The ghosts of the suitors in Hades
Odysseus and his men go to the house of Laertes
The people of Ithaca come out to attack Odysseus, but Athena concludes a peace
THEN HERMES OF Cyllene summoned the ghosts of the suitors, and in his hand he held the fair golden wand with which he seals men's eyes in sleep or wakes them just as he pleases; with this he roused the ghosts and led them, while they followed whining and gibbering behind him. As bats fly squealing in the hollow of some great cave, when one of them has fallen out of the cluster in which they hang, even so did the ghosts whine and squeal as Hermes the healer of sorrow led them down into the dark abode of death. When they had passed the waters of Oceanus and the rock Leucas, they came to the gates of the sun and the land of dreams, whereon they reached the meadow of asphodel where dwell the souls and shadows of them that can labor no more.
Here they found the ghost of Achilles son of Peleus, with those of Patroclus, Antilochus, and Ajax, who was the finest and handsomest man of all the Danaans after the son of Peleus himself.
They gathered round the ghost of the son of Peleus, and the ghost of Agamemnon joined them, sorrowing bitterly. Round him were gathered also the ghosts of those who had perished with him in the house of Aegisthus; and the ghost of Achilles spoke first.
“Son of Atreus,” it said, “we used to say that Zeus had loved you better from first to last than any other hero, for you were captain over many and brave men, when we were all fighting together before Troy; yet the hand of death, which no mortal can escape, was laid upon you all too early. Better for you had you fallen at Troy in the hey-day of your renown, for the Achaeans would have built a mound over your ashes, and your son would have been heir to your good name, whereas it has now been your lot to come to a most miserable end.”
“Happy son of Peleus,” answered the ghost of Agamemnon, “for having died at Troy far from Argos, while the bravest of the Trojans and the Achaeans fell round you fighting for your body. There you lay in the whirling clouds of dust, all huge and hugely, heedless now of your chivalry. We fought the whole of the livelong day, nor should we ever have left off if Zeus had not sent a hurricane to stay us. Then, when we had borne you to the ships out of the fray, we laid you on your bed and cleansed your fair skin with warm water and with ointments. The Danaans tore their hair and wept bitterly round about you. Your mother, when she heard, came with her immortal nymphs from out of the sea, and the sound of a great wailing went forth over the waters so that the Achaeans quaked for fear. They would have fled panic-stricken to their ships had not wise old Nestor whose counsel was ever truest checked them saying, ‘Hold, Argives, fly not sons of the Achaeans, this is his mother coming from the sea with her immortal nymphs to view the body of her son.’
“Thus he spoke, and the Achaeans feared no more. The daughters of the old man of the sea stood round you weeping bitterly, and clothed you in immortal raiment. The nine muses also came and lifted up their sweet voices in lament—calling and answering one another; there was not an Argive but wept for pity of the dirge they chanted. Days and nights seven and ten we mourned you, mortals and immortals, but on the eighteenth day we gave you to the flames, and many a fat sheep with many an ox did we slay in sacrifice around you. You were burnt in raiment of the gods, with rich resins and with honey, while heroes, horse and foot, clashed their armor round the pile as you were burning, with the tramp as of a great multitude. But when the flames of heaven had done their work, we gathered your white bones at daybreak and laid them in ointments and in pure wine. Your mother brought us a golden vase to hold them—gift of Dionysus, and work of Hephaestus himself; in this we mingled your bleached bones with those of Patroclus who had gone before you, and separate we enclosed also those of Antilochus, who had been closer to you than any other of your comrades now that Patroclus was no more.
“Over these the host of the Argives built a noble tomb, on a point jutting out over the open Hellespont, that it might be seen from far out upon the sea by those now living and by them that shall be born hereafter. Your mother begged prizes from the gods, and offered them to be contended for by the noblest of the Achaeans. You must have been present at the funeral of many a hero, when the young men gird themselves and make ready to contend for prizes on the death of some great chieftain, but you never saw such prizes as silver-footed Thetis offered in your honor; for the gods loved you well. Thus even in death your fame, Achilles, has not been lost, and your name lives evermore among all mankind. But as for me, what solace had I when the days of my fighting were done? For Zeus willed my destruction on my return, by the hands of Aegisthus and those of my wicked wife.”
Thus did they converse, and presently Hermes came up to them with the ghosts of the suitors who had been killed by Odysseus. The ghosts of Agamemnon and Achilles were astonished at seeing them, and went up to them at once. The ghost of Agamemnon recognized Amphimedon son of Melaneus, who lived in Ithaca and had been his host, so it began to talk to him.
“Amphimedon,” it said, “what has happened to all you fine young men—all of an age too—that you are come down here under the ground? One could pick no finer body of men from any city. Did Poseidon raise his winds and waves against you when you were at sea, or did your enemies make an end of you on the mainland when you were cattle-lifting or sheep-stealing, or while fighting in defense of their wives and city? Answer my question, for I have been your guest. Do you not remember how I came to your house with Menelaus, to persuade Odysseus to join us with his ships against Troy? It was a whole month ere we could resume our voyage, for we had hard work to persuade Odysseus to come with us.”
And the ghost of Amphimedon answered, “Agamemnon, son of Atreus, king of men, I remember everything that you have said, and will tell you fully and accurately about the way in which our end was brought about. Odysseus had been long gone, and we were courting his wife, who did not directly say that she would not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end, for she meant to compass our destruction: this, then, was the trick she played us. She set up a great tambour frame in her room and began to work on an enormous piece of fine needlework. ‘Sweethearts,’ said she, ‘Odysseus is indeed dead, still, do not press me to marry again immediately; wait—for I would not have my skill in needlework perish unrecorded—till I have completed a pall for the hero Laertes, against the time when death shall take him. He is very rich, and the women of the place will talk if he is laid out without a pall.’ This is what she said, and we assented; whereupon we could see her working upon her great web all day long, but at night she would unpick the stitches again by torchlight. She fooled us in this way for three years without our finding it out, but as time wore on and she was now in her fourth year, in the waning of moons and many days had been accomplished, one of her maids who knew what she was doing told us, and we caught her in the act of undoing her work, so she had to finish it whether she would or no; and when she showed us the robe she had made, after she had had it washed, its splendor was as that of the sun or moon.
“Then some malicious god conveyed Odysseus to the upland farm where his swineherd lives. Thither presently came also his son, returning from a voyage to Pylos, and the two came to the town when they had hatched their plot for our destruction. Telemachus came first, and then after him, accompanied by the swineherd, came Odysseus, clad in rags and leaning on a staff as though he were some miserable old beggar. He came so unexpectedly that none of us knew him, not even the older ones among us, and we reviled him and threw things at him. He endured both being struck and insulted without a word, though he was in his own house; but when the will of Aegis-bearing Zeus inspired him, he and Telemachus took the armor and hid it in an inner chamber, bolting the doors behind them. Then he cunningly made his wife offer his bow and a quantity of iron to be contended for by us ill-fated suitors; and this was the beginning of our end, for not one of us could string the bow—nor nearly do so. When it was about to reach the hands of Odysseus, we all of us shouted out that it should not be given him, no matter what he might say, but Telemachus insisted on his having it. When he had got it in his hands he strung it with ease and sent his arrow through the iron. Then he stood on the floor of the cloister and poured his arrows on the ground, glaring fiercely about him. First he killed Antinous, and then, aiming straight before him, he let fly his deadly darts and they fell thick on one another. It was plain that one of the gods was helping them, for they fell upon us with might and main throughout the cloisters, and there was a hideous sound of groaning as our brains were being battered in, and the ground seethed with our blood. This, Agamemnon, is how we came by our end, and our bodies are lying still uncared for in the house of Odysseus, for our friends at home do not yet know what has happened, so that they cannot lay us out and wash the black blood from our wounds, making moan over us according to the offices due to the departed.”
“Happy Odysseus, son of Laertes,” replied the ghost of Agamemnon, “you are indeed blessed in the possession of a wife endowed with such rare excellence of understanding, and so faithful to her wedded lord as Penelope the daughter of Icarius. The fame, therefore, of her virtue shall never die, and the immortals shall compose a song that shall be welcome to all mankind in honor of the constancy of Penelope. How far otherwise was the wickedness of the daughter of Tyndareus who killed her lawful husband; her song shall be hateful among men, for she has brought disgrace on all womankind even on the good ones.”
Thus did they converse in the house of Hades deep down within the bowels of the earth. Meanwhile Odysseus and the others passed out of the town and soon reached the fair and well-tilled farm of Laertes, which he had reclaimed with infinite labor. Here was his house, with a lean-to running all round it, where the slaves who worked for him slept and sat and ate, while inside the house there was an old Sicel woman, who looked after him in this his country-farm. When Odysseus got there, he said to his son and to the other two:
“Go to the house, and kill the best pig that you can find for dinner. Meanwhile I want to see whether my father will know me, or fail to recognize me after so long an absence.”
He then took off his armor and gave it to Eumaeus and Philoetius, who went straight on to the house, while he turned off into the vineyard to make trial of his father. As he went down into the great orchard, he did not see Dolius, nor any of his sons nor of the other bondsmen, for they were all gathering thorns to make a fence for the vineyard, at the place where the old man had told them; he therefore found his father alone, hoeing a vine. He had on a dirty old shirt, patched and very shabby; his legs were bound round with thongs of oxhide to save him from the brambles, and he also wore sleeves of leather; he had a goat skin cap on his head, and was looking very woe-begone. When Odysseus saw him so worn, so old and full of sorrow, he stood still under a tall pear tree and began to weep. He doubted whether to embrace him, kiss him, and tell him all about his having come home, or whether he should first question him and see what he would say. In the end he deemed it best to be crafty with him, so in this mind he went up to his father, who was bending down and digging about a plant.
“I see, sir,” said Odysseus, “that you are an excellent gardener—what pains you take with it, to be sure. There is not a single plant, not a fig tree, vine, olive, pear, nor flower bed, but bears the trace of your attention. I trust, however, that you will not be offended if I say that you take better care of your garden than of yourself. You are old, unsavory, and very meanly clad. It cannot be because you are idle that your master takes such poor care of you, indeed your face and figure have nothing of the slave about them, and proclaim you of noble birth. I should have said that you were one of those who should wash well, eat well, and lie soft at night as old men have a right to do; but tell me, and tell me true, whose bondman are you, and in whose garden are you working? Tell me also about another matter. Is this place that I have come to really Ithaca? I met a man just now who said so, but he was a dull fellow, and had not the patience to hear my story out when I was asking him about an old friend of mine, whether he was still living, or was already dead and in the house of Hades. Believe me when I tell you that this man came to my house once when I was in my own country and never yet did any stranger come to me whom I liked better. He said that his family came from Ithaca and that his father was Laertes, son of Arceisius. I received him hospitably, making him welcome to all the abundance of my house, and when he went away I gave him all customary presents. I gave him seven talents of fine gold, and a cup of solid silver with flowers chased upon it. I gave him twelve light cloaks, and as many pieces of tapestry; I also gave him twelve cloaks of single fold, twelve rugs, twelve fair mantles, and an equal number of shirts. To all this I added four good looking women skilled in all useful arts, and I let him take his choice.”
His father shed tears and answered, “Sir, you have indeed come to the country that you have named, but it is fallen into the hands of wicked people. All this wealth of presents has been given to no purpose. If you could have found your friend here alive in Ithaca, he would have entertained you hospitably and would have requited your presents amply when you left him—as would have been only right considering what you had already given him. But tell me, and tell me true, how many years is it since you entertained this guest—my unhappy son, as ever was? Alas! He has perished far from his own country; the fishes of the sea have eaten him, or he has fallen a prey to the birds and wild beasts of some continent. Neither his mother, nor I his father, who were his parents, could throw our arms about him and wrap him in his shroud, nor could his excellent and richly dowered wife Penelope bewail her husband as was natural upon his death bed, and close his eyes according to the offices due to the departed. But now, tell me truly for I want to know. Who and where are you from—tell me of your town and parents? Where is the ship lying that has brought you and your men to Ithaca? Or were you a passenger on some other man's ship, and those who brought you here have gone on their way and left you?”
“I will tell you everything,” answered Odysseus, “quite truly. I come from Alybas, where I have a fine house. I am son of king Apheidas, who is the son of Polypemon. My own name is Eperitus; heaven drove me off my course as I was leaving Sicania, and I have been carried here against my will. As for my ship it is lying over yonder, off the open country outside the town, and this is the fifth year since Odysseus left my country. Poor fellow, yet the omens were good for him when he left me. The birds all flew on our right hands, and both he and I rejoiced to see them as we parted, for we had every hope that we should have another friendly meeting and exchange presents.”
A dark cloud of sorrow fell upon Laertes as he listened. He filled both hands with the dust from off the ground and poured it over his grey head, groaning heavily as he did so. The heart of Odysseus was touched, and his nostrils quivered as he looked upon his father; then he sprang towards him, flung his arms about him and kissed him, saying, “I am he, father, about whom you are asking—I have returned after having been away for twenty years. But cease your sighing and lamentation—we have no time to lose, for I should tell you that I have been killing the suitors in my house, to punish them for their insolence and crimes.”
“If you really are my son Odysseus,” replied Laertes, “and have come back again, you must give me such manifest proof of your identity as shall convince me.”
“First observe this scar,” answered Odysseus, “which I got from a boar's tusk when I was hunting on Mt. Parnassus. You and my mother had sent me to Autolycus, my mother's father, to receive the presents which when he was over here he had promised to give me. Furthermore I will point out to you the trees in the vineyard which you gave me, and I asked you all about them as I followed you round the garden. We went over them all, and you told me their names and what they all were. You gave me thirteen pear trees, ten apple trees, and forty fig trees; you also said you would give me fifty rows of vines; there was corn planted between each row, and they yield grapes of every kind when the heat of heaven has been laid heavy upon them.”
Laertes' strength failed him when he heard the convincing proofs which his son had given him. He threw his arms about him, and Odysseus had to support him, or he would have gone off into a swoon; but as soon as he came to, and was beginning to recover his senses, he said, “O father Zeus, then you gods are still in Olympus after all, if the suitors have really been punished for their insolence and folly. Nevertheless, I am much afraid that I shall have all the townspeople of Ithaca up here directly, and they will be sending messengers everywhere throughout the cities of the Cephallenians.”
Odysseus answered, “Take heart and do not trouble yourself about that, but let us go into the house hard by your garden. I have already told Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus to go on there and get dinner ready as soon as possible.”
Thus conversing the two made their way towards the house. When they got there they found Telemachus with the stockman and the swineherd cutting up meat and mixing wine with water. Then the old Sicel woman took Laertes inside and washed him and anointed him with oil. She put him on a good cloak, and Athena came up to him and gave him a more imposing presence, making him taller and stouter than before. When he came back his son was surprised to see him looking so like an immortal, and said to him, “My dear father, some one of the gods has been making you much taller and better-looking.”
Laertes answered, “Would, by Father Zeus, Athena, and Apollo, that I were the man I was when I ruled among the Cephallenians, and took Nericum, that strong fortress on the foreland. If I were still what I then was and had been in our house yesterday with my armor on, I should have been able to stand by you and help you against the suitors. I should have killed a great many of them, and you would have rejoiced to see it.”
Thus did they converse; but the others, when they had finished their work and the feast was ready, left off working, and took each his proper place on the benches and seats. Then they began eating; by and by old Dolius and his sons left their work and came up, for their mother, the Sicel woman who looked after Laertes now that he was growing old, had been to fetch them. When they saw Odysseus and were certain it was he, they stood there lost in astonishment; but Odysseus scolded them good naturedly and said, “Sit down to your dinner, old man, and never mind about your surprise; we have been wanting to begin for some time and have been waiting for you.”
Then Dolius put out both his hands and went up to Odysseus. “Sir,” said he, seizing his master's hand and kissing it at the wrist, “we have long been wishing you home: and now heaven has restored you to us after we had given up hoping. All hail, therefore, and may the gods prosper you. But tell me, does Penelope already know of your return, or shall we send someone to tell her?”
“Old man,” answered Odysseus, “she knows already, so you need not trouble about that.” On this he took his seat, and the sons of Dolius gathered round Odysseus to give him greeting and embrace him one after the other; then they took their seats in due order near Dolius their father.
While they were thus busy getting their dinner ready, Rumour went round the town, and noised abroad the terrible fate that had befallen the suitors; as soon, therefore, as the people heard of it they gathered from every quarter, groaning and hooting before the house of Odysseus. They took the dead away, buried every man his own, and put the bodies of those who came from elsewhere on board the fishing vessels, for the fishermen to take each of them to his own place. They then met angrily in the place of assembly, and when they were got together Eupeithes rose to speak. He was overwhelmed with grief for the death of his son Antinous, who had been the first man killed by Odysseus, so he said, weeping bitterly, “My friends, this man has done the Achaeans great wrong. He took many of our best men away with him in his fleet, and he has lost both ships and men; now, moreover, on his return he has been killing all the foremost men among the Cephallenians. Let us be up and doing before he can get away to Pylos or to Elis where the Epeans rule, or we shall be ashamed of ourselves for ever afterwards. It will be an everlasting disgrace to us if we do not avenge the murder of our sons and brothers. For my own part I should have no more pleasure in life, but had rather die at once. Let us be up, then, and after them, before they can cross over to the main land.”
He wept as he spoke and everyone pitied him. But Medon and the bard Phemius had now woke up, and came to them from the house of Odysseus. Everyone was astonished at seeing them, but they stood in the middle of the assembly, and Medon said, “Hear me, men of Ithaca. Odysseus did not do these things against the will of heaven. I myself saw an immortal god take the form of Mentor and stand beside him. This god appeared, now in front of him encouraging him, and now going furiously about the court and attacking the suitors whereon they fell thick on one another.”
On this pale fear laid hold of them, and old Halitherses, son of Mastor, rose to speak, for he was the only man among them who knew both past and future; so he spoke to them plainly and in all honesty, saying,
“Men of Ithaca, it is all your own fault that things have turned out as they have; you would not listen to me, nor yet to Mentor, when we bade you check the folly of your sons who were doing much wrong in the wantonness of their hearts—wasting the substance and dishonoring the wife of a chieftain who they thought would not return. Now, however, let it be as I say, and do as I tell you. Do not go out against Odysseus, or you may find that you have been drawing down evil on your own heads.”
This was what he said, and more than half raised a loud shout, and at once left the assembly. But the rest stayed where they were, for the speech of Halitherses displeased them, and they sided with Eupeithes; they therefore hurried off for their armor, and when they had armed themselves, they met together in front of the city, and Eupeithes led them on in their folly. He thought he was going to avenge the murder of his son, whereas in truth he was never to return, but was himself to perish in his attempt.
Then Athena said to Zeus, “Father, son of Cronus, king of kings, answer me this question—What do you propose to do? Will you set them fighting still further, or will you make peace between them?”
And Zeus answered, “My child, why should you ask me? Was it not by your own arrangement that Odysseus came home and took his revenge upon the suitors? Do whatever you like, but I will tell you what I think will be most reasonable arrangement. Now that Odysseus is revenged, let them swear to a solemn covenant, in virtue of which he shall continue to rule, while we cause the others to forgive and forget the massacre of their sons and brothers. Let them then all become friends as heretofore, and let peace and plenty reign.”
This was what Athena was already eager to bring about, so down she darted from off the topmost summits of Olympus.
Now when Laertes and the others had done dinner, Odysseus began by saying, “Some of you go out and see if they are not getting close up to us.” So one of Dolius' sons went as he was bid. Standing on the threshold he could see them all quite near, and said to Odysseus, “Here they are, let us put on our armor at once.”
They put on their armor as fast as they could—that is to say Odysseus, his three men, and the six sons of Dolius. Laertes also and Dolius did the same— warriors by necessity in spite of their grey hair. When they had all put on their armor, they opened the gate and sallied forth, Odysseus leading the way.
Then Zeus' daughter Athena came up to them, having assumed the form and voice of Mentor. Odysseus was glad when he saw her, and said to his son Telemachus, “Telemachus, now that you are about to fight in an engagement, which will show every man's mettle, be sure not to disgrace your ancestors, who were eminent for their strength and courage all the world over.”
“You say truly, my dear father,” answered Telemachus, “and you shall see, if you will, that I am in no mind to disgrace your family.”
Laertes was delighted when he heard this. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, “what a day I am enjoying: I do indeed rejoice at it. My son and grandson are vying with one another in the matter of valor.”
On this Athena came close up to him and said, “Son of Arceisius—-best friend I have in the world—pray to the blue-eyed damsel, and to Zeus her father; then poise your spear and hurl it.”
As she spoke she infused fresh vigor into him, and when he had prayed to her he poised his spear and hurled it. He hit Eupeithes' helmet, and the spear went right through it, for the helmet stayed it not, and his armor rang rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground. Meantime Odysseus and his son fell upon the front line of the foe and smote them with their swords and spears; indeed, they would have killed every one of them, and prevented them from ever getting home again, only Athena raised her voice aloud, and made everyone pause. “Men of Ithaca,” she cried, “cease this dreadful war, and settle the matter at once without further bloodshed.”
On this pale fear seized everyone; they were so frightened that their arms dropped from their hands and fell upon the ground at the sound of the goddess' voice, and they fled back to the city for their lives. But Odysseus gave a great cry, and gathering himself together swooped down like a soaring eagle. Then the son of Cronus sent a thunderbolt of fire that fell just in front of Athena, so she said to Odysseus, “Odysseus, noble son of Laertes, stop this warful strife, or Zeus will be angry with you.”
Thus spoke Athena, and Odysseus obeyed her gladly. Then Athena assumed the form and voice of Mentor, and presently made a covenant of peace between the two contending parties.
Remember, however, that a prophecy has foretold that Odysseus will have to leave Ithaca to make offerings to the gods and appease them for all of these deaths. It's unclear whether Athena's actions have made that journey unnecessary. Either way, the poet makes a point of ending on a peace treaty to resolve any lingering tensions in the poem.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
As with the suitors, Odysseus kills the ringleader first, hoping that this will cause the group to disband without anymore needless killing. This tactic didn't work with the suitors, but fortunately Athena intervenes this time, averting more needless death.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
One of the rare instances in which Zeus practices restraint and acts like a diplomat. Notice that while he's not telling Athena what to do, he's giving her advice that it would be unwise for her to ignore. Thus, he allow her to feel autonomous even while controlling her actions.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Recall that Odysseus did attempt to embrace his mother, Anticlea, when her spirit spoke to him from Erebus in [Book XI](http://www.owleyes.org/text/odyssey/read/book-xi), but that he was unable to touch her because her form was incorporeal. This inversion (where Anticlea can't embrace him) reflects the emotional burden that both son and parents have felt during their separation.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Agamemnon refers to his own wife, Clytemnestra. His comparison here emphasizes Penelope's essential faithfulness and goodness (as a woman who resisted taking a lover and betraying her husband) and Clytemnestra's deceit, which seems especially cunning when stacked against Penelope's virtue.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Recall that Agamemnon's brother, Menelaus, asked almost the same question of Telemachus when they spoke in an earlier book. This repetition emphasizes their familial bond and further suggests that this kind of death (occurring during the process of stealing) was in fact very common in ancient Greece.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Most likely, a *caduceus*, a staff carried by Hermes and other heralds that gave the appearance of two snakes intertwining. Today, the caduceus is commonly associated with the practice of medicine, and its symbol is warn by doctors and professionals as a sign of their devotion to healing people.— Sinead, Owl Eyes Editor
Considering the fighting skills that Telemachus has already shown his father during the fight with the suitors, this speech seems very odd and out of place. This speech is one of several elements in Book XXIV that has led several scholars to argue that this Book was written by another poet much later than Homer's original composition.— Stephen Holliday
Medon is exaggerating here: he could not have seen Athena doing these things. Neither the suitors nor Telemachus always understood when exactly Athena took the form of Mentor. More likely, Medon is trying to help Odysseus because he was spared earlier and feels indebted to him.— Stephen Holliday
On a macro scale, Odysseus has been responsible for the deaths of the majority of Ithaca's youth in the last twenty years, first by taking them to the Trojan War, and then by killing them in his home. In this sense, he's been a terrible king and has failed to protect his citizens, which is reason enough for the men to be angry.— Stephen Holliday
Note above the catalogue of gifts Odysseus, in the disguise of the son of King Apheidas, says he gave to Odysseus during a visit, and note the catalogue of trees that Odysseus uses to identify himself. In epic literature, catalogues of things (leaders, troops, ships, men, trees, and gifts) are quite common and have become a convention of epic poetry.— Stephen Holliday
Agamemnon's comment is interesting because it sheds light on Odysseus' apparent reluctance to join the Greeks against Troy. Given later comments in *The Iliad* about Odysseus' intelligence and analytical abilities, one can only guess that Odysseus viewed the war as either unjustifiable, a nuisance, or not his business (or, perhaps, all three).— Stephen Holliday
Agamemnon contrasts his loss of glory (in being murdered as soon as he returned home from Troy) with Achilles' permanent fame. Agamemnon's "fame" rests on his murder rather than on the great fame of having led the Greeks during the Trojan War. For a warrior-king, this is a sad reflection.— Stephen Holliday
The right hand or right-hand side is always considered a sign of good fortune; the left, always dangerous (the Latin for left is *sinister*, which, in English, means full of evil intent). This is why when we see a bird omen, the bird is always flying on the right hand side for Telemachus and Odysseus and on the left for the suitors.— Stephen Holliday
Continuing this elaborate metaphorical framework, Odysseus calls himself *Eperitus, *which means both *selected *(or, better, singled-out) and *someone who is fought over, a man whose life is one of struggle*. Both meanings apply to Odysseus during his voyage home, in which he has been singled-out by the gods for special attention and been forced to struggle for his life.— Stephen Holliday
*Polypemon* means *full of sorrow*, and Laertes has just demonstrated that he is, metaphorically, the son of sorrow or grief. This kind of word play is extremely clever and difficult, and couldn't be achieved on the spot by any of the other character in *The Odyssey*. It's only Odysseus, with his great facility of language, who can lie so intricately.— Stephen Holliday
In Greek, *apheidas* signifies generosity, the hallmark of *xenia*. By saying that he's the son of Apheidas, Odysseus may be cleverly complimenting Laertes, who was once king himself. He may also be giving Laertes clues to his identity and testing whether or not Laertes can decipher them.— Stephen Holliday
As scholars have noted, *Alybas* may have its root in the concept of wandering (*al*), one of the major themes of the poem. Odysseus seems to be making a self-reflexive comment about his own desire to travel and go on adventures, which we've seen throughout the poem.— Stephen Holliday
To put this in perspective, in today's dollars, a single talent of gold is worth approximately $1.25 million. Seven talents, therefore, would be $8.75 million, and would easily make Odysseus the richest man on Ithaca. This number is meant to impress Laertes and give him hope that his son is still alive.— Stephen Holliday
This is the traditional dress of an agricultural worker in Greece, who couldn't maintain fine clothes in the field. Aside from giving us a clear picture of everyday life on a farm, it also evokes sympathy for Laertes, who's been described throughout *The Odyssey* as being old and feeble.— Stephen Holliday
A faithful and long-time retainer of Laertes who has known Odysseus since he was very young. Dolius happens also to be the father of Melanthius, one of the suitors' favorite servants, and Odysseus may want to inform him of his son' death personally, if he doesn't know about it already.— Stephen Holliday
It's important for Achilles to know that his fame, that all-important attribute of a Bronze Age warrior, is at the forefront of the minds of the living. In this warrior culture, fame is everything, and Achilles was one of the most famed men of the Trojan War, with skills that went near unmatched on the battlefield.— Stephen Holliday
The Hellespont, just north of Troy, separates Europe from Asia Minor. It's fitting that Achilles, who was instrumental in winning the Trojan War, should have his tomb essentially on the bridge between two worlds: the easternmost part of Western Europe and the westernmost part of Asia.— Stephen Holliday
*Leucas* means *white rock* in Greek, but this is the only mention of such a rock in Homer. It's possible that he refers to the Greek island of Leucas, now knows as Lefkada, which lies on the west coast of Greece, not far from Ithaca (though the established geography of Oceanus makes this unlikely).— Stephen Holliday
Many Homer scholars have debated the authenticity of the this part of Book XXIV, arguing that there are so many linguistic problems with it that make it seem like the work of a later poet. There's no proof of this, however, and from a narrative standpoint it makes sense to include this book, in which Odysseus reunites with his father.— Stephen Holliday