Athena put it in Penelope’s mind to have the suitors compete with Odysseus’s bow and iron axes, hoping to bring about their destruction. Penelope went upstairs, got the bronze store-room key with its ivory handle, and went with her maids into the store-room. There, she kept her husband’s treasures of gold, bronze, and wrought iron, along with his bow and the quiver full of deadly arrows. Odysseus had received them from Iphitus, son of Eurytus, a friend he'd met in Lacedaemon. The two had met in Messene at the house of Ortilochus, where Odysseus was trying to recover a debt from the people. The Messenians had carried off three hundred sheep from Ithaca, sailing away with them and their shepherds. Odysseus, still young, had taken a long journey to recover them, sent by his father and the other chieftains. Iphitus was there to get back twelve brood mares he had lost, along with their mule foals. Those mares were the death of him. He went to the house of Zeus’s son, mighty Heracles, who, to his shame, killed him—his guest!—fearing neither heaven’s vengeance nor his own table. He killed Iphitus and kept the mares. Iphitus met Odysseus while trying to claim them, and gave him the bow that mighty Eurytus had carried and left to his son. Odysseus gave him a sword and a spear in return, beginning a fast friendship, though they never visited each other's houses because Zeus’s son Heracles killed Iphitus before they could. Odysseus hadn't taken this bow, given to him by Iphitus, when he sailed for Troy. He'd used it while at home, but left it behind as a keepsake from a valued friend.
Penelope reached the oak threshold of the store-room. The carpenter had planed it and drawn a line to make it straight, then set the doorposts and hung the doors. She loosed the strap from the door handle, put in the key, and shot back the bolts. The doors flew open with a noise like a bull bellowing in a meadow. Penelope stepped onto the raised platform where chests held fair linen, clothes, and fragrant herbs. Reaching up, she took down the bow and its case from the peg. She sat down with it on her knees, weeping as she took the bow out of its case. When her tears had relieved her, she went to the cloister where the suitors were, carrying the bow and the quiver with its many deadly arrows. Her maids followed, bearing a chest containing iron and bronze that her husband had won as prizes. Reaching the suitors, she stood by one of the bearing-posts supporting the cloister roof, holding a veil before her face, with a maid on either side. Then she said:
“Listen, suitors, you who abuse the hospitality of this house because its owner has been gone so long, with no other excuse than wanting to marry me. Since that's the prize you're fighting for, I'll bring out the mighty bow of Odysseus. Whoever strings it most easily and shoots an arrow through twelve axes, I will follow and leave this house of my lawful husband—so fine, so full of wealth. Though even then, I'll remember it in my dreams.”
As she spoke, she told Eumaeus to set the bow and iron before the suitors. Eumaeus wept as he obeyed. The stockman also wept when he saw his master’s bow, but Antinous scolded them.
“You country bumpkins, silly simpletons! Why add to your mistress’s sorrows by crying like this? She has enough to grieve over with the loss of her husband. Sit still and eat your dinners in silence, or go outside to cry and leave the bow here. We suitors will contend for it with all our might, because stringing a bow like this won't be easy. None of us is another Odysseus. I saw him and remember him, though I was just a child then.”
That's what he said, but he expected to string the bow and shoot through the iron. In fact, he would be the first to taste Odysseus’s arrows, for dishonoring him in his own house and egging the others on.
“Great gods! Zeus must have robbed me of my senses. My dear mother says she'll leave this house and marry again, yet I'm laughing and enjoying myself as if nothing's happening. But, suitors, since the contest has been agreed upon, let it go forward. It's for a woman whose equal can't be found in Pylos, Argos, or Mycene, or even in Ithaca or on the mainland. You know this as well as I do; why should I praise my mother? Come on, then, no more excuses. Let's see if you can string the bow. I'll try too. If I can string it and shoot through the iron, I won't let my mother leave this house with a stranger, not if I can win the prizes my father won before me.”
He sprang from his seat, threw off his crimson cloak, and took his sword from his shoulder. First, he set the axes in a row in a long groove he had dug and straightened by line. Then he stamped the earth tight around them. Everyone was surprised to see him set them up so orderly, though he had never seen anything like it before. That done, he went to the pavement to try the bow. Three times he tugged at it, trying to draw the string with all his might, and three times he had to stop, though he had hoped to string the bow and shoot through the iron. He was trying for the fourth time and would have strung it had Odysseus not signaled him to stop, despite his eagerness. So he said:
“Alas! I'll either always be feeble and without prowess, or I'm too young and haven't reached my full strength to hold my own if anyone attacks me. You others, stronger than I am, try the bow and settle this contest.”
He put the bow down, leaning it against the door [into the house], with the arrow against the top of the bow. Then he sat down on the seat he had risen from, and Antinous said:
“Come on, each of you in turn, going to the right from where the cupbearer starts when handing round the wine.”
The others agreed, and Leiodes, son of Oenops, rose first. He was the suitors’ sacrificial priest and sat in the corner near the mixing bowl. He was the only one who hated their evil deeds and was indignant with the others. He took the bow and arrow and went to the pavement to try, but he couldn't string it. His hands were weak and unused to hard work, so they soon grew tired, and he said to the suitors:
“My friends, I can't string it. Let someone else have it. This bow will take the life and soul out of many a chief among us. It's better to die than to live after missing the prize we've striven for so long, which has brought us together for so long. Someone here hopes and prays to marry Penelope, but after seeing this bow and trying it, let him woo and make bridal offerings to some other woman. Let Penelope marry whoever makes her the best offer and whose fate it is to win her.”
He put the bow down, leaning it against the door, with the arrow against the tip. Then he sat down again on the seat he had risen from, and Antinous rebuked him, saying:
“Leiodes, what are you talking about? Your words are monstrous and intolerable. It makes me angry to listen to you. Will this bow take the life of many a chief among us just because you can't bend it? You weren't born to be an archer, but others will soon string it.”
Then he said to Melanthius the goatherd:
“Hey, you—light a fire in the courtyard, set a seat nearby with a sheepskin on it. And bring us a big ball of lard from the house supply. We’ll warm the bow and grease it. Then we’ll try again and settle this contest.”
Melanthius lit the fire and put a sheepskin-covered seat beside it. He also brought a large ball of lard from the house. The suitors warmed the bow and tried it again, but none were strong enough to string it. Still, Antinous and Eurymachus remained; they were the ringleaders and far ahead of the others.
Then the swineherd and the stockman left the hall together, and Odysseus followed. Once they were outside the gates and in the outer yard, Odysseus said quietly:
“Stockman, and you, swineherd—I’m wondering whether to say something or not, but I think I will. What would you do if Odysseus came back suddenly? Would you side with the suitors, or with Odysseus?”
“Father Zeus, if only you would make it so! If some god brought Odysseus back, you’d see how hard I’d fight for him.”
Eumaeus prayed to all the gods in the same way, hoping for Odysseus's return. When Odysseus was sure of their loyalty, he said:
“I am Odysseus. I’ve suffered a lot, but after twenty years, I’m back in my own country. You two are the only servants I've found who are glad to see me. I haven’t heard any of the others praying for my return. So, I’ll tell you the truth. If the gods deliver the suitors into my hands, I’ll find wives for you both, give you houses and land near my own, and you’ll be like brothers and friends to Telemachus. Now, I’ll give you proof so you can be sure. See this scar from the boar’s tusk? It ripped me when I was hunting on Mount Parnassus with Autolycus’s sons.”
As he spoke, he pulled his rags aside to show the scar. They examined it closely, then wept over Odysseus, threw their arms around him, and kissed his head and shoulders. Odysseus kissed their hands and faces in return. The sun would have set while they mourned if Odysseus hadn’t stopped them and said:
“Stop weeping, or someone will come out and see us and tell the others inside. Go in separately, not together. I’ll go first, then you follow. Here’s the signal: the suitors will try to stop me from getting the bow and quiver. Eumaeus, when you’re carrying it around, put it in my hands, and tell the women to close their doors. If they hear groaning or the sounds of fighting in the house, they must not come out. They must stay quiet and keep working. And Philoetius, I order you to fasten the doors to the outer court and tie them securely right away.”
Having said this, he went back to the house and sat in his former seat. Soon, his two servants followed him inside.
Just then, Eurymachus was warming the bow by the fire, but he still couldn’t string it, and he was very upset. He sighed deeply and said:
“I’m upset for myself and for all of us. I’m upset that I’ll have to give up the marriage, but I don’t care that much about that, since there are plenty of other women in Ithaca and elsewhere. What bothers me most is that we’re so much weaker than Odysseus that we can’t string his bow. This will disgrace us in the eyes of those not yet born.”
“That won’t happen, Eurymachus, and you know it. Today is Apollo’s feast day throughout the land. Who can string a bow on a day like this? Put it aside. The axes can stay where they are; no one’s likely to come and take them. Let the cupbearer pass the cups so we can make our drink offerings and forget about the bow. We’ll tell Melanthius to bring us some goats tomorrow—the best he has. Then we can offer thighbones to Apollo, the mighty archer, and try the bow again, to settle the contest.”
The others agreed. Servants poured water over the guests’ hands, and pages filled the mixing bowls with wine and water, handing it around after each man made his offering. When they had made their offerings and drunk as much as they wanted, Odysseus said slyly:
“Suitors of the illustrious queen, listen to what I have to say. I’m speaking especially to Eurymachus and Antinous, who just spoke so reasonably. Stop shooting for now and leave it to the gods. In the morning, let the gods give victory to whomever they want. But for now, give me the bow so I can test my strength among you all and see if I still have as much power as I used to, or if travel and neglect have ruined it.”
This made them all angry, because they feared he might string the bow. Antinous rebuked him fiercely, saying:
“You wretched creature, you don’t have a grain of sense in your whole body. You should consider yourself lucky to dine unharmed among your betters, without a smaller portion than the rest of us, and to hear our conversation. No other beggar or stranger has been allowed to hear what we say. The wine must be doing you mischief, as it does to all who drink too much. Wine inflamed the Centaur Eurytion when he stayed with Peirithous among the Lapiths. Once the wine got to his head, he went mad and did ill deeds in Peirithous’s house. The heroes there rushed at him and cut off his ears and nostrils, then dragged him through the doorway. He went away crazed, bearing the burden of his crime, bereft of understanding. From then on, there was war between mankind and the centaurs, but he brought it on himself through his own drunkenness. I can tell you that it will go hard with you if you string the bow. You’ll find no mercy here. We’ll ship you off to King Echetus, who kills everyone who comes near him. You’ll never get away alive, so drink and keep quiet without quarreling with younger men.”
“Antinous, it isn’t right to mistreat any guest of Telemachus who comes to this house. If the stranger proves strong enough to string Odysseus’s mighty bow, do you suppose he would take me home and make me his wife? Even he can’t have that idea in mind. None of you need let that disturb your feasting; it would be out of all reason.”
“Queen Penelope, we don’t suppose this man will take you away; it’s impossible. But we’re afraid some of the baser Achaeans, men or women, will gossip and say, ‘These suitors are feeble. They’re courting the wife of a brave man whose bow not one of them could string, yet a beggarly tramp strung it at once and sent an arrow through the iron.’ That’s what they’ll say, and it will be a scandal against us.”
“Eurymachus, people who persist in eating up a great chieftain’s estate and dishonoring his house mustn’t expect others to think well of them. Why should you mind if men talk as you think they will? This stranger is strong and well-built; he says he’s of noble birth. Give him the bow, and let’s see if he can string it. I say—and it will surely be—if Apollo grants him the glory of stringing it, I’ll give him a cloak and shirt of good wear, with a javelin to keep off dogs and robbers, and a sharp sword. I’ll also give him sandals, and see him sent safely wherever he wants to go.”
“Mother, I’m the only man in Ithaca or the islands across from Elis who has the right to let anyone have the bow or refuse it. No one will force me one way or the other, not even if I choose to give the stranger the bow outright and let him take it. Go inside and busy yourself with your daily duties—your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants. This bow is a man’s matter, and mine above all, for I am master here.”
She went, wondering, back into the house, and pondered her son’s saying. Going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she mourned her dear husband until Athena sent sweet sleep over her eyelids.
The swineherd took up the bow and was about to take it to Odysseus, but the suitors clamored at him from all parts of the cloisters. One of them said,
“You idiot, where are you taking the bow? Are you out of your wits? If Apollo and the other gods grant our prayer, your own boarhounds will get you into some quiet little place and worry you to death.”
Eumaeus was frightened by the outcry, so he put the bow down. But Telemachus shouted from the other side of the cloisters and threatened him, saying,
“Father Eumaeus, bring the bow despite them, or young as I am, I’ll pelt you with stones back to the country, for I’m the better man. I wish I were that much stronger than all the other suitors, as I am than you. I’d soon send some of them off sick and sorry, for they mean mischief.”
He spoke, and they all laughed heartily, which put them in a better mood. Eumaeus brought the bow and placed it in Odysseus’s hands. Then he called Eurycleia aside and said,
“Eurycleia, Telemachus says you’re to close the doors of the women’s apartments. If they hear any groaning or uproar as of men fighting, they’re not to come out. They’re to keep quiet and stay at their work.”
Eurycleia did as she was told and closed the doors of the women’s apartments.
Meanwhile, Philoetius slipped out and secured the gates of the outer court. There was a ship’s cable of byblus fiber in the gatehouse, so he made the gates fast with it and came back, resuming his seat and keeping an eye on Odysseus, who now had the bow and was turning it every way, testing it to see whether worms had eaten into its two horns during his absence. Then one would turn to his neighbor and say,
“This is some tricky old bow-fancier. Either he has one like it at home, or he wants to make one. He handles it in such workmanlike style.”
“I hope he’s no more successful in other things than he’s likely to be in stringing this bow.”
Odysseus, after picking up the bow and examining it, strung it as easily as a skilled bard strings a new peg on his lyre, fastening the twisted gut at both ends. Then he took it in his right hand to test the string, and it sang sweetly under his touch, like a swallow's twitter. The suitors were dismayed and turned pale at the sound. At that moment, Zeus thundered loudly as a sign, and Odysseus's heart rejoiced at the omen that the son of scheming Kronos had sent him.
He took an arrow lying on the table—the ones the Achaeans would soon taste were all inside the quiver—laid it on the center-piece of the bow, and drew the notch of the arrow and the string toward him, still seated. When he had taken aim, he let fly. His arrow pierced every handle-hole of the axes, from the first onward, until it went right through them and into the outer courtyard. Then he said to Telemachus:
“Your guest has not disgraced you, Telemachus. I didn't miss my aim, and I strung my bow quickly. I'm still strong, not as the suitors taunt me. Now, it's time for the Achaeans to prepare supper while it's still daylight, and then enjoy themselves with song and dance, the crowning ornaments of a banquet.”
As he spoke, he signaled with his eyebrows. Telemachus girded on his sword, grasped his spear, and stood armed beside his father’s seat.
Translation: Samuel Butler (1900) · Public domain · SPDX: PD-1900-Butler