Odysseus left the harbor and took the rough track up through the wooded country, over the crest of the mountain, until he reached the place where Athena said he would find the swineherd—the most thrifty servant he had. He found him sitting in front of his hut, by the yards he had built on a site visible from afar. He had made them spacious and fair, with a free run for the pigs all around. He had built them during his master’s absence, of stones gathered from the ground, without telling Penelope or Laertes, and fenced them on top with thorn bushes. Outside the yard, he had run a strong fence of split oaken posts, set close together, while inside he had built twelve styes near one another for the sows to lie in. There were fifty pigs wallowing in each stye, all of them breeding sows, but the boars slept outside and were much fewer, because the suitors kept eating them, and the swineherd had to continually send them the best he had. There were three hundred and sixty boar pigs, and the herdsman’s four hounds, as fierce as wolves, always slept with them. The swineherd was cutting out a pair of sandals from a good, stout ox hide. Three of his men were out herding the pigs, and he had sent the fourth to town with a boar that he had been forced to send the suitors so they could sacrifice it and have their fill of meat.
When the hounds saw Odysseus, they set up a furious barking and flew at him, but Odysseus was cunning enough to sit down and let go of the stick in his hand. Still, he would have been torn apart in his own homestead if the swineherd hadn't dropped his ox hide, rushed through the gate of the yard, and driven the dogs off by shouting and throwing stones. Then he said to Odysseus,
“Old man, the dogs might have made short work of you, and then you would have gotten me into trouble. The gods have given me enough worries already. I have lost the best of masters and am in continual grief on his account. I have to tend swine for other people to eat, while he, if he still lives, is starving in some distant land. But come inside, and after you have had your fill of bread and wine, tell me where you come from and all about your misfortunes.”
The swineherd led the way into the hut and told him to sit down. He strewed a good thick bed of rushes on the floor, and on top of this he threw the shaggy chamois skin—a great thick one—on which he used to sleep at night. Odysseus was pleased to be made so welcome and said,
“May Zeus, sir, and the rest of the gods grant you your heart’s desire in return for your kindness to me.”
“Stranger, even if a poorer man came here, it wouldn’t be right for me to insult him, because all strangers and beggars are from Zeus. You must take what you can get and be thankful, for servants live in fear when they have young lords for their masters. This is my misfortune now, because heaven has hindered the return of the man who would have been good to me and given me something of my own—a house, a piece of land, a good-looking wife, and all else that a liberal master allows a servant who has worked hard for him, and whose labor the gods have prospered as they have mine in my situation. If my master had grown old here, he would have done great things for me, but he is gone, and I wish that Helen’s whole race were utterly destroyed, because she has been the death of many a good man. That was why my master went to Ilion, the land of noble steeds, to fight the Trojans in the cause of King Agamemnon.”
As he spoke, he bound his girdle around him and went to the styes where the young sucking pigs were penned. He picked out two, brought them back, and sacrificed them. He singed them, cut them up, and spitted them. When the meat was cooked, he brought it all in and set it before Odysseus, hot and still on the spit. Odysseus sprinkled it with white barley meal. The swineherd then mixed wine in a bowl of ivy-wood, took a seat opposite Odysseus, and told him to begin.
“Fall to, stranger, on a dish of servant’s pork. The fat pigs have to go to the suitors, who eat them up without shame or scruple, but the blessed gods don’t love such shameful doings and respect those who do what is lawful and right. Even the fierce freebooters who raid other people’s land—and Zeus gives them their spoil—even they, when they have filled their ships and gotten home, feel conscience-stricken and fear judgement. But some god seems to have told these people that Odysseus is dead and gone. Therefore, they won’t go back to their own homes and make their offers of marriage in the usual way, but waste his estate by force, without fear or stint. Not a day or night comes out of heaven but they sacrifice not one victim, or two only, and they take the run of his wine, for he was exceedingly rich. No other great man either in Ithaca or on the mainland is as rich as he was; he had as much as twenty men put together. I’ll tell you what he had. There are twelve herds of cattle on the mainland, and as many flocks of sheep. There are also twelve droves of pigs, while his own men and hired strangers feed him twelve widely spreading herds of goats. Here in Ithaca, he runs large flocks of goats on the far end of the island, and they are in the charge of excellent goat herds. Each one sends the suitors the best goat in the flock every day. As for me, I am in charge of the pigs that you see here, and I have to keep picking out the best I have and sending it to them.”
That was his story, but Odysseus went on eating and drinking ravenously without a word, brooding on his revenge. When he had eaten enough and was satisfied, the swineherd took the bowl from which he usually drank, filled it with wine, and gave it to Odysseus, who was pleased and said,
“My friend, who was this master of yours that bought you and paid for you—so rich and powerful, as you tell me? You say he perished in the cause of King Agamemnon. Tell me who he was, in case I may have met such a person. Zeus and the other gods know, but I may be able to give you news of him, for I have traveled much.”
“Old man, no traveler who comes here with news will get Odysseus’ wife and son to believe his story. Nevertheless, tramps in want of lodging keep coming with their mouths full of lies and not a word of truth. Everyone who finds his way to Ithaca goes to my mistress and tells her falsehoods. She takes them in, makes much of them, and asks them all manner of questions, crying the whole time, as women will when they have lost their husbands. And you too, old man, for a shirt and a cloak, would doubtless make up a very pretty story. But the wolves and birds of prey have long since torn Odysseus to pieces, or the fishes of the sea have eaten him, and his bones are lying buried deep in sand on some foreign shore. He is dead and gone, and it’s a bad business for all his friends—for me especially. Go where I may, I’ll never find so good a master, not even if I were to go home to my mother and father where I was bred and born. I don’t care so much about my parents now, though I should dearly like to see them again in my own country. It’s the loss of Odysseus that grieves me most. I can’t speak of him without reverence, though he is here no longer, for he was very fond of me and took such care of me that wherever he may be, I’ll always honor his memory.”
“My friend, you are very positive and very hard to believe about your master’s coming home again. Nevertheless, I won’t merely say, but swear, that he is coming. Don’t give me anything for my news until he has actually come. You may then give me a shirt and cloak of good wear if you want to. I am in great want, but I won’t take anything at all until then, for I hate a man—as I hate hell fire—who lets his poverty tempt him into lying. I swear by King Zeus, by the rites of hospitality, and by that hearth of Odysseus to which I have now come, that all will surely happen as I have said it will. Odysseus will return in this very year. With the end of this moon and the beginning of the next, he will be here to do vengeance on all those who are mistreating his wife and son.”
“Old man, you’ll neither get paid for bringing good news, nor will Odysseus ever come home. Drink your wine in peace, and let’s talk about something else. Don’t keep reminding me of all this. It always pains me when anyone speaks about my honored master. As for your oath, we’ll let it alone, but I only wish he may come, as do Penelope, his old father Laertes, and his son Telemachus. I am terribly unhappy, too, about this same boy of his. He was running up fast into manhood and promised to be no worse a man, face and figure, than his father, but someone—either god or man—has been unsettling his mind, so he has gone off to Pylos to try and get news of his father, and the suitors are lying in wait for him as he is coming home, hoping to leave the house of Arceisius without a name in Ithaca. But let’s say no more about him, and leave him to be taken, or else to escape if the son of Kronos holds his hand over him to protect him. And now, old man, tell me your own story. Tell me also—for I want to know—who you are and where you come from. Tell me of your town and parents, what kind of ship you came in, how the crew brought you to Ithaca, and from what country they claimed to come—for you can’t have come by land.”
“I’ll tell you all about it. If there were meat and wine enough, and we could stay here in the hut with nothing to do but eat and drink while the others go to their work, I could easily talk for a whole twelve months without ever finishing the story of the sorrows that heaven has seen fit to visit on me.
“I am by birth a Cretan. My father was a well-to-do man who had many sons born in marriage, whereas I was the son of a slave whom he had purchased as a concubine. Nevertheless, my father Castor, son of Hylax (whose lineage I claim, and who was held in the highest honor among the Cretans for his wealth, prosperity, and the valor of his sons), put me on the same level as my brothers who had been born in wedlock. However, when death took him to the house of Hades, his sons divided his estate and cast lots for their shares, but to me they gave a holding and little else. Nevertheless, my valor enabled me to marry into a rich family, for I wasn’t given to bragging or shirking on the field of battle. It’s all over now, but if you look at the straw, you can see what the ear was, for I have had trouble enough and to spare. Ares and Athena made me doughty in war. When I had picked my men to surprise the enemy with an ambuscade, I never gave death a thought, but was the first to leap forward and spear all whom I could overtake. That’s how I was in battle, but I didn’t care about farm work or the frugal home life of those who would bring up children. My delight was in ships, fighting, javelins, and arrows—things that most men shudder to think of. But one man likes one thing and another another, and this was what I was most naturally inclined to. Before the Achaeans went to Troy, nine times I commanded men and ships on foreign service, and I amassed much wealth. I had my pick of the spoil in the first instance, and much more was allotted to me later on.
“My house grew apace, and I became a great man among the Cretans, but when Zeus planned that terrible expedition, in which so many perished, the people required me and Idomeneus to lead their ships to Troy, and there was no way out of it, for they insisted on our doing so. There we fought for nine whole years, but in the tenth, we sacked the city of Priam and sailed home again as heaven dispersed us. Then it was that Zeus devised evil against me. I spent only one month happily with my children, wife, and property, and then I conceived the idea of making a descent on Aegyptus, so I fitted out a fine fleet and manned it. I had nine ships, and the people flocked to fill them. For six days, my men and I feasted, and I found them many victims both for sacrifice to the gods and for themselves, but on the seventh day, we went on board and set sail from Crete with a fair north wind behind us, though we were going down a river. Nothing went ill with any of our ships, and we had no sickness on board, but sat where we were and let the ships go as the wind and steersmen took them. On the fifth day, we reached the river Aegyptus. There I stationed my ships in the river, telling my men to stay by them and keep guard over them while I sent out scouts to reconnoiter from every point of vantage.
“But the men disobeyed my orders, took to their own devices, and ravaged the land of the Egyptians, killing the men and taking their wives and children captive. The alarm was soon carried to the city, and when they heard the war cry, the people came out at daybreak until the plain was filled with horsemen and foot soldiers and with the gleam of armor. Then Zeus spread panic among my men, and they would no longer face the enemy, for they found themselves surrounded. The Egyptians killed many of us and took the rest alive to do forced labor for them. Zeus, however, put it in my mind to do this—and I wish I had died then and there in Aegyptus instead, for there was much sorrow in store for me—I took off my helmet and shield and dropped my spear. Then I went straight up to the king’s chariot, clasped his knees, and kissed them. He spared my life, told me to get into his chariot, and took me weeping to his own home. Many made at me with their ashen spears and tried to kill me in their fury, but the king protected me, for he feared the wrath of Zeus, the protector of strangers, who punishes those who do evil.
“I stayed there for seven years and got together much money among the Egyptians, for they all gave me something, but when it was going on for eight years, a Phoenician came—a cunning rascal who had already committed all sorts of villainy. This man talked me into going with him to Phoenicia, where his house and his possessions lay. I stayed there for a whole twelve months, but at the end of that time, when months and days had gone by until the same season had come around again, he set me on board a ship bound for Libya, pretending that I was to take a cargo along with him to that place, but really so he could sell me as a slave and take the money I fetched. I suspected his intention, but went on board with him, for I couldn’t help it.
“The ship ran before a fresh north wind until we had reached the sea between Crete and Libya. There, however, Zeus planned their destruction, for as soon as we were well out from Crete and could see nothing but sea and sky, he raised a black cloud over our ship, and the sea grew dark beneath it. Then Zeus let fly with his thunderbolts, and the ship went around and around and was filled with fire and brimstone as the lightning struck it. The men all fell into the sea. They were carried about in the water around the ship, looking like so many sea-gulls, but the god presently deprived them of all chance of getting home again. I was dismayed. Zeus, however, sent the ship’s mast within my reach, which saved my life, for I clung to it and drifted before the fury of the gale. I drifted for nine days, but in the darkness of the tenth night, a great wave bore me onto the Thesprotian coast. There Pheidon, king of the Thesprotians, entertained me hospitably without charging me anything at all, for his son found me when I was nearly dead with cold and fatigue. He raised me by the hand, took me to his father’s house, and gave me clothes to wear.
“There I heard news of Odysseus, for the king told me he had entertained him and shown him much hospitality while he was on his homeward journey. He also showed me the treasure of gold and wrought iron that Odysseus had gotten together. There was enough to keep his family for ten generations, so much had he left in the house of King Pheidon. But the king said Odysseus had gone to Dodona so he could learn Zeus’s mind from the god’s high oak tree and know whether, after so long an absence, he should return to Ithaca openly or in secret. Moreover, the king swore in my presence, making drink-offerings in his own house as he did so, that the ship was by the water side, and the crew found, that would take him to his own country. He sent me off, however, before Odysseus returned, for there happened to be a Thesprotian ship sailing for the wheat-growing island of Dulichium, and he told those in charge of her to be sure and take me safely to King Acastus.
“These men hatched a plot against me that would have reduced me to the extreme of misery, for when the ship had gotten some way out from land, they resolved to sell me as a slave. They stripped me of the shirt and cloak I was wearing and gave me instead the tattered old clouts in which you now see me. Then, towards nightfall, they reached the tilled lands of Ithaca, and there they bound me with a strong rope fast in the ship, while they went ashore to get supper by the sea side. But the gods soon undid my bonds for me, and having drawn my rags over my head, I slid down the rudder into the sea, where I struck out and swam until I was well clear of them and came ashore near a thick wood in which I lay concealed. They were very angry that I had escaped and went searching about for me, until at last they thought it was no further use and went back to their ship. The gods, having hidden me thus easily, then took me to a good man’s door—for it seems that I am not to die yet awhile.”
“Poor unhappy stranger, I have found the story of your misfortunes extremely interesting, but that part about Odysseus isn’t right, and you’ll never get me to believe it. Why should a man like you go about telling lies in this way? I know all about the return of my master. The gods all detest him, or they would have taken him before Troy, or let him die with friends around him when his fighting days were done. Then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his ashes, and his son would have been heir to his renown, but now the storm winds have spirited him away, we know not where.
“As for me, I live out of the way here with the pigs and never go to the town unless Penelope sends for me on the arrival of some news about Odysseus. Then they all sit around and ask questions, both those who grieve over the king’s absence and those who rejoice at it because they can eat up his property without paying for it. For my own part, I have never cared about asking anyone else since the time when I was taken in by an Aetolian, who had killed a man and come a long way until he reached my station, and I was very kind to him. He said he had seen Odysseus with Idomeneus among the Cretans, refitting his ships which had been damaged in a gale. He said Odysseus would return in the following summer or autumn with his men and that he would bring back much wealth. And now you, you unfortunate old man, since fate has brought you to my door, don’t try to flatter me in this way with vain hopes. It isn’t for any such reason that I’ll treat you kindly, but only out of respect for Zeus, the god of hospitality, fearing him and pitying you.”
“I see that you are of an unbelieving mind. I have given you my oath, and yet you won’t credit me. Let’s make a bargain, and call all the gods in heaven to witness it. If your master comes home, give me a cloak and shirt of good wear, and send me to Dulichium where I want to go, but if he doesn’t come as I say he will, set your men on me, and tell them to throw me from yonder precipice, as a warning to tramps not to go about the country telling lies.”
“I’d look great if I killed you after taking you into my hut and showing you hospitality. I’d really have to say my prayers then. But it’s supper time, and I hope my men come in soon so we can cook something tasty.”
They talked like this, and soon the swineherds arrived with the pigs. They shut them up in their pens for the night, and the pigs squealed like crazy as they were driven in. Eumaeus called to his men:
“Bring in the best pig you have, so I can sacrifice it for this stranger. We’ll take our share. We’ve had enough trouble feeding pigs all this time, while others reap the rewards of our work.”
He started chopping firewood, and the others brought in a fine, fat, five-year-old boar and set it by the altar. Eumaeus didn’t forget the gods—he was a man of good principles. First, he cut bristles from the pig’s face and threw them into the fire, praying to all the gods that Odysseus might return home. Then he clubbed the pig with a piece of oak he’d saved while chopping firewood, stunning it. The others slaughtered and singed it, then cut it up. Eumaeus put raw pieces from each joint on some of the fat, sprinkled them with barley meal, and laid them on the embers. They cut the rest of the meat into small pieces, put them on spits, and roasted them until they were done. When they took them off the spits, they threw them on the dresser in a heap. The swineherd, a most fair man, stood up to give everyone his share. He made seven portions. He set one apart for Hermes, son of Maia, and the nymphs, praying to them. He dealt the others out to the men one by one. He gave Odysseus some slices cut lengthwise down the loin as a special honor, and Odysseus was very pleased.
“Eumaeus, I hope Zeus is as well-disposed toward you as I am, for the respect you’re showing to an outcast like me.”
“Eat, friend, and enjoy your supper, such as it is. God grants this and withholds that, as he sees fit, because he can do whatever he wants.”
As he spoke, he cut off the first piece and offered it as a burnt sacrifice to the immortal gods. Then he made them a drink offering, put the cup in Odysseus’s hands, and sat down to his own portion. Mesaulius brought them their bread. The swineherd had brought this man from among the Taphians on his own, during his master’s absence, and had paid for him with his own money without saying anything to his mistress or Laertes. They laid their hands on the good things before them, and when they’d had enough to eat and drink, Mesaulius took away what was left of the bread, and they all went to bed after a hearty supper.
The night came on stormy and very dark; there was no moon. It poured without stopping, and the wind blew hard from the west, a wet direction. Odysseus thought he’d see if Eumaeus, in his excellent care for him, would take off his own cloak and give it to him, or have one of his men give him one.
“Listen, Eumaeus, and the rest of you. After I say a prayer, I’ll tell you something. It’s the wine that makes me talk like this. Wine makes even a wise man sing; it makes him chuckle and dance and say things he shouldn’t. Still, now that I’ve started, I’ll go on. I wish I were still young and strong, like when we set up an ambush before Troy. Menelaus and Odysseus were the leaders, but I was in command too, because they wanted it that way. When we got to the city wall, we crouched down beneath our armor and lay there under cover of the reeds and thick brushwood that grew around the swamp. It started to freeze, with a north wind blowing. The snow fell small and fine like frost, and our shields were coated with frost. The others all had cloaks and shirts and slept comfortably enough with their shields around their shoulders, but I’d carelessly left my cloak behind, not thinking I’d be too cold, and had gone off in just my shirt and shield. When two-thirds of the night had passed and the stars had shifted, I nudged Odysseus, who was close to me, with my elbow, and he listened.
‘Odysseus,’ I said, ‘this cold will kill me. I have no cloak. Some god tricked me into setting off with nothing but my shirt, and I don’t know what to do.’”
Odysseus, as crafty as he was brave, came up with a plan:
“Keep still,” he said quietly, “or the others will hear you.” Then he raised his head on his elbow.
“Friends,” he said, “I had a dream from heaven in my sleep. We’re far from the ships. I wish someone would go down and tell Agamemnon to send us more men at once.”
Thoas, son of Andraemon, threw off his cloak and ran to the ships. I took the cloak and lay in it comfortably enough until morning. I wish I were still young and strong as I was then, because one of you swineherds would give me a cloak both out of kindness and for the respect due to a brave soldier. But now people look down on me because my clothes are shabby.”
“Old man, you’ve told us a great story, and everything you’ve said so far is fine. For now, you’ll have clothing and anything else a stranger in need can reasonably expect. But tomorrow morning, you’ll have to shake out your own old rags again, because we don’t have many spare cloaks or shirts up here; every man only has one. When Odysseus’s son comes home, he’ll give you both a cloak and a shirt and send you wherever you want to go.”
He got up and made a bed for Odysseus, throwing some goatskins and sheepskins on the ground in front of the fire. Odysseus lay down, and Eumaeus covered him with a big, heavy cloak he kept for a change in case of very bad weather.
Odysseus slept, and the young men slept beside him. But the swineherd didn’t like sleeping away from his pigs, so he got ready to go outside. Odysseus was glad to see that he looked after his property during his master’s absence. First, he slung his sword over his broad shoulders and put on a thick cloak to keep out the wind. He also took the skin of a large, well-fed goat, and a javelin in case of attack from men or dogs. Equipped like this, he went to his rest where the pigs were camping under an overhanging rock that sheltered them from the north wind.
Translation: Samuel Butler (1900) · Public domain · SPDX: PD-1900-Butler