The hall has now been cleared of challengers:  even the treacherous servant girls are done away with.  There is still the looming threat of revenge from the families of the suitors, but this is an outside concern:  within the closed doors of the palace, safety and surety reigns, at least for the course of a long evening.  The phrase “put the house in order” appears in a number of forms all throughout the aftermath of the battle:  before he evens strips off his own rags, Odysseus purges the whole house with fire and sulphur.  This finished, all the faithful members of the household are released, and the house flickers into new life.

“Back through the royal house the old nurse went

to tell the women the news and bring them in at once.

They came crowding out of their quarters, torch in hand,

flung their arms around Odysseus, hugged him, home at last,

and kissed his head and shoulders, seized his hands, and he,

overcome by a lovely longing, broke down and wept…

deep in his heart he knew them one and all.”  (B.22, 523-9)

 

The new life, of course, is the mirror image of the house as he left it:  the balance has been reset.  The only missing component is Penelope, who for so long has borne the weight of the house on her shoulders that she has forgotten how to stand straight and unencumbered.

            Athena might very well have left Penelope conscious during the slaughter.  She might still have harbored doubts as to the identity of her savior, but her doubt would have taken less coaxing to undo.  However, the purpose of putting Penelope to sleep can (as usual with things Athena sees fit to do) be pulled apart to reveal its several components.  The simplest explanation is that a waking Penelope would cause interference with the battle[1]:  given her tendency to high emotion and her complete inexperience with violence, she is not a person whom one would care to have in harm’s way.  Next, like Odysseus, the slumbers Athena grants Penelope tend to serve as transition points in her part of the story:  Telemachus’ departure from Ithaca, the visitation by the Iphthime-spirit, and the slaughter in the hall are all incidents where her sleep is induced or influenced by Athena.  Every time she awakes, her situation has fundamentally changed.  Lastly, and a touch more towards the ephemeral, it means that Penelope confronts Odysseus from square one:  she hasn’t witnessed any of his actions in the hall, she hasn’t seen his tell-tale scar for herself, she hasn’t spoken to Telemachus (who, for that matter, was only very recently an impressionable young lad, and one who couldn’t possibly be expected to correctly recognize his father).  For other women this might seem like a disadvantage, but for Penelope it’s an opportunity to confirm every fact by herself.  Because she’s spoken to Odysseus when he was in the guise of another person, it could even be argued that she has a negative amount of certainty about her husband’s return—he might very well be just another link in the long chain of charlatans who’ve passed through her hands.   The slaughter of the suitors might even be the firsthand work of a god; since she’s had a visitation from Athena, she knows that they’ve taken a belated interest in her welfare.  This might very well be a kind of Olympian mortality benefit for a widowed military wife.

            Telemachus, who has more than enough personal reason to accept Odysseus, rebukes Penelope for her careful resistance.  “Your heart was always harder than a rock!” he exclaims, apparently forgetting her many long nights of sorrow in a final fit of solipsistic angst.  Odysseus, for his part, knows quite well what mechanism is at work:

“Odysseus, long-enduring, broke into a smile

and turned to his son with pointed, winging words:

‘Leave your mother here in the tall to test me

as she will.  She will soon know me better.’”

 

Odysseus’ excuse for her is that she’s ashamed of his raggy appearance, but we can credit him with knowing better.  Penelope is looking to take him back as her husband only if she finds him to be that man in every aspect…and if the finding happens on her own terms.

            Athena clearly understands this complicated relationship—as all the evidence suggests, her attachment to both spouses is largely related to their mutual trickiness—and she wisely makes herself scarce over the course of their private reunion.  Some of her tactics are recognizable, nonetheless—Penelope’s feint on the issue of the rooted bed is arguably another case in which the victim is essentially driven crazy until he issues a response so genuine as to be unmistakable:

“Putting her husband to the proof—but Odysseus

blazed up in fury, lashing out at his royal wife:

‘Woman—your words, they cut me to the core!

Who could move my bed?

…There’s our secret sign, I tell you, our life story!

Does the bed, my lady, still stand planted firm?

I don’t know—or has someone chopped away

That olive-trunk and hauled our bedstead off?’

                                                                       

Living proof—

Penelope felt her knees go slack, her heart surrender,

Recognizing the strong clear signs Odysseus offered.”  (Book 23, 203-32)

 

Penelope could’ve just as well asked him “what is the special feature of our bed, unknown to all men but you?”, but this way provokes him much more fruitfully—just as Athena tormented Odysseus on the beach, and just as Odysseus will soon torment Laertes.  The point is not that Odysseus knows about the bed, but cares about it as a symbol of their union.  If the tree is uprooted, so is the marriage; if Odysseus is not angered by the prospect, he is not Odysseus.  His blood pressure suffers somewhat from this maneuver, but the reunion they share as a result of it is most certainly worth the momentary cost of his confusion and anger. 

            Interrogation strategies aside, Athena’s only direct act of interference is, as usual, one which allows her favorites the best possible environment in which to demonstrate their character.  This is a common pattern with all of the incidents in which Odysseus is rejoined with a loved one, but his reunion with Penelope receives an even more painstaking treatment:  Athena, presumably calling in a few favors, actually stalls the dawn until husband and wife have exhausted both the conversation and themselves.  This is not a hiatus of ten years’ length, though, and once the tender process of rehabilitation has been completed, she wastes no precious seconds in rallying Odysseus to the remaining tasks at hand:

“Athena, her eyes afire, had fresh plans.

Once she thought he’d had his heart’s content

of love and sleep at his wife’s side, straightaway

she roused young Dawn from Ocean’s banks…

to bring men light and roused Odysseus, too.” (B.23, 388-92)

 

Odysseus gives his wife a few words of comfort, advises her to stay indoors away from danger, and departs for his father’s farm.  While this is happening, the eye of the story wanders towards the Underworld in pursuit of the suitors’ ghosts.  After causing quite a fuss with their arrival, they recite their story to an curious Agamemnon. It’s in this passage that we finally hear about the completion of Laertes’ funeral shroud[2].  Hearing of Penelope’s cleverness and loyalty, Agamemnon bursts out in her praises:  “The fame of her great virtue will never die,” he cries, (B.24, 216) “A far cry from...Clytemnestra— / she brands with a foul name the breed of mankind!” (219, 222)  With this comment, Penelope’s part of the story comes to an end, having come full-circle.  We do not hear any more of Penelope, nor, of Agamemnon’s mirror-image tragedy.  The “shimmering web” is removed from the loom.  Odysseus is confident in his marriage, just as he is confident of his son, his home, and his own character.

            This thread safely knotted off, the story travels back to the land of the living.  Spurred on by Athena, Odysseus, Telemachus, and the two loyal herders assemble with quiet efficiency:

“They snapped to commands, harnessed up in bronze,

opened the doors and strode out, Odysseus in the lead.

By now the daylight covered the land, but Pallas,

shrouding them all in darkness,

quickly led the four men out of town.”  (B.23, 418-22)

 

Odysseus’ identity is in some way concealed, and Athena is still leading him forward:  troubles can’t be over so long as these two things remain necessary.  Cued by this continuing circumspection on the part of his guide, Odysseus decides to test Laertes in the same tough fashion that we’ve seen before.  This time, however, it very nearly backfires on him.  Laertes is so grieved that he is seized by sobbing, and Odysseus gives up the game in a sudden surge of tenderness—“Father—I am your son—myself, the man you’re seeking, home after twenty years, on native ground at last!” (B.24, 359-60)

  Laertes, just as circumspect as any other member of the family, is not about to let this convince him fully…and so in an almost humorous turnabout, Odysseus again ends up being the one forced to offer proof.  As with his reunions with Telemachus and Penelope, Athena remains largely absent, allowing Odysseus a brief period of respite to share with his father.  Laertes even receives a glamour of his own from Athena, which restores him somewhat to his former glory.  In a single scene we can see Odysseus reflected both forward and backwards in time, flanked by his father and son; and we can also see him reflected above and below, with a goddess (sharing many of his skills) standing over him and a loyal servant (raised as a brother) beneath.  

            Meanwhile discontent is spreading across the nearby islands as the death of the suitors’ is discovered.  Word even spreads, through the herald Medon, that Odysseus has a god on his side and is not to be trifled with, but this has little curbing effect on the threat.  In short time, Odysseus and his group will be threatened by a mob of local avengers.  This sets off the third and final appeal Athena will make to Zeus on Odysseus’ behalf, which appropriately echoes those earlier masterpieces of facetious nagging:

“Athena at this point made appeals to Zeus:

‘Father, son of Cronus, our high and mighty king,

now let me ask you a question…

tell me the secrets hidden in your mind.

Will you prolong the pain, the cruel fighting here

Or hand down pacts of peace between both sides?’

 

‘My child,’ Zeus who marshals the thunderheads replied,

‘why you do pry and probe me so intently?  Come now,

wasn’t the plan your own?  You conceived it yourself:

Odysseus should return and pay the traitors back.

Do as your heart desires—

but let me tell you how it should be done.’”

 

Zeus’ unspeakably dad-ish and bossy response (some parts word-for-word identical to previous instances) is exactly what Athena has angled for on all previous occasions.  Her intervention here is a sign that her mission is coming to a close:  she uses the momentum provided by Zeus’ approval only to enact changes in the status quo (freeing Odysseus, intervening with Telemachus) which are in some way too controversial or too momentous to fall within her smaller jurisdiction.  Athena is happy to banter, disguise, inspire, assist, and alter:  she does not, or cannot, command.  In this way she is a tactician without being a general, and has to sue to see her larger plans put to work in the ranks.  It is not that Zeus’ ideas are in any way subtle[3], but that he has the authority to execute them.  Zeus goes on to lay out plans for a final peace:

“ ‘Now that royal Odysseus has taken his revenge,

let both sides seal their pacts that he shall reign for life,

and let us purge their memories of bloody slaughter

of their brothers and their sons.  Let them be friends,

devoted as in the old days.  Let peace and wealth

come cresting through the land.’

                                                So Zeus decreed

and launched Athena already poised for action—

down she swept from Olympus’ craggy peaks.”  (533-40)

 

The goal here is not just a reestablishment of balance, but a return to a previous balance:  in effect, the only real differences in the landscape will be the absence of the suitors and the presence of an adult Telemachus[4]—and even the first item will be intentionally faded from the memory of the land, almost as if these young men had never existed in the first place.  Ithaca will be restored. 

            The image here of Athena springing into action is another fitting symbol for her role throughout the story:  like the circumstances she endeavors to repair, she is standing on the cusp of action, ready at the slightest tremor to pitch forward and into the fray.  The difference is that her motion is perfectly controlled:  Fagles’ choice of words almost conveys the image of a skilled diver, able to smoothly twist and contort throughout the descent.  Having been sprung from the board, she’s now preparing for the concluding splash.

            We get one final glimpse of Odysseus passing through time, a reassurance of his proud lineage and continued legacy:  her appearance as Mentor inspires Odysseus to speak to Telemachus as the avenging crowd approaches:

“ ‘Telemachus, you’ll learn soon enough…

not to disgrace your father’s line a moment.

In battle prowess we’ve excelled for ages

all across the world.’

                                    Telemachus reassured him,

‘Now you’ll see, if you care to watch, father,

now I’m fired up.  Disgrace, you say?

I won’t disgrace your line!’

 

Laertes called out in deep delight,

‘What a day for me, dear gods!  What joy—

my son and grandson vying over courage!’

                                                            ‘Laertes!’

Goddess Athena rushed beside him, eyes ablaze:

‘Son of Arcesius, dearest of all my comrades,

say a prayer to the bright-eyed girl and Father Zeus,

then brandish your longed spear and wing it fast!’”  (B.24, 557-572)

 

Laertes is the one who, as a result, hurls the only death-blow at the crowd, killing the instigator Eupithes, the father of Antinous—just as his own son killed Antinous with his first bowshot.  This smooth circle encloses the last moment in the story of the suitors.  All of those who overstepped their bounds have been executed for their crimes, and further deaths would only serve to set the scales awry from what might be a resting point:

“They would have killed them all, cut them off from home

if Athena, daughter of storming Zeus, had not cried out

in a piercing voice that stopped all fighters cold,

‘Hold back, you men of Ithaca, back from brutal war!

Break off—shed no more blood—make peace at once!’”  (B.24,

 

This is enough to convince the crowd, who turn in terror.  Odysseus, though, is still possessed by the spirit of Troy, his old tendency towards excess emerging once more.  Appropriately enough, the most impressive special effect in all of The Odyssey is directed at nobody but Odysseus himself:

“Loosing a savage cry, the long-enduring great Odysseus,

gathering all his force, swooped like a soaring eagle—

just as the son of Cronus hurled a reeking bolt

that fell at her feet, the might Father’s daughter,

and blazing-eyed Athena wheeled on Odysseus, crying

‘Royal son of Laertes, Odysseus, master of exploits,

hold back now!  Call a halt to the great leveler, War—

don’t court the rage of Zeus who rules the world!’”  (B.24, 590-597)

 

War may be the great leveler, but it only sees fit to equalize by reducing everything into nothing.  Athena is a proponent of productive balance:  strategy to achieve victory, craft to create objects of use and beauty, language to communicate and persuade.  Even the destruction of the suitors is less an action of revenge than a sort of surgical intervention on a tumerous growth which threatens the balance of the patient’s body (and therefore  life).  Likewise, Odysseus’ long trials were not imposed on him simply as castigation for his excesses, but as a curative to them:  he is essentially taken apart and rebuilt to resemble the man he was before the annihilating violence and ruthless politicking of Troy (or, as Fagles’ Penelope would aptly have it, Destroy).   

“So she commanded.  He obeyed her, glad at heart.”

 

Odysseus lays his passions aside and discovers that he is ready to take up his life again, and happy to have the sanction and command of the gods as his justification for doing so.  With this Odysseus steps out of his own story—we never see his long, meditative journey inland, or his death.  Because this future has been predicted, it exists and is completed within the narrative without having yet occurred, as does its partner in the past, the journey away Troy.  The passage of time is paved forward to the horizon and beyond in the final passage:

“And Athena handed down her pacts of peace

between both sides for all the years to come—

The daughter of Zeus whose shield is storm and thunder,

yes, but the goddess still kept Mentor’s build and voice.”  (B.24, 600-603)

 

This is a rather striking last line.  For all the divine influence on the course of The Odyssey, particularly her own, Athena never steps beyond mortal concern.  She is always concerned with reducing things to human size:  tempests, enemies, suffering, and distance are all winnowed down to a finer scale in her hands.  In the face of these vast forces, she enables the individual to strive and succeed.  Even her moments of divine flash are designed to encourage a single person, humble outnumbering enemies, or hold a person back from misstep.  In keeping the shape of Mentor—an advisor, a secondary character, an old man—she shows her continued respect for the life of the individual, for human community and experience.  Odysseus beside her seems the more likely candidate to be a god. 

            The mortal world is not a vessel for divine whimsy, but an arena more dramatic than Olympus because of its fragility.  The houses of the gods crumble once in an epoch:  the houses of men shatter and tumble every day.  For a goddess whose domaiun encompasses skill, challenge, tenacity, and wit, the mortal world offers endless opportunities for occupation—and devotion.