Now shrugging off his rags the wiliest fighter of the islands

leapt and stood on the broad door sill, his own bow in his hand.

He poured out at his feet a rain of arrows from the quiver

and spoke to the crowd:

“So much for that. Your clean-cut game is over.

Now watch me hit a target that no man has hit before,

if I can make this shot. Help me, Apollo.”

 

He drew to his fist the cruel head of an arrow for Antínoös

just as the young man leaned to lift his beautiful drinking cup,

embossed, two-handled, golden: the cup was in his fingers:

the wine was even at his lips: and did he dream of death?  

How could he? In that revelry amid his throng of friends

who would imagine a single foe—though a strong foe indeed—

could dare to bring death’s pain on him and darkness on his eyes? 

Odysseus’ arrow hit him under the chin

and punched up to the feathers through his throat.

 

Backward and down he went, letting the winecup fall

from his shocked hand. Like pipes his nostrils jetted

crimson runnels, a river of mortal red,

and one last kick upset his table

knocking the bread and meat to soak in dusty blood.  

All they could do was yell in outrage at Odysseus:

 

“Foul! to shoot at a man! That was your last shot!”

 

“Your own throat will be slit for this!”

 

“Our finest lad is down!

You killed the best on Ithaka.”

 

“Buzzards will tear your eyes out!”

 

For they imagined as they wished—that it was a wild shot,  

an unintended killing—fools, not to comprehend

they were already in the grip of death.

But glaring under his brows Odysseus answered:

 

“You yellow dogs, you thought I’d never make it

home from the land of Troy. You took my house to plunder,

twisted my maids to serve your beds. You dared

bid for my wife while I was still alive.

Contempt was all you had for the gods who rule wide heaven,

contempt for what men say of you hereafter.

Your last hour has come. You die in blood.” 

 

As they all took this in, sickly green fear

pulled at their entrails, and their eyes flickered

looking for some hatch or hideaway from death.

Eurymakhos alone could speak. He said:

“If you are Odysseus of Ithaka come back,

all that you say these men have done is true.

Rash actions, many here, more in the countryside.

But here he lies, the man who caused them all.

Antínoös was the ringleader, he whipped us on

to do these things. He cared less for a marriage  

than for the power Kronion has denied him

as king of Ithaka. For that

he tried to trap your son and would have killed him.

He is dead now and has his portion. Spare

your own people. As for ourselves, we’ll make

restitution of wine and meat consumed,

and add, each one, a tithe of twenty oxen

with gifts of bronze and gold to warm your heart.

Meanwhile we cannot blame you for your anger.”

 

Odysseus glowered under his black brows  

and said:

“Not for the whole treasure of your fathers,

all you enjoy, lands, flocks, or any gold

put up by others, would I hold my hand.

There will be killing till the score is paid.

You forced yourselves upon this house. Fight your way out,

or run for it, if you think you’ll escape death.

I doubt one man of you skins by.”

​

While he had arrows

he aimed and shot, and every shot brought down

one of his huddling enemies.  

 

But now into the gracious doorway stepped

Zeus’s daughter Athena. She wore the guise of Mentor,

and Odysseus appealed to her in joy:

 

“O Mentor, join me in this fight! Remember 

how all my life I’ve been devoted to you,

friend of my youth!”

 

For he guessed it was Athena,

Hope of Soldiers. . . .

 

Command of the suitors had fallen to Ageláos.

With him were Eurynomos, Amphímedon,

Demoptólemos, Peisándros, Pólybos,

the best of the lot who stood to fight for their lives

after the streaking arrows downed the rest.

                                                    “Ho!” they all let fly

as one man. But Athena spoiled their shots.

One hit the doorpost of the hall, another  260

stuck in the door’s thick timbering, still others

rang on the stone wall, shivering hafts of ash.

Seeing his men unscathed, royal Odysseus

gave the word for action.

“Now I say, friends,

the time is overdue to let them have it.

Battlespoil they want from our dead bodies

to add to all they plundered here before.”

 

Taking aim over the steadied lanceheads

they all let fly together. Odysseus killed

Demoptólemos; Telémakus  270

killed Eur´yades; the swineherd, Élatos;

and Peisándros went down before the cowherd.

As these lay dying, biting the central floor,

their friends gave way and broke for the inner wall.

The four attackers followed up with a rush

to take spears from the fallen men. . .