Like Penelope’s shroud, the Odyssey has rested, barren and tight-strung, for the space of many years. Beginning with Telemachus’ journey, Athena has been carefully tending to her wool, deepening dyes and untying old knots and incipient tangles. From here she takes up the wefting sword and plunges into the final work, finally shuttling together the disparate threads of father, mother, and son.

              There are two orders of business left before all the characters can fulfill their role in this complicated plot.  First, Odysseus must be transformed so that he can enter Ithaca safely, and Telemachus must be retrieved from Sparta.  The second task, and the fact that Telemachus is there in search of information about his father, Athena mentions with a casual off-handedness which fails to slip past Odysseus:

“ ‘Why not tell him the truth?  You know it all.

Or is he too—like father, like son—condemned

to hardship, roving over the barren salt sea

while strangers devour our livelihood right here?’”  (B.13, 475-78)

 

Athena assures him by explaining her motives—that Telemachus might get a decent airing out before battling the suitors—and rather quickly skates over the fact that “True enough, / some young lords in a black cutter lurk in ambush, / poised to kill the prince before he reaches home” (B.13, 484-6) but dismisses it with a familiar generalization:  “I have my doubts they will.”  As usual she shows no interest in giving more information than is absolutely necessary for her plans to move forward, demanding a sort of general trust from her players.  It is charming for Odysseus to interrogate her, but she cannot be flustered into giving away more than an essential minimum.  This tendency towards being tight-lipped serves three distinct purposes:  first of all, it simply saves time.  (She has already expended a good amount in her teasing with Odysseus, but must be quite aware that her imposed limbo cannot hold for much longer.)  Secondarily, it maintains a neat hierarchy between herself and the mortals in her charge, and they must inevitably depend on her as a source of information.  It is both unhealthy for mortals to be overinformed, and, we can conclude, bad for business.  Lastly, it forces the mortals to exert their own powers of consideration in order to achieve their goals; and, in the case of Telemachus or Penelope, takes them over a much rougher road from which they emerge much more fit than they would have if they had been fully informed.  Their efforts as a result make their reunion with Odysseus a more fitting one, as we’ve already noted.

            Having dispensed all the information she is willing to give him, Athena transforms Odysseus as promised.  Where she usually bestows Olympian makeovers, Odysseus gets the reverse treatment, emerging as a grotesque old itinerant, complete with beggaring accessories.  The rationale underlying this disguise is, as usual, multi-layered.  There is a deliciously Athenaic irony[1] in a glorious king returning as a shriveled beggar.  Simultaneously, it is when Odysseus is in this bedraggled state that he is at his most powerful in all of The Odyssey, with the full forces of Pallas Athena at his disposal. 

            Next, the disguise puts him at the apparent mercy of the various people whom he must encounter (Athena used this tactic, although to a lesser extent, in using Mentes as her first disguise).  This serves as an excellent tool to reveal their true character; they have nothing to gain from him[2], and furthermore even the servants can wield a distinct power over him.  How he is subsequently treated is an excellent indication, then, of who is worthy to be considered an ally.  (Of course he is given further tips by the likes of Eumaeus, but these tips come only by dint of Eumaeus’ demonstrated character.)

            Lastly, and most sinister of the three, it serves to stoke the fires of Odysseus’ anger.  His own state echoes the state of Ithaca itself, and one can only imagine how much more deeply he might strive to restore his home when his own body is in a shambles as well. 

            Athena sends Odysseus off to the home of the swineherd Eumaeus.  Although we learn that he is of noble birth and was raised alongside Odysseus and his sister, his position places him firmly among the other herders and servants—if not further down, given the unpleasantness and difficulty of the task.  Athena’s purpose in sending Odysseus to this person in particular is not difficult to discern—Eumaeus is openly loyal to the memory of his king, quite honest about the situation at the palace (his description of Penelope’s optimism is heartbreaking), and deeply charitable.  He is also practical to the core, not maintaining any illusions about the likelihood of Odysseus’ return, and healthily skeptical of his visitor’s assertions to the contrary:

“Good news…but I will never pay a reward for that, old friend—

Odysseus, he’ll never come home again.  Never…

Drink your wine, sit back, let’s talk of other things.

Don’t remind me of all this.  The heart inside me

breaks when anyone mentions my dear master.”  (B.14, 192-7)

 

When a man so demonstrably pragmatic as Eumaeus expresses open grief, Odysseus can be certain that his presence is deeply missed by the faithful.  His concern for Telemachus—and his winning description of the boy—also stockpiles Odysseus with certainty about his son’s character and lineage.

“The gods reared him up like a fine young tree

and I often said, ‘In the ranks of men he’ll match his father,

his own dear father—amazing in build and looks, that boy!’” (B.14, 202-4)

 

            Lastly, he provides Odysseus with an opportunity to spin yet another fantastic yarn about his invented past as a veteran of the Trojan War.  All of this serves to agitate Eumaeus’ memories so deeply that, in spite of his disbelief, he begins to lean towards hope that Odysseus might indeed someday return. 

            A point of interest in The Odyssey is the tendency of the narrative voice to refer to Eumaeus in a fond second person, almost patting the character on the shoulder; this attitude of warm trust adds to our impression of Eumaeus as the best possible person for Odysseus to have sought out.  He is a confidante, a guide, a brother, and a loyal servant in one sturdy package. 

            While Odysseus is getting settled in, Athena departs on her last cross-country jaunt, this time to retrieve Telemachus from Sparta.  Both his apparent and his actual goals have been well achieved, as we can see from the attitude in which Athena finds him:  bedded in Menelaus’ palace, Nestor’s son asleep at his side…and wide awake, worrying about his father.  The maturity he’s gained on the road has primed him to think about his father for his father’s sake.  He is not lamenting his ignoble end or cursing his own sorry fate, but thinking about the troubles Odysseus must have experienced himself. 

            Athena rouses him with an odd piece of invective against Penelope:

“It’s wrong, Telemachus, wrong to rove so far,

so long from home, leaving your own holdings

unprotected…

…they’ll carve up all your wealth, devour it all,

and then your journey here will come to nothing.

Quickly, press Menelaus, lord of the warcry,

to speed you home at once, if you want to find

your irreproachable mother still inside your house…

She must not carry anything off against your will!

You know how the heart of a woman always works:

she likes to build the wealth of her new groom—

of the sons she bore, of her dear, departed husband,

not a memory of the dead, no questions asked.

So sail for home, I say!” (B.15, 16-27)

 

What’s the point of casting doubt over Penelope this way?  We can believe that the suitors will take anything not nailed down, but Penelope seems to be beyond reasonable reproach.  Athena does acknowledge that “even now her fathers and brothers urge Penelope to marry Eurymachus” (ibid), but this still seems like a rather unfair tactic.  We would most likely prefer that Athena give Telemachus a hint as to Odysseus’ return, or that she suggest that Penelope is facing some imminent threat—instead she is urging him to rush home and change the combination on the family safe. 

            The best possibility is that this is further encouragement to Telemachus to think of the welfare of the throne as increasingly his own responsibility—not that of Penelope, the palace elders, or his absent father.  Penelope has held out as long as she can, and now will have to act as a woman of Achaea must in such situations.  This is a very frank acknowledgement on Athena’s part of the mercenary nature of the married woman’s life.  With her husband gone, Penelope reverts to being an agent of her house of birth and a prospective agent of her future husband; the piracy she might engage in is almost socially excusable, a female version of the tendency of Odysseus et al. to ravage far-flung cities for plunder.  Telemachus must now think of himself as the head of the Ithacan house, and protect its vested interests regardless of his love for his mother.  (Sure enough, she urges him to go first to Eumaeus, and send him immediately to “your mother, wise Penelope” to reassure her of his safe return.  He can still show her emotional concern, but the first stages of their legal separation have begun.)

            So Athena has started to tear down the delicate house of cards which constituted Ithaca’s equilibrium:  the promise of Telemachus immature and Penelope unwed.  Telemachus handles his hasty departure with an ease and diplomacy entirely absent at the beginning of his journey, and Athena sails him past the waiting assassins without harm.  He even arrives on Ithaca just in time for breakfast.

            The first encounter between Telemachus and his disguised father is another one of the many sizing-up scenes that take place in the Odyssey, and the second for Odysseus in this disguise.  Telemachus over the next few minutes has ample opportunity to show his love for Eumaeus and his charitable respect for the strange beggar, but it is when he begins to speak of the situation waiting for him at the palace that Odysseus’ ears swivel and prick.

            Telemachus has gained a good deal of confidence and a sense of ownership over the household, but he is still far from the complete package.  Telemachus has no experience in battle:  “I’m young myself,” he sighs, “I can hardly trust my hands / to fight off any man who rises up against me.”  (B.16, 80-1)  Odysseus grills him about his inaction, and Telemachus responds by giving him an idea of just how many suitors there are to be considered.  Eumaeus, as Athena suggested, is sent off to inform Penelope—he is expressly kept from telling Laertes, to keep the news from spreading too quickly—and father and son are finally left alone together.  One of the most elegant passages between Athena and Odysseus occurs as a result:

“His exit did not escape Athena’s notice…

Just at the shelter’s door she stopped, visible to Odysseus

But Telemachus could not see her, sense her there—

the gods don’t show themselves to every man alive.

Odysseus saw her, so did the dogs; no barking now,

they whimpered, cringing away in terror through the yard.

She gave a sign with her brows, Odysseus caught it,

out of the lodge he went…and stood before the goddess.”  (B.16, 180-6)

 

This is a lovely illustration of how little the two characters require to communicate amongst themselves.  The mention of the dogs is also significant—they almost savaged Odysseus, the fawn around Telemachus, and now they cringe in fear.  Each reaction has a useful connotation:  Odysseus must beware even of the animals in his old house. Telemachus is a young man capable of inspiring loyalty.  As for Athena, we—and Odysseus, more importantly—are reminded that she is not merely a handy consultant or a helpful patroness, but a direct embodiment of a truly awesome power. Powers on this order, however much they can express fondness and concern, are fundamentally dangerous.  Luckily for Odysseus the almost nuclear potency of Zeus’ third-born is squared at the enemy camp, but the favor is not to be taken lightly.  Her instructions to Odysseus are so fiercely terse that they almost hum with anticipation:

“Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, old campaigner,

now is the time, now tell your son the truth.

Hold nothing back, so the two of you can plot

the suitors’ doom and then set out for town.

I myself won’t lag behind you long—

I’m blazing for a battle!”  (B.16, 188-93)

 

Odysseus, renewed with a glamour, wordlessly returns to the lodge, and Athena goes her own way.  A tearful reunion follows:  when the disbelieving Telemachus mistakes Odysseus for a god, Odysseus quickly denies it—“No other Odysseus will ever return to you”— attributes everything to “Athena’s work, the Fighter’s Queen,” and after a lightning fast recap of his Phaeacian journey, he further notes that “Athena’s inspiration spurred me here, now, / so we could plan the slaughter of our foes.”  (B.16, 263-4) Credit carefully given.

            The two embark on a brisk brainstorm session, with Telemachus providing information and Odysseus formulating tactics.  What’s most interesting about this planning session is that Odysseus himself formulates all the main elements of their attack—not Athena.  She expressly leaves the two to their own devices (“so the two of you can plot / the suitors’ doom”), giving only a general promise of her powerful presence[3].  Odysseus nevertheless feels very comfortable attributing likely actions of support to Athena—“When Athena, Queen of Tactics, tells me it is time, / I’ll give you a nod”, “Then Athena , / Zeus in his wisdom—they will daze the suitors’ wits” (B.16, 314-5, 330-1).  In short, Athena is the sheer firepower that enables their victory to be even vaguely possible, but they themselves are expected to provide the direction and effort necessary to employ that power. 

            Once inside the household, Athena effects a series of small tweaks to keep up the momentum towards the final battle.  She startles the suitors by revealing Odysseus’ sheer strength before the betting bout with Irus, and his easy victory (along with their nervous desire not to provoke his anger) induces an oily flood of praise.  Odysseus in turn unleashes a rebuke against the suitor Amphinomus, who walks away from the rather unnerving encounter

“his heart sick with anguish, shaking his head,

fraught with grave forebodings…

but not even so could he escape his fate.

Even then Athena had bound him fast to death

At the hands of Prince Telemachus and his spear.”  (B.18, 174-179

 

This is one of a long, increasing grim series of reminders from the narrator that Athena has it in for each and every one of the suitors.  It’s another bit of destiny hopscotch:  Amphinomus’ death, and the method of his death, are absolutely certain—but the exact moments and events which will lead to Telemachus actually throwing his spear is indefinite (or, at least, in mortal hands).

            While the men are getting the more obvious attentions from Athena, Penelope is still a critical point of interest.  While Athena is busy shoving the men towards self-determined boldness, she prefers to coax Penelope down quiet corridors of action:

“But now the goddess Athena with her glinting eyes

inspired Penelope, Icarius’ daughter, wary, poised,

to display herself to her suitors, fan their hearts,

inflame them more, and make her even more esteemed

by her husband and her son than she had been before.”  (B.18, 181-5)

 

Here Penelope is displaying her craft in such a way as to make it clear that her intent is aimed at benefiting the household, not her future husband:  after tapping them for gifts and several lustful compliments, she turns the tables and rebukes the suitors for their greed, much as Odysseus did with Eurymachus.  Witnessing this masterful display,

“Staunch Odysseus glowed with joy to hear all this—

his wife’s trickery luring gifts from her suitors now,

enchanting their hearts with suave seductive words

but all the while with something else in mind.”  (B.18, 316-9)

 

Telemachus, too, reestablishes contact with his mother during her visit downstairs, the two of them quietly exchanging hopes that the suitors will soon be “battered senseless, heads lolling, knees unstrung”.  Although almost subconscious, even at this point there is a feeling of a family plan, extending not just between Telemachus and his father, but Penelope as well.  As we soon see, Penelope has also been hatching independent plans, under the sanction of Athena:  the contest of axes.  This plan will fit seamlessly into that of Odysseus and Telemachus, simultaneously reinforcing Telemachus’ growing potential and providing Odysseus with his most deadly weapon along with another key to his old identity.  Athena is clearly aware of all of the plans now under formation by her mortal cohorts, and works to weave them together into a single surge of action. 

            Not all of her actions, though, are so pleasantly helpful.  One of the hallmarks of the two-act scene in the palace is a nauseating atmosphere of dread, a weird hint of gore and cruelty already hanging in the air above the banquet table.  It is almost expressly produced by Athena herself.  Odysseus’ pitiful disguise first of all inspires the cruelty of the suitors, and Penelope’s fan dance arouses their lust—both of these are courtesy Athena.  Beyond even this, though, Athena sees fit to twist the dials, ratcheting them up to increasingly demented levels of inhumanity:

“But Athena had no mind to let the brazen suitors

hold back now from their heart-rending insults—

she meant to make the anguish cut still deeper

into the core of Laertes’ son Odysseus.” (B.18, 391-4)

 

 

This passage is repeated several times, with various suitors doing the honors.  Again, it’s easy to recoil from this tactic as sadistic, as if Odysseus were a fighting cock jabbed and beaten by its keeper before being thrown into the pen.  Instead it should be looked at as an extension of her methods of interrogation:  in that case she withholds information until the subject gives her their maximum and most genuine response (note that she is not lying, but withholding), and in this one she baits the enemy, who in turn drives the subject to their greatest possible level of aggression.  She is not “lying” about the nature of the suitors, either:  she is driving them into their most essential nature, and they in turn do the same for Odysseus.  It is not enough for Odysseus to be cunning and exercise his planning skills.  For victory, Athena requires him to be possessed with the godlike hatred which gripped his fellows on the fields of Troy.  Athena is a goddess of virtue, in its original sense, implying complete fulfillment of a certain potential outside of any particular moral connotation.  Odysseus is not just a father and a planner (both of which roles he’s now reclaimed), he’s also a husband and a fighter, and those items are still on the slate.

            Telemachus shoos out the suitors, startling them with his newfound forthrightness—he’s even so forward as to peg their hot-headedness on “some god.”  With them dismissed, the gears of action again whirl into motion.  Another haunting moment of presence occurs as Telemachus and Odysseus drag the weapons to the storeroom in anticipation of the fight:

“Pallas Athena strode before them,

lifting a golden lamp that cast a dazzling radiance round about.

‘Father,’ Telemachus suddenly burst out to Odysseus,

‘oh what a marvel fills my eyes!  Look, look there—

all the sides of the hall, the handsome crossbeams…

…all glow in my eyes like flaming fire!

Surely a god is here—

one of those who rule the vaulting skies!’

 

‘Quiet,’ his father, the old soldier warned him.

‘Get a grip on yourself.  No more questions now.

It’s just the way of the gods who rule Olympus.’”  (B.19, 35-46)

 

The fact that Odysseus is given the epithet “old soldier” here explains the nature of his response properly enough:  now is no longer the time for gawking or reveling in the support of the goddess, but to stick to plan and accept what aid occurs as it occurs This echoes the often repeated statement that one must take whatever the gods dish out—in this case, tacit help.  Odysseus gets into trouble when he later forgets his own maxim and hollers at Athena for help in the final battle, an act which nets him a very snappish reply.

            Although this beautiful little passage serves as an object lesson for Telemachus, and a nice opportunity for fatherly injunction, it’s also a recurrence of the leading goddess image.  Like everything else in these scenes, it is amplified:  by the presence of two generations of followers, and the literal illumination that Athena lends to the world around them. 

            This work accomplished, Telemachus is sent to bed, and Odysseus goes to speak with Penelope according to her invitation.  One of the great debates involving their scenes together is, of course, whether or not Penelope has yet recognized her husband.  Athena gives us a nice indication that, in this scene at least, she does not have a conscious certainty that the beggar is indeed Odysseus.  We can very well suspect that she suspects it—even Eurykleia, doing a good impression of Helen, loudly notes how much resemblance he bears to her old master.  But when Eurykleia discovers Odysseus’ scar, Athena steps in:

“[Eurykleia] glanced at Penelope, keen to signal her

that here was her own dear husband, here and now,

but she could not catch the glance, she took no heed,

Athena turned her attention elsewhere.”  (B.19, 539-42)

 

Athena acts this way for a specific reason:  to delay Penelope’s recognition so that it can occur on Odysseus’ terms.  This should confirm for us the fact that Penelope does not yet openly recognize her husband—it’s unlikely that Athena would expend energy suppressing a knowledge which already exists.  Instead, as with the plans for conquering the suitors, Athena makes certain that the exact layout of future actions will be up to the mortal parties most in question.  Odysseus will consciously and willingly give himself away to Penelope, and Penelope will consciously and willingly acknowledge him as Odysseus.  Husband and wife are well-matched in their desire for control over their own judgments, and Athena respects this by making sure the field is clear before they engage each other.  Penelope does not need to completely recognize her husband to be most helpful to her husband’s plan at this moment—her personal plans, which she discloses to him in this scene, are enough to move action forward at the pace Odysseus desires.  He learns about the contest of the axes, and he confirms that his wife’s longing for him is real.  The contest also assures that she will not wed anybody who is not explicitly Odysseus’ equal in at least one respect—and, if none of the suitors are equal to the task, it is another brilliant stalling measure, designed to hold them off with their own shame.

            That night is the last which the suitors will enjoy alive, and Zeus and Athena begin to compile a long list of menacing omens for the benefit of Odysseus.  Lying awake in bed, he expresses his worried concerns to himself once more:  even if he defeats the suitors—“thanks to you and Zeus”, he will have to confront their avengers.  Athena responds with her usual playful irritation:

“ ‘Impossible man!’

Athena bantered, the goddess’ eyes ablaze.

‘Others are quick to trust a weaker comrade,

some poor mortal, far less cunning than I. 

But I am a goddess, look, the very one who

guards you in all your trials to the last.”  (B.20, 46-51)

 

Despite this friendly reassurance, he remains uncertain of his odds, perhaps due to some continuing uncertainty about Athena’s reliability.  Odysseus below hears Penelope’s tears—“deep in his heart it seemed / she stood beside him, knew him, now, at last…” (B.20 104-5), and prays for an omen from Zeus.  This is met with a clap of thunder and a well-timed curse from a servant-woman, and Odysseus’ confidence is fulfilled.  Is this second-guessing Athena?  If we look at Athena as a secondary aspect of Zeus, it doesn’t seem unreasonable for Odysseus to seek confirmation from the very origin of Athena’s power and authority.  As much as Athena enjoys the spotlight of her own actions, they are performed under Zeus’ consent, and as an agent of Zeus’ will:  in the last confrontation between Odysseus and the avenging relatives, Athena calls on Zeus to provide the fireworks necessary to convince the population that peace is the divine will.  Athena is an advocate, but Zeus is the judge.  The desire for verification from the highest order of power is justified both on a personal and a professional level.

            Athena, however, is still the go-to goddess for the upcoming plan of action, and she contributes mightily to the increasingly morbid atmosphere.  The next omen is of her own making, and represents the peak of the pre-slaughter spookiness redolent in the great hall. After several more bouts of meandering cruelty, Telemachus once more announces that he supports his mother’s remarriage, but refuses to drive her out:

“So he vowed

and Athena set off uncontrollable laughter in the suitors,

crazed them out of their minds—mad, hysterical laughter

seemed to break from the jaws of strangers, not their own,

and the meat they were eating oozed red with blood—

tears flooded their eyes, hearts possessed by grief.” (B.20, 384-9)

 

The prophet Theoclymenus can easily guess what all this foretells, and the suitors break the spell by turning their laughter towards him; when he departs, they set upon Telemachus with an almost manic intensity. 

            What’s the point of all this ominous grandstanding?  We’ve already suggested that it’s simply a vehicle for exposing the most essential nature of the suitors.  Modern readers are likely tempted to label all this as Athena giving the suitors a last chance to catch on and high-tail it back to the safety of their own homes.  But we also know that, with absolute certainty, she has doomed them all.  Crawling through the snarls and tangles of the Odyssey’s system of destiny, we can suppose that the suitors are being given a chance to acquit themselves as best as possible before their doom; the fact that they universally fail the test operates as an inarguable proof that their nasty end is well-deserved.  This is situation where cause and effect are inextricable the one from the other.

             With this accomplished, the machine can be set into motion.  Athena inspires Penelope to set the axes.  Telemachus tries his hand at the great weapon, and we’re treated to the knowledge that he has the power necessary to string it—and, eventually at least, string it.  Odysseus waves him off, and Telemachus goes on to theatrically bemoan his “weakness.”  Nevertheless, this the last step in Telemachus’ specific maturation.  He is capable of fighting in battle, and of wielding his father’s weapon.  For all serious purposes, this incident concludes Telemachus’ arc in the story—he will assist his father over the next two books, but he is never again the focus of a concerned attention, nor are his abilities called into question.  Telemachus has, through the attentions of both Athena and his parents, passed as far into manhood as can be hoped for a young man with a father still in his prime.  He voluntarily cedes the bow, willing to wait his turn to be man of the house, and through the hands of the suitors, it arrives at those of his father.

            This causes the predictable ruckus.  Penelope goes on to defend Odysseus in his turn at the bow, and after this elegant intercession she is sent back to her rooms (by an increasingly calm and authoritative Telemachus), and Athena sedates her for the length of the battle.  Odysseus gains control of the bow:

“Now he held the bow

in his own hands, turning it over, tip to tip,

testing it, this way, that way…fearing worms

had bored through the weapons’ horn with the master gone abroad.”

 

As usual, Odysseus is satisfied to reclaim something only once he is given the chance to examine it himself, with carefully probing hands.  His first shot sends the arrow humming through the axes.  He rips away his rags, and the second shot slays Antinous:  he screams doom down on the suitors (“you dogs!  You never imagined I’d return from Troy!”), and the fight begins.

            On Phaeacia Odysseus regained his name and his past, his ability to live among men;  with Athena he has regained his trust in the gods. With Eumaeus he regained his loyal subordinates, and with Telemachus he reclaimed his fatherhood.  Now in the hall, bow sound in his hand, he retrieves his identity as a fighter and as the owner of the household.  All that remains is to reclaim his wife (his partner), his father (his legacy), and his throne (his life’s occupation).  To get to these he must first pass through the suitors. 

            The fight, however well-planned, is still overwhelming:  the suitors retrieve their weapons, and the motley four-person party find themselves facing a crowd of enemies.  Athena at last enters the chaotic scene:

“Now Zeus’ daughter Athena,

taking the build and voice of Mentor, swept in

and Odysseus, thrilled to see her, cried out,

‘Rescue us, Mentor, now it’s life or death!’

…So he cried

yet knew in his bones it was Athena, Driver of Armies.” (B.22, 214-20)

 

The suitors for their part immediately issue a long and vicious series of threats against the disguised goddess.  It’s not at them but at Odysseus that Athena directs her disgust:

“Naked threats—and Athena hit new heights of rage,

she lashed out at Odysseus now with blazing accusations:

‘Where’s it gone, Odysseus—your power, your fighting heart?

…you who seized the broad streets of Troy

with your fine strategic stroke!  How can you—

now you’ve returned to your own house, your own wealth—

bewail the loss of your combat strength in a war with suitors?”  (B.22, 234-43)

 

The suitors are doomed—this is an absolute certainty when both she and her father are bent on the same end—so venting fury against them is a rather useless redundancy.  The suitors have always been obstacles, worthy of little consideration beyond simple tactical considerations.  As obstacles, though, they are also opportunities and tools:  for Odysseus and all his extended allies to show themselves worthy of the support the gods have provided them, to reclaim what was once theirs, or achieve what they had not before.  A good track coach will spend her time yelling at the runners who trip, not the hurdles that trip them.  However, Athena is nothing if not fair, and as usual steps in to improve the circumstances under which Odysseus and his band are attempting to prove themselves.  From her perch on the rafters—a very appropriate image for the goddess of tactical surveillance—she makes certain that the salvos of the enemies fly wide.  This allows Odysseus’ crew to go on the offensive, finally reaching the suitors in hand-to-hand combat.  Telemachus and Eumaeus both receive scratches, which operate as proof that Athena is not gifting them with invulnerability, or lending them any greater skill with the blade than what they naturally possess.  Athena nexts brandishes her “man-destroying shield of thunder” and drives the suitors back—“like herds stampeding”[4]—and the last of the enemies are cut down. 

            The only two members of the household who are spared are Medon the herald and Phemius the bard.  It’s difficult not to notice that these are two word-bearers, gifted speakers and crafters of fame.  As such they must have an especial value to Odysseus, and to Athena as well:  it takes only a single intercession by Telemachus for Odysseus to decide on sparing their lives.  Neither he nor his patroness is of the type to pass up free publicity.