As the goal draws nearer, all gentle methods of formation are duly put aside.  To this end, Athena sees fit to change her method of interaction with Odysseus and adopt a hands-on approach. Odysseus awakes, and the game is afoot.

“That very moment

great Odysseus woke from sleep on native ground at last—

he’d been away for years—but failed to know the land

for the goddess Pallas Athena, Zeus’s daughter,

showered mist over all, so under cover

she might change his appearance head to foot

as she told him every peril he’d meet at home—

keep him from being known by wife, townsmen, friends,

till the suitors paid the price for all their outrage.

And so to the king himself all Ithaca looked strange…” (B.13, 212-21)

 

This is an odd tweak on the invisible mist Athena conjured on Phaeacia.  The necessity of disguising Ithaca is more than a little questionable, since we know from that previous incident that Athena could easily obscure Odysseus and herself from view without changing the appearance of the land to him.  Furthermore, with Poseidon now set aside as an active threat, there is no reason for her to appear to him in a misleading disguise, as she now does.  Of course, Athena always appears in disguise to mortals (as we can see from her endless list of guises visible in the Appendix), for reasons best addressed in conjunction with the last lines of the story.  Regardless, we can be sure that Athena will never peel off the last mask—the question is whether or not the disguise suggests her actual nature.  Here she appears as an “elegant” young shepherd boy[1], and Odysseus falls at her feet in desperation to know where he might be.

“Athena answered, her eyes brightening now,

‘You must be a fool, stranger, or come from nowhere,

if you really have to ask what land this is.

Trust me, it’s not so nameless after all.

It’s known the world around,

To all who live to the east and rising sun

And to all who face the western mists and darkness.’” (B.13, 268-74)

 

She goes on like this for several more lines, nattering on about the state of the grapes and the livestock, before finally spitting it out:

“So, stranger, the name of Ithaca’s reached as far as Troy,

and Troy, they say, is a long hard sail from Greece.”  (B.13, 2-3)

 

It would not be unreasonable for the audience to shake the narrator in frustration at this hilarious protraction, and then to wince for Odysseus at the mention of the “long hard sail”.   This is clearly all intentional on Athena’s part, beginning with a backhanded tease—“you must be a fool, stranger, or come from nowhere” and concluding with a poke to the ribs.  If Athena is seeking an amusing reaction from all this coy noodling about, she certainly is rewarded with one.  Odysseus, even as overcome with emotion as he is, immediately whirls off into an elaborate backstory:  “Ithaca…yes, I seem to have heard of Ithaca, / even on Crete’s broad island far across the sea…”

            At the end of this impromptu epic, Athena at last lets the game drop, apparently having had her fun.  It is one of the most humorous and clearly delighted speeches in the epic tradition, and worth reproducing nearly in full:

“As his story ended,

goddess Athena, gray eyes gleaming, broke into a smile

and stroked him with her hand, and now she appeared a woman,

beautiful, tall and skilled at weaving lovely things.”

 

So here she drops the misleading disguise and takes on a more appropriate one for the task.  Also worth noting is the very feminine nature of this disguise, where before she has appeared solely as men and girls, when she has appeared at all;  Odysseus is home, and Athena appears to him as a woman not unlike Penelope, right down to her skill at the weaving of lovely things (presumably crafted of ideas as well as wool).  We still don’t see Athena as Athena, but in an appearance specifically tailored to imply partnership with Odysseus as well as domesticity. 

“Her words went flying straight toward Odysseus:

‘Any man—any god who met you—would have to be

some champion lying cheat to get past you

for all-round craft and guile!  You terrible man,

foxy, ingenious, never tired of twists and tricks—

so, not even here, on native soil, would you give up

those wily tales that warm the cockles of your heart!’”

 

This part of the exchange could be read as a sincere rebuke were it not for the friendly cues given beforehand.  This rollcall of cheery accusations shows off a wonderful informality to their relationship, a tendency towards joshing that runs both ways.  This is not just a relationship of patroness and client, but one where despite the immense divide in stature, actual friendship exists.  This impression is reinforced as the speech goes on:

“Come, enough of this now.  We’re both old hands

at the arts of intrigue.  Here among mortal men

you’re far the best at tactics, spinning yarns,

and I am famous among the gods for wisdom,

cunning wiles, too.”

 

This is a very frank juxtaposition, almost setting up Odysseus as the Athena of the mortal world, and establishing both as veterans of the same trade.  

 

“Ah, but you never recognized me, did you?

Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus—who always

stands beside you, shields you in every exploit:

Thanks to me the Phaeacians all embraced you warmly.

And now I am here once more, to weave a scheme with you

and to hide the treasure-trove Phaeacia’s nobles

lavished on you then—I willed it, planned it so

when you set out for home—”

 

Lest we think Athena is getting a bit too familiar with a mere mortal, here she .  It’s amusing that Athena’s boasts have almost the exact same turn as those of Odysseus—neither is above crowing their cause, perhaps a little too ambitiously—since, as Odysseus will point out, she did little in the way of standing or shielding during the ten years he spent casting about the seas.  However, we get a very nice confirmation here of Athena’s role in Odysseus’ recent travels, from her own perspective:  shield, weave, will, plan.  Now the time for subtle maneuvers is over, though, and she gives Odysseus a frank description of the trials he can expect to face in the near future—lest he be too optimistic about the state of his old home.

“—and to tell you all

the trials you must suffer in your palace…

Endure them all.  You must.  You have no choice.

And to no one—no man, no woman, not a soul—

reveal that you are the wanderer home at last.

No, in silence you must bear a world of pain,

subject yourself to the cruel abuse of men.’”

(All passages are B.13, 324-53)

 

This is yet one more time that Odysseus is reminded of the necessity of enduring whatever pain might come across his path.  Reminders of this sort have woven throughout the story, almost from the beginning, and seem to constitute the closest thing to an instructive lesson[2] in the story.  This message is not so much encouraging fatalism as reinforcing the futility of blaming the gods:  whether it is because they have ultimately beneficial plans (as with Athena here), or because they are not fully to blame for the results of mortal folly (as Zeus avers at the beginning), or simply because they are gods and will conduct themselves as they please (as Alcinous and Nausicaa both suggest).  Mortals must endure whatever comes their way; luckily for Odysseus, even his epithets indicate him to be a man well-capable of endurance.  An irony in the end of this long passage is, of course, that once Odysseus has regained so much of his identity, he must now conceal it from everyone around him. 

            This is all a great deal of information to process, but Odysseus is not about to let Athena have the best of him.  With great calculation (and a great deal of chutzpah), he begins a rather harsh accusation with a nicely chilled compliment—

“Ah goddess,’ the cool tactician countered,

‘you’re so hard for a mortal man to know on sight,

however shrewd he is—the shapes you take on are endless!”  (B.13, 354-356)

 

And, stroke accomplished, he goes on to interrogate her on the subject of her absence.  Only a mortal with ironclad confidence in the nature of the relationship would have the brazenness to confront a patron god in such a fashion. 

“But I do know this:  you were kind to me in the war years,

so long as we men of Achaea soldiered on at Troy.

But once we’d sacked King Priam’s craggy city,

Boarded ship, and a god dispersed the fleet,

From then on, daughter of Zeus, I never saw you, never glimpsed you stringing along my decks

to ward off some disaster.”  (B.13, 359-63)

 

This, along with Nestor’s earlier description, begins to give us an idea as to the source of Athena’s legendary wrath.  She has not, like Poseidon, been directly snubbed or wronged—her temple has not been destroyed, no foolish oaths have been taken, and she has not been scraped or banged about on the field, like Aphrodite or Ares.  Athena’s anger begins when the order and purpose of the encampment at Troy gives way to bickering, cheating, and chaos:

 “‘Zeus contrived in his heart a fatal homeward run

for all the Achaeans who were fools, at least,

dishonest, too, so many met a disastrous end,

thanks to the lethal rage

of the mighty Father’s daughter.’” (B.3, 147-51)

 

If there is anything that seems to bring up Athena’s normally well-ordered hackles, it’s disappointing behavior from those to whom she gives her support (this is reflected in the palace, when Odysseus and Telemachus begin to balk during the battle with the suitors, and are met with a snappish scolding from Athena).  Apparently even this round of punishment has no effect on her particular favorite—the enthusiasm with which Odysseus and his men set upon the Cicones hardly shows any sensitivity to the concept of restraint.  The rest of Odysseus’ magical journey demonstrates more prudence on behalf of Odysseus and even less of his crew, although plenty of last-minute schemes and handy tips ultimately carry him from personal harm.  This argument is largely in line with the notion that Athena’s anger with Odysseus is elaborated in the general epic tradition of Homeric times, with tales depicting further acts of mayhem on his part which serve to provoke her righteous disgust.  An opposing theory is offered by Jennie Strauss-Clay in her study, The Wrath of Athena (Princeton University Press, 1983), in which Athena is so threatened by Odysseus’ formidable trickiness that she essentially abandons him rather than address the nervous status-tension which still resounds between them ten years after the fact.  By this point, though, stranded on the shores of Ithaca, he has been brought to a level where his need for Athena’s aid is greater than his desire to challenge her.  Both of these theories can be shucked of their details and shown to be different presentations of Athena’s desire to impose balance:  either she refuses to help Odysseus until he has addressed the imbalance in his character, or she refuses to help Odysseus until she has addressed the imbalance in their relationship.  They seem remarkably close to the same thing.   

            Regardless of which of these theories (or combinations thereof) we prefer, both suggest that it takes a long time-out on Ogygia to convince Athena that Odysseus is finally worthy of rescue—and to convince Odysseus that he needs rescuing.  This, combined with Penelope’s imposed peace, Telemachus’ quiet childhood, and the looming presence of Poseidon, would make for a solid justification of Athena’s absence.  When Penelope’s peace is threatened, Telemachus comes of age, and Poseidon departs from view, Athena seizes the opportunity to mend fences with the favorite who has by now well-earned the title “Man of Sorrows”. 

            After this very revealing rant against Athena, however, Odysseus, finishes off his monologue with a  moan so plaintive that it can almost be read as playful:

“But now I beg you by your almighty Father’s name…

for I can’t believe I’ve reached my sunny Ithaca,

I must be roaming around one more exotic land—

you’re mocking me, I know it, telling me tales

to make me lose my way.  Tell me the truth now,

have I really reached the land I love?”  (B.13, 368-73)

 

Athena gives this operatic conclusion the chuckle it deserves, and any worries that the conversation might end badly are fully dispelled with her fond response:

“ ‘Always the same, your wary turn of mind,’

 Athena exclaimed, her glances flashing warmly.

‘That’s why I can’t forsake you in your troubles—

you are so winning, so worldly-wise, so self-possessed!’” (B.13, 374-7)

 

Of course for Athena this is a large part of Odysseus’ appeal—his capacity for circumspection and careful approach, exactly what was lacking in his behavior when she left him to fend for his own cause.   But, apparently perceiving that too much time is being wasted with banter and teasing, she yanks into view the real issue at hand:

“ ‘Anyone else, come back from wandering long and hard,

would have hurried home at once, delighted to see

his children and his wife.  Oh, but not you,

it’s not your pleasure to probe for news of them—

you must put your wife to the proof yourself!”  (B.13, 378-82)

 

Athena is still avoiding the subject of her abandonment of him—Odysseus has hardly had the time to run home yet, although their discussion has been focused almost entirely on the past and on each other.  As dodges go, this one is very effective, turning the critical eye both towards Odysseus and towards the present moment.  It also serves as a refreshingly blithe acknowledgement of Odysseus’ need for personal confirmation of facts, in particular with relation to Penelope.  Odysseus will not, as Athena says, be rushing into the palace gates to throw his arms about every familiar pair of shoulders; even his closest companion will be subjected to a foolproof sounding (and, presumably, be all the more appreciated for having withstood such a painstaking investigation).  As with Athena’s treatment of Odysseus in this exchange, it is tempting to interpret this tactic as being frankly sadistic, driving its victim to the near point of madness in order to sate the interrogator’s need for abundant evidence of loyalty and sentiment.  Athena, along with getting her jollies, extracts from Odysseus confirmation that, despite whatever lapse may have occurred between them, he is still a willing partner who is furthermore prepared to pull his weight. 

            At this point it’s also healthy to remember that Penelope will later employ this same tactic herself against Odysseus, and that it will even be leveled against the anguished old Laertes.  Instead of cruelty, we have to read this method the same way that Athena does—as a method of truth-seeking that works by pushing its victim to a state so raw as to be unquestionably sincere.  It demands, who are you, and who am I to you?  It produces a response so genuine that everybody who emerges from it intact is absolutely certain of their relationship with the other.  Athena, most likely to her relief, finds that Odysseus is indeed still Odysseus, and that she is still his honored patron and cherished war buddy.  They can work together without fear of half-measures, failure, or betrayal.

            Odysseus never really succeeds in leveling the same tactic against Athena herself, as we’ve seen from her persistent slipperiness in the exchange above.  Her only direct response to his questioning, which comes shuffled in after the aforementioned change of topic, is the most carefully pruned of hedges:

“I never had doubts myself, no, I knew down deep

that you would return at last, with all your shipmates lost.

But I could not bring myself to fight my Father’s brother,

Poseidon, quaking with anger at you, still enraged

Because you blinded the Cyclops, his dear son.

But come, let me show you Ithaca’s setting…”  (B.13, 386-391)

 

The Poseidon justification does not account for her absence leading up to Polyphemus’ cave, and it seems unlikely that Poseidon has not stirred from his chair in nearly a decade; here she is deliberately skipping over the more complicated elements of her motivation.  As for her knowing that Odysseus “would return at last”, we’ve already shown that ultimate destiny does not dictate the shape of every pebble lining the path, and that she could most certainly have altered his circumstances to soften a hard journey.  Certainly Odysseus has powers of perception enough to grasp that this is not a full response, but the practical side of his nature apparently forgives her the editorializing:  she is certainly right that there is work to be done, and that his loved ones will continue in their suffering so long as the two of them do nothing more than yak away on the sand.    The issue is dropped, along with the concealing mist. 

            The Phaeacian treasure—replacing the lost treasures of Troy—is carefully stowed in the nearby cavern, and the two sit down to work, Odysseus newly aflame with Athena’s description of the arrogant suitors courting Penelope:

“ ‘Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner,

think how to lay your hands on all those brazen suitors,

lording it over your house now, three whole years,

courting your noble wife, offering gifts to win her.

But she, forever broken-hearted for your return,

builds up each man’s hopes—

dangling promises, dropping hints to each—

but all the while with something else in mind.’”  (B.13, 429-37)

 

Here the specter of the House of Atreus once again lunges out of its crypt, although Athena sees fit to give Penelope a protective gloss of virtue.  (As we’ll see, this careful description of Penelope’s tactics most likely saves her from bearing the brunt of Odysseus’ immediate wrath.  He instead conducts a careful investigation of her character before coming to a final judgment.)

            Determined not to follow in Agamemnon’s footsteps, Odysseus rears up for a fight, with an intensity of spirit even above his boasting at the Phaeacian games:

 “ ‘Come, weave us a scheme so I can pay them back!

Stand beside me, Athena, fire me with daring, fierce

as the day we ripped Troy’s glittering crown of towers down.

Stand by me—furious now as then, my bright-eyed one—

And I would fight three hundred men, great goddess,

With you to brace me, comrade-arms in battle!’

 

Grey eyes ablaze, the goddess urged him on:

‘Surely I’ll stand beside you, not forget you,

not when the day arrives for us to do our work.’”  (B.13, 442-50)

 

            Other gods stack the decks for their personal favorites, but none go to the intricate and contorted measures which Athena does on behalf of Odysseus, and this intimate declaration of partnership is just as remarkable.  Why does she return with such force?  Why is now the day to do work?  If guilt is the wrong word (since it implies both the capacity for remorse and a sense of being subject to judgment, neither of which the gods have in much quantity), then a combination of affection for Odysseus and a natural love for justice would serve the same purpose.  If the daughter of Power and Wisdom cannot see to make amends towards her subjects, things are in a sorry state.  The one thing Athena cannot abide is imbalance, so she has returned to tip the scales.