul a hog over to the suitors, those entitled clowns,

so they could run the sacrifice and stuff their faces full of meat.

And out of absolutely nowhere the loud-barking dogs clocked Odysseus.

They came charging straight at him yapping their heads off: but Odysseus,

Right there, at his own pig-farm, he was one second off catching a humiliating mauling:

but the swineherd, quick on those fast feet, came absolutely tearing after them

and shot out through the porch, and the hide dropped clean out of his hand.

He bawled the dogs down and scattered them off every which way

"Old timer, those dogs nearly straight-up demolished you out of nowhere just now,

and you'd have dragged my name through the mud over it, no cap.

And honestly the gods have already handed me enough other grief and groaning for daysss:

because here I sit, crying and aching over a lord who's basically a literal god,

while that man, dead set craving even a scrap of food somewhere out there,

is wandering through the cities and lands of people who all talk different,

if he's even still breathing and clocking the light of the sun at all.

But come on, fall in behind me, let's head into the hut, old timer, so you can,

spill where you're actually from and how much grief you've slogged through."

Saying that, the swineherd, that goat, led the way into the hut,

brought him in and sat him down, raking up a fat pile of brushwood,

then spreading the hide of a shaggy wild goat over the top of it,

that the man took him in like that, and he found his voice and went off:

"May Zeus hook you up, my guy, and the rest of the deathless gods right along with him,

with whatever you want most, since you took me in this kindly without even blinking."

And then you fired back at him, Eumaeus, my swineherd guy:

if a sorrier one than you pulled up: because they all roll in straight from Zeus,

the guests and the beggars alike. And the gift I give is small but it comes from the heart,

that's just how it is for us: because that's literally the deal with servants,

forever shook, especially when the lords running the place

the one who'd have shown me proper love and set me up with my own stuff,

the kind of thing a warm-hearted lord hands the loyal worker who grinds for him:

a house, a plot of land, a wife everyone's lining up to marry,

for anybody who slogs hard for him and the gods bless up the work he's doing,

So my lord would've blessed me up big-time, if he'd just grown old right here:

but nah, he's gone. I swear, the whole bloodline of Helen should've been wiped flat,

folded all the way to the ground, since she folded the knees of so many men:

because that man too shipped out on Agamemnon's behalf, all for his honour,

Saying that, he cinched his tunic up tight and snappy with the belt,

and headed off to the pens where the squads of piglets were locked in.

He grabbed two from in there, hauled them out, and sacrificed the pair of them,

singed them clean, chopped them up, and ran the bits through onto the spits.

piping hot, still on the spits, and dusted white barley-meal over the top.

And in a wooden bowl he mixed up the honey-sweet wine,

then plopped down right across from him, and hyping him up to dig in, he goes:

"Tuck in now, stranger, the stuff that's on hand for us servants,

zero thought in their heads for divine payback, zero pity in their chests.

And believe me, the blessed gods do not vibe with reckless deeds, not one bit,

nah, they hand out the respect for fair play and the decent things people do.

And even the hostile, lawless types, the ones who roll onto somebody else's

and they load up the ships and sail off back home,

even into their chests a serious dread of divine payback comes dropping.

But these guys here, they know something, they caught wind of some god's voice,

the grim fate of that man, the way they flat-out refuse to do the marriage straight,

gobbling down his property like animals, no holding back, no shame in sight.

Because for every single night and day that comes rolling down from Zeus,

they never knock off just one victim, or only two, no chance:

and they're tearing through the wine, draining it bone dry, way past anything reasonable.

hero of a man had it stacked that high, not on the dark mainland

nor on Ithaca itself: not even twenty men put together

have got wealth piled up that ridiculous: lemme break the whole thing down for you.

Twelve herds of cattle on the mainland: just as many flocks of sheep,

all of it grazed by hired hands and his own herdsmen too:

and over here eleven wide-roaming herds of goats, the full set,

graze out at the far edge, and decent men keep eyes on them round the clock.

And every single day each of those guys brings him a beast,

But me, I'm the one minding and guarding these pigs right here,

and I pick out the best hog, dead careful, and ship it straight off to them."

That's what he said: meanwhile the guy was tucking into the meat and downing the wine

fast and greedy, dead silent, quietly planting bad vibes for the suitors deep down.

the swineherd filled up the very cup he'd been drinking from himself and handed it over,

brimming right to the top with wine: the guy took it, buzzing in his chest,

and found his voice and hit him with these winged words:

"My guy, so who actually bought you with his own wealth,

You say he died for Agamemnon's honour, on his behalf.

Tell me, on the off chance I happen to know a man like that out there.

Because Zeus knows, see, and the rest of the deathless gods too,

whether I could bring you word, having clocked him: I've wandered a whole lot."

"Old timer, no wandering guy who pulls up here with so-called news

about that man is ever gonna sell it to the wife and the dear son,

nah, instead the drifters, the ones desperate for a free handout,

just spin lies and have zero intention of telling a word of truth.

beelines straight to my lady and starts feeding her deceiving little tales:

and she takes him in nice and warm and grills him on every detail,

and the tears come dripping down off her eyelids while she's grieving,

exactly the way it goes with a woman when her man dies somewhere far off.

if somebody just handed you a cloak and a tunic, some clothes to throw on.

But that man, by now the dogs and the swift birds have most likely

ripped the skin clean off his bones, and his soul has fully bounced:

or the fish ate him out in the deep, and his bones are lying there

So that's how he's perished out there, leaving grief behind for his people,

all of them, but for me most of all: because never again am I gonna find

another lord this gentle, no matter how far I roam,

not even if I rolled back round to the house of my father and my mother,

And honestly I don't even ache that hard over them, much as I'm dying

to lay eyes on them again, back home in my own homeland:

nah, it's the longing for Odysseus, gone missing, that's got me in a chokehold.

That man, stranger, even with him not here, I feel weird

so I call him my big brother, even with him miles and miles away."

And then Odysseus, that goat who's been through it, came back at him with this:

"My guy, since you're flat-out refusing it and you keep insisting

that man's never coming back, and your heart's locked into doubt:

Odysseus is coming home: so pay me the good-news reward

the second that man rolls in and reaches his own halls:

kit me out in a cloak and a tunic, some properly nice clothes:

but before that, even as desperate as I am, I won't take a single thing.

the one who, caving in to poverty, spins out deceiving little tales.

So now let Zeus be my witness first of the gods, and this welcome table,

and the hearth of flawless Odysseus, the one I've pulled up to:

all of this is gonna land, for real, exactly the way I'm calling it.

just as this month wanes out and the next one's clocking in for its shift,

he's gonna make it back home, and he'll collect on whoever

is out here disrespecting his wife and his golden boy."

And then you fired back at him, Eumaeus, my swineherd guy:

and Odysseus is never coming home: so just chill, alright,

drink up, and let's keep our minds on something else, and quit

bringing this up: because honestly the heart inside my chest

goes to absolute pieces every time somebody reminds me of my loyal lord.

may he come back, the way I want it and Penelope wants it,

and old man Laertes wants it, and godlike Telemachus too.

But right now it's the boy I can't stop grieving over, the one Odysseus fathered,

Telemachus. After the gods raised him up like a young sapling,

than his own dear father, gorgeous in build and looks to match,

well, one of the immortals scrambled the steady sense inside him,

or maybe some human did, and off he went chasing news of his dad

to holy Pylos: and the proud suitors are lying in ambush

godlike Arceisius nameless clean off Ithaca.

But you know what, let's leave the kid out of it too, whether he gets nabbed

or whether he slips away and the son of Kronos holds a hand over him.

But come on, old timer, spill me your own troubles, all of them,

who are you and where from? Where's your city and your folks?

What kind of ship did you pull up on? And how did the sailors

ferry you to Ithaca? Who'd they even claim to be?

Because there's no way I think you got here on foot, let's be real."

"Alright then, I'll lay all of this out for you super straight.

Honestly I just wish the two of us had food sorted for daysss

and sweet wine to go with it, parked here cosy inside the hut,

to feast in peace while everybody else got on with the work:

and still not be done telling you the griefs sitting on my heart,

all the suffering I've slogged through by the gods' will, every last bit.

I'm proud to say my bloodline comes straight out of broad Crete,

the son of a loaded man: and plenty of other

the legit ones from his wife: but me, a bought woman birthed me,

a concubine, yet he honoured me same as his trueborn kids,

Castor son of Hylax, the one I'm proud to claim as my line:

back then he was honoured like a god among the people in Crete,

But you know how it goes, the death-spirits rolled up carrying him off

to the house of Hades: and his sons, those proud-spirited boys,

divided up the living and cast lots over the whole estate,

but to me they handed barely a scrap and parcelled me out a house.

all thanks to my own worth: because I was no useless waste of space,

no battle-dodger: now though, all of that's gone and left me high and dry:

but still, I reckon if you clock the stubble you can size up

what the crop once was: because grief's got me clamped down good and proper.

and the muscle to crack enemy ranks wide open: any time I'd pick out

the best men for an ambush, planting bad news for the foes,

never once did my proud heart see death coming up ahead,

nah, way out front I'd come leaping and snatch with the spear

That's the kind of guy I was in war: but farm work was never my vibe,

nor running a household, the stuff that raises up shining kids,

nah, what I always loved was the oared ships

and the wars and the polished javelins and the arrows,

But to me they were a whole vibe, the stuff some god slotted into my chest:

because different men get hyped on different kinds of work, that's just how it goes.

See, before the sons of the Achaeans even set foot on Troy,

nine times over I'd led men and fast-running ships

Out of that haul I'd pick whatever suited me, and a whole lot more

fell to me by lot: my house shot up rich in no time, and after that

I was a feared and respected name among the Cretans.

But once wide-thundering Zeus cooked up that hateful journey,

that's when they ordered me and famous Idomeneus

to lead the ships to Ilios: and there was no wriggling

out of it, the people's harsh word had me fully boxed in.

So there we sons of the Achaeans fought it out nine years,

back home with the ships, but a god scattered the Achaeans far and wide.

And for poor little me, Zeus the schemer was plotting nothing but trouble:

because I only stuck around one month, kicking it with my kids

and my wedded wife and my stuff: but after that

once I'd rigged the ships up nice, rolling deep with godlike crewmates.

I fitted out nine ships, and the people gathered up fast.

Then for six straight days my trusty crewmates

feasted hard: and I was the one laying out loads of sacrificial beasts

On the seventh we boarded up and pushed off from broad Crete,

sailing on a North Wind, fresh and fair and gusting fine,

easy as cruising downstream: and not a single one

of my ships took any damage, no, safe and sound and healthy

On the fifth day we pulled up at the fair-flowing river of Egypt,

and I anchored my curved ships right there in the Egyptian river.

And there, see, I told my trusty crewmates

to hang back by the ships and keep watch over them,

but they, caving in to their own arrogance, chasing their own hunger for it,

went straight to work trashing the gorgeous fields

of the Egyptian men, hauling off the women and the little kids,

and slaughtering the men themselves: and quick as anything the screaming hit the city.

came pulling up: and the whole plain got packed out with foot-soldiers and horses

flashing bronze for daysss, everywhere you looked. And right in the chaos Zeus, the one who lowkey lives for chucking lightning,

dumped a fat wave of pure panic onto my boys, and not one of them had the spine

to stand and hold the line: the bad vibes had us boxed in from every single angle, no exits.

and the rest got hauled off breathing, forced to grind as slaves the rest of their days.

But me, Zeus himself slid this one big-brain idea straight into my head,

ngl I lowkey wish I'd just clocked out and met my fate right then and there,

out in Egypt: because there was still way more pain posted up, waiting to ambush me later.

chucked the shield off my shoulders, and yeeted the spear right out of my hand,

and I rolled up in front of the king's chariot horses, full surrender mode,

grabbed his knees and kissed them: and the man covered for me and actually felt for me,

sat me up in his chariot and drove me home while I was full-on sobbing.

properly itching to finish the job: because they were heated way past belief.

But that man kept them off my back, scared of Zeus's wrath, you get me,

Zeus who guards the guests, the one who clocks foul play and goes off hardest of all.

So there I posted up seven whole years, and stacked a fat bag

But once the eighth year came rolling round on me, full circle,

that's when a Phoenician guy pulled up, a man who knew every con in the book,

a proper grifter, the type who'd already done a load of people dirty in his time:

he sweet-talked me with that slick brain of his and dragged me along, till we landed in

And I stayed there parked beside him one full year, the seasons doing their whole lap.

But once the months and the days had run themselves all the way out,

the year cycling back round again and the seasons clocking back in for their shift,

he loaded me onto a sea-crossing ship bound for Libya,

when the real plan was to flog me off out there and cash in some unreal price.

So I followed him onto the ship, fully clocking the scam, but I had zero choice in it.

And she just ran on the north wind, fresh and strong and lovely,

out over the dead centre of the sea past Crete: but Zeus was quietly plotting our ruin.

land in sight, just sky and sea and a whole lot of nothing,

that's when the son of Kronos parked a dark navy cloud

right over our hollow ship, and the sea went all murky underneath it, ominous.

And Zeus let the thunder rip and slammed a lightning bolt smack into the ship:

the whole thing reeking of sulphur smoke: and every soul got yeeted out the ship.

And they bobbed round the black ship like a flock of seabirds, properly washed,

tossed about on the swells: and the god cancelled their comeback right there on the spot.

But me, even with all that pain locked in my chest, Zeus himself

straight into my hands, so I could maybe dodge disaster one more round.

So I wrapped myself round it for dear life and got dragged off by the deadly winds.

Nine days I got hauled along, and on the tenth, deep in the pitch-black night,

a great big rolling wave nudged me up against the land of the Thesprotians.

the hero, didn't ask for a penny: because his own son ran into me

proper wrecked from the cold and the exhaustion, and walked me to his house,

hauling me up by the hand, till we hit his father's halls:

and they kitted me out in a cloak and a tunic, proper clothes.

he'd hosted him and treated him right on his way back to his home turf,

and he even flexed the loot for me, all the treasure Odysseus had stacked,

the bronze and the gold and the iron worked with so much sweat.

And honestly it could keep some other guy fed all the way to the tenth generation:

And he said the man had dipped off to Dodona, to hear it straight from the god,

out of the tall leafy oak, what Zeus's actual game plan was,

on how he should head back to Ithaca's rich open land,

seeing as he'd been ghosted forever, whether he should roll in loud or sneak in quiet.

that the ship was hauled down to the water and the crew was prepped and locked in,

the ones who'd ferry that man back to his beloved homeland.

But he shipped me off first: because a Thesprotian boat just happened

to be heading out for Dulichium, where the wheat grows thick for daysss.

nice and careful: but a nasty little plan landed sweet in their heads

about me, so I'd get dragged all the way down to rock bottom of misery.

But once the sea-crossing ship had put a fair stretch of water between us and land,

right away they started cooking up a day of slavery just for me.

and chucked some other rag over me, a sorry one, plus a tunic,

all torn up to bits, the same ones you can clock on me with your own eyes right now.

And by evening they pulled up at the fields of sunny clear-skied Ithaca.

There they lashed me down tight inside the well-benched ship

and rushed off to grab a quick supper down on the shore.

But for me the gods themselves bent the knot loose, easy as anything,

no effort: and pulling the rag down over my head,

I slid down the polished gangplank and lowered my chest into the sea,

swimming for it, and real quick I was out and clear, way off past them.

There I climbed up where there was a thicket of forest in full bloom,

and I just lay there crouched down low. They went stomping about,

groaning loud: but since it clearly wasn't worth their trouble

onto the hollow ship: and the gods themselves stashed me away,

easy as that, and steered me along and dropped me off at the steading

of a switched-on man: because clearly it's still my fate to keep on living."

Then you fired back at him, Eumaeus my swineherd guy:

spilling all this, every piece of it, the lot you went through and wandered.

But this part's off the script, ngl, you're not gonna sell me on it,

yapping about Odysseus. Why's a man like you gotta

spin lies for absolutely no reason? I know it well enough myself,

every last one, since they didn't take him down among the Trojans

or in the arms of his people, after he'd wrapped up the whole war.

Then all the Achaeans together would've heaped him a tomb,

and he'd have racked up massive clout for his son down the line.

Meanwhile I'm posted off here by the pigs, keeping to myself: I don't even

head into town, unless maybe switched-on Penelope

calls me up to pull up, whenever some news rolls in from somewhere.

But the rest of them sit round and grill the guy on every last detail,

and the ones who are buzzing, eating up his livelihood for free:

but me, it's no fun anymore to ask around or go digging,

not since an Aetolian guy played me dirty with his little story,

the one who'd merked a man and wandered over loads of country

He swore blind he'd seen the man in Crete, kicking it with Idomeneus,

patching up the ships the storms had smashed to bits on him:

and he said dude would be back either by summer or by harvest time,

hauling loads of treasure, rolling deep with his godlike crew.

don't be buttering me up with lies or trying to put a spell on me:

because that's not why I'm gonna respect you or treat you kind,

nah, it's straight fear of Zeus who guards the guests, and pure pity for you."

Then big-brain Odysseus came back at him with this:

the way I couldn't even reel you in with an oath, couldn't talk you round.

But come on, let's draw up a proper deal, and after this

let the gods stand witness for the both of us, the ones who run Olympus.

If your master actually pulls up back home to this place,

on my way to Dulichium, the spot my heart's been set on:

but if your master doesn't roll in the way I'm calling it,

sic the servants on me and chuck me off a great big cliff,

so the next beggar thinks twice before running his mouth with cons."

"Guest, yeah that'd honestly be a real clout move and a great name for me

out among people, both right this second and forever after,

if after I walked you into my hut and handed you guest-treats,

I then spun round and bodied you and ripped the dear life out of you:

But anyway it's suppertime now: I'm hoping my crew rolls in

real soon, so we can whip up a tasty supper in the hut."

So the two of them were going back and forth like this,

and right up close the pigs and the swineherd lads came strolling in.

and an absolute racket went up from the pigs settling into their pens.

Then the goat of a swineherd called out to his own crew:

"Bring up the best of the hogs, so I can sacrifice it proper for the guest

who's pulled up from far away: and we'll get a little something out of it too, since we're the ones

while other men chow down on all our hard work for free, zero payback."

Saying this he split the firewood with the pitiless bronze:

and they led in a hog, properly fat, five years old, the prime pick.

Then they stood it up at the hearth: and the swineherd, no joke,

so as the first offering he tossed bristles from the head into the fire,

the white-tusked hog's, and prayed it up to all the gods

for big-brain Odysseus to land his comeback home.

Then he reared back and clubbed it with an oak log he'd left from chopping:

and butchered it quick: and the swineherd laid out the raw cuts,

a piece from every limb to kick things off, wrapping them up in rich fat.

And those he chucked in the fire, after dusting them with barley meal,

then they carved the rest up and threaded the bits onto the spits

and dumped it onto the carving boards in a heap. And the swineherd

stood up to portion it out: because his head was full of the right way to do things.

And he split the whole lot into seven shares, carving it clean:

one share he set aside for the Nymphs and for Hermes, Maia's boy,

and he honoured Odysseus with the long cuts off the chine,

the white-tusked hog's, and it gassed up the master's whole spirit.

And big-brain Odysseus found his voice and hit him with this:

"Eumaeus, I hope you end up as beloved to Father Zeus

Then you fired back at him, Eumaeus my swineherd guy:

"Eat up, you blessed mess of a guest, and vibe with this spread,

whatever's on hand: the god'll hand you the one thing and hold back the other,

whatever his heart's feeling: because honestly the man can pull off anything."

and poured one out, the gleaming wine, then pressed it into the hands

of Odysseus the city-wrecker: and he plopped down by his own portion.

And Mesaulius dished out the bread for them, the lad the swineherd

had bought for himself, all on his own, while the master was off ghosting,

he'd bought him with his own wealth, straight off the Taphians.

So they all sent it on the good food laid out ready in front of them.

But once they'd absolutely demolished the food and drink and the craving backed off,

Mesaulius cleared the bread away, and they made a break for bed,

And the night rolled in, a nasty one, pitch-black no-moon: and Zeus poured rain

the whole night through, and the west wind howled, the soggy big-blowing kind.

Then Odysseus spoke up among them, lowkey testing the swineherd,

to see if maybe he'd peel off his own cloak and pass it over, or get one

"Hear me out now, Eumaeus and the rest of you crew,

I'm gonna drop one boastful little thing: it's the wine making me do it,

the trickster wine, the stuff that gets even a big-brain guy singing

and giggling real soft and somehow up on his feet dancing,

But anyway, since I've already blurted it out, I'm not gonna bottle it now.

Man, I wish I was young again and my strength was locked in solid,

like back when we set up the ambush and ran it down under Troy.

Odysseus and Atreus's son Menelaus were running the whole show,

But once we'd crept up to the city and that steep high wall,

we hunkered down round the town in the thick brushwood,

in among the reeds and the marsh, crouched low under our armour,

and we just lay there, and a nasty night rolled in once the north wind dropped,

icy, and ice crusted up all over our shields.

There everybody else had cloaks and tunics on them,

and they slept easy, shoulders all bundled up in their shields:

but me, like an absolute clown I'd left my cloak back with my mates

so I'd rolled along with nothing but my shield and a shiny loincloth.

But when the night had hit its last third and the stars had wheeled over,

that's when I gave Odysseus a nudge, since he was right next to me,

jabbing him with my elbow: and he snapped awake straight away:

I'm not gonna be among the living much longer, the cold's

absolutely finishing me off: because I've got no cloak, some power tricked me

into setting out in just my tunic: and now there's no escaping it.'

That's what I said, and then he got this one idea locked in his head,

and dropping his voice down real low he hit me with this:

'Quiet now, before any of the other Achaeans catches you.'

He spoke, then propped his head on his elbow and said this:

'Listen up, lads: a divine dream just pulled up on me in my sleep.

to go tell Agamemnon, Atreus's son, shepherd of the people,

to see if he'll rally more men down by the ships to come back us up.'

That's what he said, and Thoas, Andraemon's son, jumped right up,

quick as anything, and flung off his crimson cloak,

real happy, and lay there till Dawn pulled up on her golden throne.

So yeah, I wish I was young again and my strength was locked in solid:

then somebody round this swineherd steading would hand me a cloak,

out of both reasons, kindness and respect for a decent man:

Then you fired back at him, Eumaeus my swineherd guy:

"Old man, that's a flawless little tale you've laid out for us,

and nothing in it was off the script or wasted breath:

so you won't go short on clothing or anything else,

not for tonight: but come morning you'll be shaking out your own rags.

Because we don't exactly have loads of spare cloaks and swap-out tunics

to throw on round here, each man's just got the one.

But once Odysseus's beloved son rolls in,

and send you off wherever your heart and spirit are telling you to go."

Saying this he jumped up and set a bed for him near the fire,

and threw down sheepskins and goatskins on top.

That's where Odysseus crashed out: and he tossed a cloak over him,

to throw on whenever some monster of a storm kicked off.

So that's where Odysseus bedded down, and right beside him

the young lads bedded down too. But the swineherd wasn't feeling

the idea of crashing there, in a bed away from the hogs,

because the man cared so hard about his livelihood while he was gone.

First off he slung the sharp sword round his sturdy shoulders,

then wrapped a cloak around himself, a real thick wind-blocker,

and grabbed the fleece of a big well-fed goat,

And off he went to crash where the white-tusked hogs

were sleeping under a hollow rock, tucked out of the north wind's blast.