Then he beckoned to his son to draw near; and Telemachus made haste, and came and stood by his father's side, armed with sword and lance.

The Slaying of the Wooers

I

Stripping off his rags, and girding them round his waist, Odysseus took the quiver, and poured out all the arrows on the ground at his feet. "Now guide my hand, Apollo," he cried, "and make sure mine aim, for this time I will shoot at a mark which never man hit before."

Therewith he bent his bow again, and pointed the arrow at Antinous, who just at that moment was raising a full goblet of wine to his lips.

Little thought that proud and insolent man, as the wine gleamed red before him, that he had tasted his last morsel, and drunk his last drop. He was in the prime of his manhood, surrounded by his friends, and in the midst of a joyous revel; who would dream of death and doom in such an hour? Yet at that very instant he felt a sharp, sudden pang, and fell back in his seat, pierced through the throat by the arrow of Odysseus. The blood poured from his nostrils, he let fall the cup, and spurning the table with his feet in his agony he overset it, and the bread and meat were scattered on the floor.

Then arose a wild clamour and uproar among the wooers, and starting from their seats they sought eagerly for the weapons which were wont to hang along the walls; but not a spear, not a shield, was to be seen. Finding themselves thus baffled, they turned furiously on Odysseus, shouting, "Down with the knave!" "Hew him in pieces!" "Fling his carca.s.s to the vultures!" As yet they had not recognised him, and they thought that he had slain Antinous by mischance.

They were soon undeceived. "Ye dogs!" he cried, in a terrible voice, "long have ye made my house into a den of thieves, thinking that I had died long ago in a distant land. Ye have devoured my living, and wooed my wife, and mishandled my servants, having no fear of G.o.d or man before your eyes. But now are ye all fallen into the pit which ye have digged, and are fast bound in the bonds of death."

Like beaten hounds, that dastardly crew cowered before the man whom they had wronged, and every heart quaked with fear. Presently Eurymachus stood forward, and tried to make terms for them all. "If thou be indeed Odysseus," he said, "thou speakest justly concerning the evil doings of the wooers. And there lies the cause of the mischief, Antinous, struck down by thy righteous hand. He it was who sought to slay Telemachus, that he might usurp thy place, and make himself king in Ithaca. But now that he is gone to his own place, let us, the rest, find favour in thy sight. And as for thy possessions which have been wasted, we will pay thee back out of our own goods, as much as thou shalt require."

But there were no signs of relenting on that stern, set face. "Talk not to me of payment," he answered, with a brow as black as night; "ye shall pay me with your lives, every one of you. Fight, if ye will, or die like sheep. Not one of you shall escape."

Thus driven to extremity, Eurymachus drew his sword and shouting to the others to follow his example he picked up a table to serve him as a shield, and raising his war-cry rushed at Odysseus. In the midst of his onset an arrow struck him in the liver, and he fell doubled-up over a table, smiting the floor with his forehead. Then he rolled over with a groan, and his eyes grew dim in death.

Before Odysseus could fix another arrow to the string, Amphinomus was upon him, with sword uplifted to slay him. Telemachus saw his father's peril, and thrust Amphinomus in the back with his spear. The fall of their leaders arrested the advance of the wooers, and they drew back in a body to the lower end of the hall. Leaving the spear in the body of the fallen man, Telemachus ran to fetch armour for himself and Odysseus, and the two herdsmen. Quickly he brought shields and helmets and lances for the four, and they arrayed themselves and took their stand together on the platform.

While these preparations were in progress, Odysseus continued showering his arrows among the huddled troop of terrified men; and at every shot one of the wooers fell. At last Melanthius, the goatherd, made a desperate effort to save his party. a.s.sisted by several of the wooers, he climbed up the wall of the banquet-room, and made his exit through the open timbers at the top into a narrow pa.s.sage which gave access to the inner part of the house. Presently he returned, laden with spears and shields and helmets, which he had found in the chamber where they had been stored away by Telemachus.

What was the dismay of Odysseus when he saw his enemies arming themselves with spear and shield, and brandishing long lances in their hands! "Telemachus!" he cried, "we are betrayed! The women have sold us to the wooers." "Alas! I have erred," answered Telemachus, "for I left the door of the armoury open, and one of them has observed it."

While they thus debated, Eumaeus saw the goatherd making his way out of the hall again by the same exit. "It is the traitor Melanthius," he whispered; "now have we need of prompt action, or we are all undone."

Odysseus had now recovered his courage, and he issued his orders without losing another moment. "Go thou with the neatherd," he said to Eumaeus, "and seize that villain before he has time to return. Bind him hand and foot, and come back with all speed to the hall"

At the side of the hall, close to the platform where Odysseus and his party were stationed, there was a door leading into the pa.s.sage already mentioned. Through this the two men pa.s.sed, and made their way stealthily to the armoury. There they waited on either side of the door for Melanthius, whom they heard moving within. Before long he came out, bearing in one hand a helmet, and in the other an old battered shield, once the property of Laertes. Together they fell upon him, dragged him down by the hair, and having bound him tight with a long cord they hauled him up to a beam of the roof and left him hanging. "Long and sweet be thy slumbers, goatherd!" said Eumaeus as he contemplated his work, "thou hast a soft bed, such as thou lovest.

Rest there till the morning light shall call thee to make breakfast for the wooers."

When they returned to the hall they found that a new ally had joined their party, in the person of Mentor, the old friend of Odysseus. No one saw when he came thither; but there he was, and right glad they were to see him. Very different were the feelings of the wooers when they saw their enemies thus reinforced, and one of them, named Agelaus, cried out upon Mentor, and threatened him, saying: "Give place, rash man, or thou wilt bring destruction on thyself and all thy house."

When he heard that, Mentor was wroth, and rebuked Odysseus as slow of hand and cold of heart. "Why standest thou idle?" he cried. "Get thee to thy weapons, and finish the work which thou hast to do, if thou art verily that Odysseus who wrought such havoc among the Trojans in the nine years' war."

With these words the supposed Mentor vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, and a little swallow was seen darting hither and thither among the smoke-blackened beams of the roof.

The wooers understood not in whose presence they had been, and, thinking that Mentor had fled before their threats, they took courage again, and prepared to make a fresh a.s.sault. Agelaus now took the lead, and at his command six of them advanced and hurled their spears.

But they were all dazed with drink, and weakened by long habits of loose indulgence, and not one of their weapons took effect.

"Now hurl ye your spears!" shouted Odysseus, and the four lances flew, and four wooers bit the dust. At the next discharge from the wooers Telemachus received a slight wound on the wrist, and Eumaeus was similarly injured on the shoulder by the spear of the brutal Ctesippus. A moment after Ctesippus himself was struck down by the lance of Philoetius, who mocked him as he fell saying: "There is for the ox-foot which thou didst lately bestow on Odysseus, thou noisy railer!"

And so the great fight went on, and at every cast of the spear Odysseus and his men added another to the list of the slain. Seeing their numbers dwindling fast, the wretched remnant of the wooers lost heart altogether and huddled together like sheep at the end of the hall. To complete their discomfiture a terrible voice was suddenly heard in the air, and a gleam as from a bright shield was seen high up among the rafters. "Tis Athene herself come to our aid!" cried Odysseus; "advance, and make an end of them. Athene is on our side!"

Forthwith they all sprang down from the platform and charged the wooers, of whom some dozen still remained alive. What followed was not a battle, but a ma.s.sacre. Like a drove of kine plunging frantically over a field, tortured by the sting of the hovering gadfly--like a flock of small birds scattered by the sudden swoop of a falcon--the panic-stricken wooers fled hither and thither through the hall, seeking shelter behind pillars and under tables from the blows which rained upon them. But vain was their flight. In a very short time the last of that guilty band was sent to his account, and the great act of vengeance was completed.

II

Like a lion fresh from the slaughter stood Odysseus, leaning on his spear, and covered with blood from head to foot. As he glared round him to see if any of his foes were still alive, his eye fell on Phemius, the minstrel, who was crouching in a corner near the side door, and clinging in terror to his harp. Seeing the stern gaze of Odysseus fixed upon him Phemius sprang forward, with a sudden impulse, and threw himself at the conqueror's feet, "Pity me, Odysseus," he cried, "and spare me! Thy days will be darkened by remorse if thou slay the sweet minstrel whom G.o.ds and men revere. I am no common school-taught bard, who sings what he has learned by rote; but in mine own heart is a sweet fountain of melody, which shall be shed like the dew from heaven on thy fame, and keep it green for ever. Therefore stay thy hand, and harm me not. Telemachus, thy son, knows that it was not of mine own will, nor for greed of gain, that I sang among the wooers, but they compelled me by force, being so many, and all stronger than I."

Thus appealed to, Telemachus readily confirmed what the minstrel had said, which was indeed the literal truth. Then he thought of the trusty Medon, who had been kind to him when a child, and remained loyal to the last to him and Penelope. "I trust he has not been slain among the wooers," he said. "Medon, if thou art still alive, come forth and fear nothing."

When he heard that, Medon, who had been huddled in a heap behind a chair, covered with a freshly-flayed ox-hide, flung off his covering, and came running to Telemachus. The poor man was still half-mad with terror. "Here I am!" he gasped, with staring eyes, "speak to thy father, that he slay me not in his rage and his fury,"

Odysseus smiled grimly at the poor serving-man, and bade him be of good cheer. "Live," he said, "thou and the minstrel, that ye may know, and tell it also to others, how much better are good deeds than evil.

Now go ye forth and wait in the courtyard until I have finished what remains to be done." So forth they went, and sat down by the altar of Zeus, glancing fearfully about them, as if expecting every moment to be their last.

As soon as they were gone Odysseus walked slowly up and down the hall to see if any of the wooers still survived. But there was no sound or motion, save the tread of his own feet, to break the awful stillness in that chamber of death. There they lay, stark and silent, heap upon heap, like a great draught of fishes which have been hauled to sh.o.r.e in a drag-net, and have gasped out their lives on the beach. Having a.s.sured himself that he had not done the work negligently, he bade Telemachus summon the nurse, Eurycleia. Telemachus obeyed, and going to the door of the women's apartments, he smote upon it, and called aloud to the nurse. A moment after the bolts were drawn back, and Eurycleia entered the hall. When she saw Odysseus standing among the heaps of slain wooers, she opened her mouth to utter a cry of triumph, but Odysseus checked her, saying: "Hold thy peace, dame, and give not voice to thy joy: it is an impious thing to exult over the dead. They are the victims of heaven's righteous law, and I was but the instrument of divine vengeance. Tell me now which of the women in the house have dishonoured me, and which of them be blameless."

"Behold I will tell thee all the truth," answered the nurse; "fifty women there are in all in thy house, that card the wool and bear the yoke of bondage. And of these twelve have been faithless, honouring neither me nor Penelope, their mistress. But now let me go and tell the news to thy wife, who all this time has been lying in a deep sleep."

"Rouse her not yet," said Odysseus, "but go quickly and send those guilty women hither."

While Eurycleia was gone to summon the maid-servants, Telemachus and the two herdsmen began, by the command of Odysseus, to set the hall in order, and wash away the traces of slaughter. Presently, with loud weeping and lamentation, the wretched women entered, and were compelled to a.s.sist in the horrid task. The bodies of the slain were carried out, and laid in order along the wall of the courtyard. Then they washed and scoured the tables, and sc.r.a.ped the floor with spades; and when all was ready Odysseus bade his son and the two others to drive the women forth, and slay them with the edge of the sword. So these three drove them into a corner of the courtyard, and Eumaeus and Philoetius drew their swords to slay them. But Telemachus held them back saying: "Let them die in shame, even as they have lived." So they took a long ship's cable, which was lying in an outhouse, and stretched it across an angle of the wall; to this they attached twelve nooses, and left the women hanging there by the neck until they were dead.

A horrid death was reserved for the traitor Melanthius. Dragging him out into the courtyard, they cut off his nose and ears, and his hands and feet, and so left him to die.

After that they washed themselves and went back to the hall. Then Odysseus bade Eurycleia kindle a fire, and bring sulphur to purify the chamber. And having thoroughly cleansed the house from the fumes of slaughter, he sat down to wait for the coming of his wife.

Odysseus and Penelope

I

Her face beaming with joy, and her feet stumbling over one another in their haste, Eurycleia ascended to the chamber where Penelope lay sleeping. "Awake, Penelope, awake!" she cried, standing by the bedside; "come and see with thine own eyes the fulfilment of all thy hopes. Odysseus has come home at last, and all the wooers lie slain by his hand!"

"Thou art mad, nurse," answered Penelope pettishly, turning in her bed and rubbing her eyes; "why mockest thou me in my sorrow with thy folly? and why hast thou disturbed me in the sweetest sleep that ever I had since the fatal, the accursed day when my lord sailed for Troy?

But for thy years and thy faithful service I would have paid thee unkindly for this wanton insult"

"Heaven forbid that I should mock or insult thee, dear child!" cried the nurse, her eyes filling with tears. "I have told thee naught but the truth. The stranger whom we thought a beggar was Odysseus himself.

Telemachus knew this all the time, but kept it from thee by the command of his father."

"May the G.o.ds ever bless thee for these tidings!" said Penelope, springing from the couch, and throwing her arms round the nurse's neck. "But tell me truly, how did he with his single hand gain the mastery over such a mult.i.tude?"

"I saw not how it was done," answered Eurycleia. "I heard but the groans of the men as they were stricken, for I was shut up with the handmaids in the women's chamber. When it was over, he called me, and I found him standing among the slain, like a lion by his prey. It was a sight to gladden thy heart."

But Penelope's first impulse of joyful surprise had pa.s.sed, and a cold fit of doubt and distrust succeeded, "It cannot be!" she murmured; "some G.o.d has taken the likeness of my husband, and slain the wooers."

Even when Eurycleia told her how she had discovered the scar, while washing the feet of Odysseus, she remained unshaken in her unbelief.

"The counsels of the G.o.ds," she said, "are beyond our knowing, and they can take upon them disguises too deep for a poor woman's wit. But come, let us go and see the slaughtered wooers, and their slayer, whoever he be."

II