The Odyssey: Book 1 – A Comic Analysis
Tell me, O Muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all these things, oh daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may know them.
Analysis
Oh, Muse, tell me how Odysseus managed to be both a seasoned adventurer and the original overachiever who still couldn’t keep his crew from treating a divine farm-to-table experience like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet at Golden Corral. Seriously, how does a guy who knows every custom in every corner of the ancient world fail to communicate one simple dietary restriction? “Don’t eat the sacred cows” isn’t exactly a complex HR memo.
And let’s talk about the Sun-god Hyperion’s cattle. They’re literal holy livestock, radiant and celestial—or at least that’s how Hyperion marketed them. I’m guessing these divine cows looked less like animals and more like floating, glowing Chick-fil-A advertisements, mooing Gregorian chants. Yet, somehow, the crew’s collective wisdom boils down to, “Eh, I’m sure this won’t end with divine smiting.”
Also, the Muse is really leaning on Odysseus’s “ingenious” reputation here, but let’s call a spade a spade: the guy’s genius plan for getting home involved ten years of detours, cyclopes-related mishaps, and a whole lot of “I’m working on it.” Ingenious? Sure. Efficient? Not so much. At this point, the Muse is less of a divine inspiration and more of a very patient PR rep.
And what’s with the open-ended request for stories? “Tell me, too, about all these things.” Lady, pick a lane! It’s like calling customer service and asking them to walk you through everything about your life so far. You want logistics? Drama? An in-depth review of the catering at Troy? Make up your mind, Muse, because we’re about three oxen away from a Yelp complaint.
The Odyssey
So now all who escaped death in battle or by shipwreck had got safely home except Ulysses, and he, though he was longing to return to his wife and country, was detained by the goddess Calypso, who had got him into a large cave and wanted to marry him. But as years went by, there came a time when the gods settled that he should go back to Ithaca; even then, however, when he was among his own people, his troubles were not yet over; nevertheless all the gods had now begun to pity him except Neptune, who still persecuted him without ceasing and would not let him get home.
Analysis
Oh, poor Ulysses—everybody else makes it home to Greece for some well-earned rest, but he’s stuck in a deluxe grotto Airbnb with Calypso, the goddess of “I will ruin your life but in a very scenic way.” Sure, she wanted to marry him, but let’s be real: if your fiancé is dragging their feet for seven years, that’s not love—that’s Stockholm Syndrome with a side of ambrosia.
Also, Neptune holding a grudge this long? That’s some peak pettiness from the god of the sea. Imagine being so mad you’re willing to micromanage someone’s misery for decades. Neptune was out there like, “Oh, you want to row home, Odysseus? That’s cute. Here’s a hurricane. Enjoy the scenic detour to nowhere.”
And let’s not overlook the gods’ timing here. They finally decide, “Okay, let’s let this guy go home,” but not before years of “tough love” that somehow translates to zero actual intervention. It’s like the divine equivalent of spotting someone in quicksand and saying, “Hmm, maybe we’ll pull him out after lunch.”
And when he does eventually get back to Ithaca, the gods are like, “Don’t get too comfortable, buddy—there’s more drama waiting for you.” It’s like surviving seven seasons of a reality show, only to find out you’re contractually obligated to star in the spinoff.
The Odyssey
Now Neptune had gone off to the Ethiopians, who are at the world’s end, and lie in two halves, the one looking West and the other East. He had gone there to accept a hecatomb of sheep and oxen, and was enjoying himself at his festival; but the other gods met in the house of Olympian Jove, and the sire of gods and men spoke first. At that moment he was thinking of Aegisthus, who had been killed by Agamemnon’s son Orestes; so he said to the other gods:
“See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all nothing but their own folly. Look at Aegisthus; he must needs make love to Agamemnon’s wife unrighteously and then kill Agamemnon, though he knew it would be the death of him; for I sent Mercury to warn him not to do either of these things, inasmuch as Orestes would be sure to take his revenge when he grew up and wanted to return home. Mercury told him this in all good will but he would not listen, and now he has paid for everything in full.”
Analysis
Neptune partying with the Ethiopians while the rest of the gods hold a team meeting is such a power move. He’s out there living it up, probably wearing a lei made of seaweed and headlining the “Sheep and Oxen Barbecue Bash,” while the rest of Olympus is stuck dealing with office politics. Neptune’s basically that guy at work who’s perpetually “on vacation,” leaving everyone else to pick up the slack.
Meanwhile, Zeus kicks off the meeting with the ultimate “not my fault” speech. “Oh, you mortals want to blame us? That’s cute. But maybe try not murdering people and stealing their wives next time, hmm?” Classic Zeus: wagging his finger at human drama while conveniently forgetting his own lengthy rap sheet of questionable hookups and thunderbolt tantrums.
And poor Mercury—he’s the overworked middle manager in all of this. Zeus tells him, “Go warn Aegisthus not to be a home-wrecking idiot,” and Mercury does exactly that, probably while carrying a stack of other memos about nymph disputes and ambrosia inventory shortages. But Aegisthus? Total client-from-hell energy. Mercury lays it all out, step by step: “Don’t sleep with Agamemnon’s wife, don’t kill Agamemnon, or Orestes is gonna come for you.” And Aegisthus is like, “Nah, I’ll risk it.”
So when Aegisthus finally gets what’s coming to him, Zeus is sitting back like a smug parent who told you not to touch the hot stove. “See? We warned him. Not our problem.” This whole scene feels less like divine intervention and more like an episode of Olympian Court: Judge Zeus Edition. The gods are out here sipping nectar and dunking on humanity like it’s their full-time job.
The Odyssey
Then Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, it served Aegisthus right, and so it would any one else who does as he did; but Aegisthus is neither here nor there; it is for Ulysses that my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely sea-girt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends. It is an island covered with forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a goddess lives there, daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after the bottom of the ocean, and carries the great columns that keep heaven and earth asunder. This daughter of Atlas has got hold of poor unhappy Ulysses, and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment to make him forget his home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks of nothing but how he may once more see the smoke of his own chimneys. You, sir, take no heed of this, and yet when Ulysses was before Troy did he not propitiate you with many a burnt sacrifice? Why then should you keep on being so angry with him?”
Analysis
Minerva really came out swinging here, didn’t she? She’s like, “Okay, Zeus, we get it—Aegisthus was the ancient Greek poster boy for bad decisions. But can we focus on the real issue, which is why are we letting Odysseus rot on Lonely Island like it’s some kind of eternal Survivor episode?”
And let’s unpack this whole “daughter of Atlas” situation. First off, Atlas is already overbooked with his gig holding up the heavens and occasionally moonlighting as a motivational poster (“Carry the weight of the world like Atlas!”). Yet somehow, he has time to raise a daughter who’s basically running her own magical hostage Airbnb? Odysseus checks in, and Calypso’s like, “Welcome to your eternity of slightly enchanted misery! Here’s a free drink coupon and some emotional manipulation to start your stay.”
Minerva makes a great point, though: how many burnt sacrifices does a guy have to grill before he gets one favor from Zeus? “You, sir,” she says, with the polite venom of someone who’s been ghosted for millennia, “take no heed of this.” Translation: We’ve got receipts, Zeus, and you’re ignoring them. Minerva’s basically the HR rep of Olympus, and she’s filing a formal complaint on Odysseus’s behalf.
And poor Odysseus! This man is trapped in a forest-covered island, run by a goddess who’s all, “Why don’t you forget about your old life and stay here forever?” Meanwhile, Odysseus is staring at the ocean, dreaming of chimney smoke. Chimney smoke! That’s his fantasy. Not even a hug from his wife or a feast with his crew—just smoke. You know things are grim when your greatest wish is to see the soot rising from your outdated HVAC system.
Honestly, Zeus deserves every bit of this dragging from Minerva. Between Neptune throwing tantrums and Calypso running a one-woman toxic relationship seminar, Odysseus has had enough. At this point, Zeus could at least comp him some Nectar Miles for his trouble.
The Odyssey
And Jove said, “My child, what are you talking about? How can I forget Ulysses than whom there is no more capable man on earth, nor more liberal in his offerings to the immortal gods that live in heaven? Bear in mind, however, that Neptune is still furious with Ulysses for having blinded an eye of Polyphemus king of the Cyclopes. Polyphemus is son to Neptune by the nymph Thoosa, daughter to the sea-king Phorcys; therefore though he will not kill Ulysses outright, he torments him by preventing him from getting home. Still, let us lay our heads together and see how we can help him to return; Neptune will then be pacified, for if we are all of a mind he can hardly stand out against us.”
Analysis
Ah, classic Zeus, immediately pivoting to damage control like a dad caught forgetting his kid’s birthday. “My child, what are you talking about? Of course I remember Odysseus! He’s the most capable, most sacrificial lamb—I mean, man—on earth!” Sure, Zeus, because nothing says “you’re my favorite” like letting Neptune chase him across the Aegean with the same energy as a middle-schooler on a grudge-fueled dodgeball rampage.
And let’s dissect this Polyphemus backstory for a moment. So, Neptune’s mad because Odysseus blinds his kid? That’s understandable—parental instincts and all—but it’s not like Polyphemus was hosting a bake sale when this happened. He was actively eating Odysseus’s men! Neptune’s over here acting like the Cyclops was running a cozy B&B and Odysseus trashed the place on Yelp.
Also, can we talk about Neptune’s parenting choices? He has a kid with Thoosa, daughter of the sea-king Phorcys, which feels like a genealogical Mad Lib gone rogue. Between Phorcys and Thoosa, that family reunion must’ve looked like a lineup of rejected Pokémon designs, and Neptune still thought, “Yeah, this is where I’m planting my trident.”
But the best part? Zeus’s solution is basically, “Alright, let’s brainstorm. We’ll figure out a way to help Odysseus home without making Neptune mad.” Sure, Zeus. Let’s placate the guy who’s been rage-paddling Odysseus’s metaphorical canoe for years. This is less divine intervention and more like a very awkward family meeting where everyone’s tiptoeing around the uncle with anger issues.
And that last line—“Neptune can hardly stand out against us.” Oh, really? Because he seems pretty committed to standing out against Odysseus right now. What’s the plan, Zeus? Call a group huddle, vote on an olive branch, and hope Neptune doesn’t respond with a Category 5 hurricane? You can almost hear Minerva rolling her eyes from across the Pantheon.
The Odyssey
And Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, if, then, the gods now mean that Ulysses should get home, we should first send Mercury to the Ogygian island to tell Calypso that we have made up our minds and that he is to return. In the meantime I will go to Ithaca, to put heart into Ulysses’ son Telemachus; I will embolden him to call the Achaeans in assembly, and speak out to the suitors of his mother Penelope, who persist in eating up any number of his sheep and oxen; I will also conduct him to Sparta and to Pylos, to see if he can hear anything about the return of his dear father—for this will make people speak well of him.”
Analysis
Minerva is really the only one holding this dysfunctional divine family together. She’s got Zeus rambling about Polyphemus like it’s a Cyclops TED Talk, Neptune throwing temper tantrums, and Odysseus stuck in Calypso’s enchanted cave of eternal awkwardness. So, of course, Minerva takes charge, because someone has to.
First, she drops the ultimate “we’re doing this my way” power move: “If we really want Odysseus home, we’ll send Mercury to deliver the eviction notice to Calypso.” Mercury must be thrilled to get assigned another intergalactic Uber Eats errand. You know he’s thinking, “Great, I get to tell a goddess with abandonment issues her favorite plaything has to go back to his smokey chimneys. Thanks, guys.”
Then Minerva, multitasking queen that she is, decides to handle the suitor infestation in Ithaca. “I’ll go pump up Telemachus,” she says, basically volunteering to be his divine life coach. And let’s face it, Telemachus needs it—his mom’s suitors are hosting a 24/7 Ancient Greek tailgate party, grilling his sheep and turning the palace into House of the Lazy Frat Bros. You can practically hear the suitors yelling, “YOLO” every time they roast another ox.
Minerva’s plan to send Telemachus on a cross-country dad-hunting road trip to Sparta and Pylos is both genius and hilarious. “This will make people speak well of him,” she says, which is ancient Greek for, “We need to make this kid stop sulking and start clapping back.” Imagine Telemachus showing up in Sparta, awkwardly asking King Menelaus, “Uh, hey, you seen my dad? He’s kind of a big deal but also really bad at directions.”
Honestly, Minerva deserves all the nectar and ambrosia for dealing with this mess. Between the absentee dad, the freeloading suitors, and the gods’ complete inability to form a coherent plan, she’s singlehandedly trying to save Ithaca’s reputation. Someone get her a medal—or at least a vacation that doesn’t involve babysitting Telemachus.
The Odyssey
So saying she bound on her glittering golden sandals, imperishable, with which she can fly like the wind over land or sea; she grasped the redoubtable bronze-shod spear, so stout and sturdy and strong, wherewith she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased her, and down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus, whereon forthwith she was in Ithaca, at the gateway of Ulysses’ house, disguised as a visitor, Mentes, chief of the Taphians, and she held a bronze spear in her hand. There she found the lordly suitors seated on hides of the oxen which they had killed and eaten, and playing draughts in front of the house. Men-servants and pages were bustling about to wait upon them, some mixing wine with water in the mixing-bowls, some cleaning down the tables with wet sponges and laying them out again, and some cutting up great quantities of meat.
Analysis
Minerva doesn’t just step into action—she flies into it with a level of flair that screams, “Main character energy.” Golden sandals that let her fly like the wind? Bronze spear that basically says, “Don’t test me”? She’s not coming to Ithaca quietly—she’s arriving like a divine Beyoncé at halftime, ready to clean up this absolute dumpster fire of a situation.
And her disguise? Mentes, chief of the Taphians. Classic Minerva. She’s like, “Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just a totally normal guy with a suspiciously commanding aura and an otherworldly weapon. Nothing to see here.” You know she could have disguised herself as a traveling shepherd or something low-key, but no, she goes full “leader of a cool-sounding group no one’s heard of.” Mentes probably doesn’t even know he’s been impersonated. Somewhere in Taphos, he’s eating lunch, oblivious.
Then she gets to Ulysses’ house, which has been reduced to a frat house sponsored by Ancient Greek BBQ. The suitors are lounging on ox hides—basically the La-Z-Boys of antiquity—chowing down on Ulysses’ cattle, playing draughts, and yelling for more wine. It’s a mix of Game of Thrones and a low-budget toga party, and not a single one of them has a shred of shame.
And let’s not forget the overworked staff. Some are mixing wine, some are scrubbing tables with wet sponges, and others are hacking up massive slabs of meat. It’s chaos. These poor servants are basically running Ithaca’s worst-rated medieval restaurant, with Yelp reviews that would read, “Two stars: Meat was great, ambiance was aggressively rowdy, and I think the owner’s son is crying in the corner.”
But Minerva? She’s not phased. She’s standing there in her Taphians cosplay, bronze spear in hand, probably thinking, This is fine. I’ll fix it. After I scare the suitors, put Telemachus in therapy, and convince Calypso to let go of Odysseus, maybe I’ll take a nap. Frankly, it’s a miracle the gods haven’t unionized against this level of workload.
The Odyssey
Telemachus saw her long before any one else did. He was sitting moodily among the suitors thinking about his brave father, and how he would send them flying out of the house, if he were to come to his own again and be honoured as in days gone by. Thus brooding as he sat among them, he caught sight of Minerva and went straight to the gate, for he was vexed that a stranger should be kept waiting for admittance. He took her right hand in his own, and bade her give him her spear. “Welcome,” said he, “to our house, and when you have partaken of food you shall tell us what you have come for.”
Analysis
Ah, Telemachus, the original emo kid, sitting moodily among the suitors, probably doodling “#BringDadHome” in the margins of a scroll. He’s over there stewing about how, if his dad were back, he’d go full Liam Neeson and kick these freeloaders straight out the door. Classic angsty teenage daydreams—except with fewer guitars and more divine justice.
And then he spots Minerva—disguised as Mentes, of course, because nothing says “approachable stranger” like a bronze spear-wielding war goddess incognito. Telemachus, ever the good host, doesn’t even hesitate. He’s up and out the door faster than you can say “hero’s son,” probably thrilled to have something to do besides side-eyeing the suitors eating his inheritance.
His greeting? Pure hospitality mixed with slightly panicked manners. “Welcome to our house,” he says, like it’s not currently being overrun by human locusts. Telemachus is so desperate for normalcy, he’s like, “Here, take this spear. Don’t mind the chaos inside—it’s mostly ox-hide recliners and guys yelling for wine. But, uh, have some bread before you explain why you’re here?”
You can’t help but root for the kid. He’s doing his best under circumstances that would make anyone crack. Dad’s been AWOL for years, Mom’s suitors are staging an endless barbecue at his expense, and now there’s a random visitor with a weapon at the gate. Telemachus might be a bit broody, but he’s also polite to a fault. Honestly, you half expect him to offer Minerva a warm towel and a wine list while muttering, “Sorry about the dudes inside—they’re not usually this terrible. Except they are.”
The Odyssey
He led the way as he spoke, and Minerva followed him. When they were within he took her spear and set it in the spear-stand against a strong bearing-post along with the many other spears of his unhappy father, and he conducted her to a richly decorated seat under which he threw a cloth of damask. There was a footstool also for her feet, and he set another seat near her for himself, away from the suitors, that she might not be annoyed while eating by their noise and insolence, and that he might ask her more freely about his father.
Analysis
Telemachus is really out here trying to make the best of a deeply weird situation. The house is a chaos factory, his dad’s spears are stacked up like a collection of “I’ll deal with these later” projects, and there’s a goddess disguised as a guy in the foyer. But credit where it’s due—he’s got hosting skills.
First move? Spear storage. He slides Minerva’s bronze weapon into the spear stand like it’s part of a trendy new home decor line: “Welcome to the Odysseus Collection, featuring: ‘Wall of Pointy Things Dad Left Behind.’” It’s practically a gallery at this point. Maybe next to the spears, there’s a dusty sign that says, “We’ll be right back—just 20 years at sea!”
Then he brings her to a fancy seat—complete with damask cloth, because even in ancient Ithaca, presentation matters. Telemachus is trying so hard to make this place look like a civilized home, even though the rest of it resembles a suitors’ tailgate party that got out of hand.
And can we talk about the footstool? Telemachus isn’t just polite; he’s overachieving. “Here’s a cloth, here’s a comfy chair, and here’s a stool for your divine feet, Mentes, because heaven forbid you have to rest them on the ground like some mortal pleb.” You can almost see Minerva thinking, Wow, kid, if only you were this proactive about kicking out those freeloaders.
Finally, he sets himself a little “suitor-free zone” next to her, because nothing ruins a heartfelt Q&A about your lost dad like some drunk guy yelling, “Yo, pass the ox ribs!” It’s the ancient equivalent of finding a quiet table at a family reunion where nobody’s arguing about politics. Telemachus might be young, but he knows the vibe needs to be respectful if he’s going to ask the hard-hitting questions, like: “So, Mentes, does my dad even like me, or was he more into conquering Troy?”
The Odyssey
A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of what there was in the house, the carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side, and a manservant brought them wine and poured it out for them.
Then the suitors came in and took their places on the benches and seats. Forthwith men servants poured water over their hands, maids went round with the bread-baskets, pages filled the mixing-bowls with wine and water, and they laid their hands upon the good things that were before them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink they wanted music and dancing, which are the crowning embellishments of a banquet, so a servant brought a lyre to Phemius, whom they compelled perforce to sing to them. As soon as he touched his lyre and began to sing Telemachus spoke low to Minerva, with his head close to hers that no man might hear.
Analysis
Ah, ancient hospitality—where even in the middle of a full-blown suitor invasion, the house staff is working overtime to make sure somebody gets the Martha Stewart treatment. Golden ewers, silver basins, clean tables—it’s basically a Michelin-star experience in a war zone. You can almost hear the maid muttering under her breath, “Oh sure, let’s break out the good plates for the one guest who isn’t a wine-guzzling ox thief.”
The food service here is next-level, though. Bread? Check. “All manner of meats”? Double check. Gold cups? Why not! Honestly, this spread feels like Ithaca’s version of a reality cooking show: “Welcome to Top Chef: Siege Edition, where tonight’s challenge is feeding 50 uninvited suitors without losing your sanity.”
And speaking of the suitors—these guys roll in like they’re the stars of their own frat party drama. They don’t even pause to ask, “Hey, who’s the new guy with the spear?” Nope. They go straight for the bread, the wine, and whatever’s left of Telemachus’s patience. The servants are running around like it’s Black Friday at the Olive Garden, pouring water, filling wine bowls, and dodging whatever weird requests these freeloaders are throwing out.
And, of course, the suitors demand entertainment—because what’s a stolen feast without a little forced karaoke? Poor Phemius is dragged in with his lyre, probably thinking, “Great, I studied with the finest bards in the land, and now I’m the jukebox for these jerks.” You know they’re yelling requests like, “Play Troy is Burning! That’s our jam!”
Meanwhile, Telemachus—bless him—is doing his best to keep it together. He leans in close to Minerva, whispering like he’s got state secrets to share: “So, uh, Mentes… any updates on Dad? Because I’m two gold cups away from snapping and using that spear for its intended purpose.” It’s a miracle he hasn’t flipped a table yet, but you can tell: his inner Odysseus is ready to show these guys the door.
The Odyssey
“I hope, sir,” said he, “that you will not be offended with what I am going to say. Singing comes cheap to those who do not pay for it, and all this is done at the cost of one whose bones lie rotting in some wilderness or grinding to powder in the surf. If these men were to see my father come back to Ithaca they would pray for longer legs rather than a longer purse, for money would not serve them; but he, alas, has fallen on an ill fate, and even when people do sometimes say that he is coming, we no longer heed them; we shall never see him again. And now, sir, tell me and tell me true, who you are and where you come from. Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship you came in, how your crew brought you to Ithaca, and of what nation they declared themselves to be—for you cannot have come by land. Tell me also truly, for I want to know, are you a stranger to this house, or have you been here in my father’s time? In the old days we had many visitors for my father went about much himself.”
Analysis
Telemachus really hits them with the “Who do you think is paying for all this?” speech, doesn’t he? It’s the ancient Greek equivalent of snapping, “You know, this isn’t an all-you-can-eat buffet, right?” He even throws in the haunting visual of his dad’s bones “grinding to powder in the surf” for maximum guilt. Telemachus is one gold cup of wine away from flipping over the banquet table and yelling, “Get a job!”
And the line about longer legs? Absolute savage mode. He’s basically saying, “If my dad showed up, you’d be running so fast you’d outpace Hermes himself.” Longer legs instead of a longer purse? Telemachus could moonlight as a stand-up comic at the very banquets these jerks are crashing.
But then he pivots, and you can tell he’s a kid who’s been carrying way too much for way too long. He’s all, “Yeah, people still say Dad’s coming back, but at this point, I’d believe in Cyclops tooth fairies before I believe that rumor.” It’s sad, it’s weary, and it’s the vibe of someone who’s trying to keep hope alive but ran out of emotional gas about four invasions ago.
And now, to Minerva-as-Mentes, Telemachus goes full detective. “Who are you, where are you from, and how’d you get here? Be honest, because there’s no way you just walked in—Ithaca isn’t exactly on the beaten path.” The kid’s thorough, though—you’ve got to give him that. He’s interrogating Mentes like he’s a potential Airbnb guest who forgot to upload a profile picture.
And that closing question? “Are you new here, or did you visit during my dad’s glory days when we had normal guests, not an endless parade of freeloaders?” Telemachus is practically begging for some connection to the good old days, back when the biggest problem in the house was whether the roast lamb had enough oregano. Poor kid—it’s hard to grill a goddess incognito and still sound polite, but he somehow pulls it off. Ancient Greek hospitality, folks. Even when life’s falling apart, you’ve got to serve the wine and ask for your guest’s backstory.
The Odyssey
And Minerva answered, “I will tell you truly and particularly all about it. I am Mentes, son of Anchialus, and I am King of the Taphians. I have come here with my ship and crew, on a voyage to men of a foreign tongue being bound for Temesa with a cargo of iron, and I shall bring back copper. As for my ship, it lies over yonder off the open country away from the town, in the harbour Rheithron under the wooded mountain Neritum. Our fathers were friends before us, as old Laertes will tell you, if you will go and ask him. They say, however, that he never comes to town now, and lives by himself in the country, faring hardly, with an old woman to look after him and get his dinner for him, when he comes in tired from pottering about his vineyard. They told me your father was at home again, and that was why I came, but it seems the gods are still keeping him back, for he is not dead yet not on the mainland. It is more likely he is on some sea-girt island in mid ocean, or a prisoner among savages who are detaining him against his will. I am no prophet, and know very little about omens, but I speak as it is borne in upon me from heaven, and assure you that he will not be away much longer; for he is a man of such resource that even though he were in chains of iron he would find some means of getting home again. But tell me, and tell me true, can Ulysses really have such a fine looking fellow for a son? You are indeed wonderfully like him about the head and eyes, for we were close friends before he set sail for Troy where the flower of all the Argives went also. Since that time we have never either of us seen the other.”
Analysis
Minerva, absolutely crushing it in the role of Mentes, Friendly Liar Extraordinaire. She spins this elaborate backstory with the ease of someone who’s clearly been to improv class. “Oh yeah, I’m Mentes, son of Anchialus. King of the Taphians. You’ve probably heard of me—we’re big on the iron-to-copper trade route, real cutting-edge stuff.” She’s practically daring Telemachus to ask for a business card.
And that bit about the ship? Chef’s kiss. “Oh, it’s parked way out in the harbor under a mountain. You know, very discreet. Totally not because I actually flew here in divine sandals.” Minerva’s doing everything short of pulling out a fake map and pointing to “My Definitely Real Ship, I Swear.”
Then she pivots to the heartstrings. “Our dads were buds, but, uh, your grandpa? Yeah, he’s living like a retired hermit with an old lady cooking his meals.” The poor guy’s pottering around his vineyard like some tragic winemaker who lost his Netflix password. Minerva’s adding all the flavor here, like she’s narrating an episode of Ithaca’s Most Depressing Retirement Homes.
But when she talks about Ulysses? Oh, the flair. “He’s not dead, definitely not dead. Probably chilling on an island or held by savages—don’t worry, he’s super resourceful. Could MacGyver his way out of chains with a seashell and some divine intervention. You’ll see him soon, I’m sure of it!” It’s the divine version of, “He’s probably fine! He’s Ulysses, for Zeus’s sake!”
And then, like a seasoned guest buttering up the host: “Wow, you look just like your dad. Head, eyes—the whole package. What a chip off the old block.” Telemachus is probably sitting there thinking, “Sure, but can I inherit Dad’s skills for suitor evictions and divine schmoozing?”
Honestly, Minerva’s performance deserves an Oscar—or at least some ambrosia and a standing ovation from the gods for keeping it together while feeding Telemachus half-truths and full-on charisma. You can almost see her mentally high-fiving herself, thinking, Nailed it.
The Odyssey
“My mother,” answered Telemachus, “tells me I am son to Ulysses, but it is a wise child that knows his own father. Would that I were son to one who had grown old upon his own estates, for, since you ask me, there is no more ill-starred man under heaven than he who they tell me is my father.”
And Minerva said, “There is no fear of your race dying out yet, while Penelope has such a fine son as you are. But tell me, and tell me true, what is the meaning of all this feasting, and who are these people? What is it all about? Have you some banquet, or is there a wedding in the family—for no one seems to be bringing any provisions of his own? And the guests—how atrociously they are behaving; what riot they make over the whole house; it is enough to disgust any respectable person who comes near them.”
Analysis
Telemachus, hitting us with that existential paternity angst right off the bat: “My mom says I’m Ulysses’s kid, but honestly, who even knows? Would’ve been great to be the son of some rich guy who stuck around instead of becoming the poster child for bad luck.” That’s ancient Greek for “Thanks, Dad, for nothing.” You can feel the teenager-level resentment radiating off this poor kid. He’s one ox roast away from forming a punk band called Dad’s Still at Sea.
Minerva, ever the hype queen, fires back with, “You’ve got nothing to worry about, kid. With Penelope as your mom, you’re golden.” Translation: “Your dad might be a wandering disaster, but your mom? MVP material. You’ll be fine.” It’s basically the divine version of “You’ve got good genes. Use them wisely.”
Then she takes one look at the suitor circus and absolutely lets loose. “What in Zeus’s name is going on here? Is this a wedding? A banquet? A… plague of locusts in togas? Because it looks like nobody brought their own snacks, and they’ve turned your house into an all-you-can-eat ox buffet. The audacity!”
Minerva’s commentary is brutal. She’s walking in with fresh eyes, seeing the suitors for the freeloading chaos goblins they are, and she is not impressed. “Atrocious,” she says, while probably wondering if the gods offer some sort of divine pest control service for this exact scenario.
Telemachus must be dying inside. “Yeah, welcome to my life, Mentes. Every day is Animal House in here, and I’m the only one sober enough to notice.” Meanwhile, Minerva’s standing there with her bronze spear, silently plotting a suitor eviction plan so thorough it’ll make Odysseus’s homecoming look like a mild inconvenience.
The Odyssey
“Sir,” said Telemachus, “as regards your question, so long as my father was here it was well with us and with the house, but the gods in their displeasure have willed it otherwise, and have hidden him away more closely than mortal man was ever yet hidden. I could have borne it better even though he were dead, if he had fallen with his men before Troy, or had died with friends around him when the days of his fighting were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a mound over his ashes, and I should myself have been heir to his renown; but now the storm-winds have spirited him away we know not whither; he is gone without leaving so much as a trace behind him, and I inherit nothing but dismay. Nor does the matter end simply with grief for the loss of my father; heaven has laid sorrows upon me of yet another kind; for the chiefs from all our islands, Dulichium, Same, and the woodland island of Zacynthus, as also all the principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the pretext of paying their court to my mother, who will neither point blank say that she will not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end; so they are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so also with myself.”
Analysis
Ah, Telemachus, bringing the drama and the epic-level venting session. He kicks it off with, “It was all good when Dad was here, but the gods decided to play hide-and-seek with him, and, surprise, nobody’s found him yet.” The guy can’t even get the dignity of a definitive ending for his father’s story—just a perpetual cliffhanger. You can almost hear the exasperation in his voice: *“Seriously, gods, at least give us a body or a note or something.”
And then he drops the real gut punch: “If Dad had died in battle, at least we could’ve built him a fancy mound and called it a day. Instead, he’s been blown away like Zeus’s dust bunnies, and all I’ve got is a house full of grief and no renown to inherit.” Telemachus’s inheritance is dismay—a word that barely scratches the surface of how done this kid is.
But wait, there’s more! On top of the father-shaped hole in his life, Telemachus gets to deal with the world’s worst Bachelor in Paradise scenario. All these so-called “chiefs” are eating him out of house and ox, claiming they’re wooing his mom, Penelope, who’s busy not deciding anything. She’s got these dudes hanging around like it’s some kind of suitor purgatory, and Telemachus is caught in the middle.
And the suitors? Absolute parasites. They’re not just courting Penelope; they’re devouring everything in sight, like locusts with better table manners. Telemachus even admits, “Before long, they’re gonna come for me, too.” It’s hard to tell if he means financially, emotionally, or literally with a knife over breakfast. Either way, not great.
Honestly, you’ve got to feel for the guy. His dad’s MIA, his mom’s keeping her suitors on an indefinite trial period, and his house has become Ancient Greece’s hottest all-you-can-eat suitor buffet. It’s no wonder he’s unburdening himself to Mentes, aka Minerva, aka the only person in this mess who actually seems to have a plan.
The Odyssey
“Is that so?” exclaimed Minerva, “then you do indeed want Ulysses home again. Give him his helmet, shield, and a couple of lances, and if he is the man he was when I first knew him in our house, drinking and making merry, he would soon lay his hands about these rascally suitors, were he to stand once more upon his own threshold. He was then coming from Ephyra, where he had been to beg poison for his arrows from Ilus, son of Mermerus. Ilus feared the ever-living gods and would not give him any, but my father let him have some, for he was very fond of him. If Ulysses is the man he then was these suitors will have a short shrift and a sorry wedding.
Analysis
Minerva, dropping the verbal equivalent of “Oh, it’s about to go down.” She’s not even sugarcoating it—she’s practically licking her lips at the thought of Ulysses strolling in, armed to the teeth and ready to throw these freeloaders out like yesterday’s amphora scraps. It’s as if she’s saying, “Suitors, meet Ulysses. Ulysses, meet your unwelcome house guests. Let’s see how long they last.”
And the flashback? Iconic. *“Oh, you want to know what kind of guy Ulysses is? Let me tell you about that time he went to Ephyra to beg for poison for his arrows.” Begging for poison—what a résumé bullet point. Imagine showing up to someone’s house, all, “Hey, can I borrow a cup of venom for my murder kit?” Even Ilus, son of Mermerus, had to draw a line somewhere, and when your moral compass is too much even for a guy named Mermerus, you know you’ve pushed the envelope.
Luckily, Minerva’s dad—because let’s not forget, Minerva casually name-drops her family like it’s an Olympic networking event—comes through with the goods. “Oh, Ulysses needs poison? Say no more. This guy knows how to party.” Apparently, that was the vibe back then: poison diplomacy and merry drinking, the ultimate buddy system.
Then, she delivers the closer like a WWE hype reel: “If he’s still the man he was back then, these suitors aren’t just done—they’re charcoal on the spit.” Short shrift, sorry wedding—Minerva isn’t even pretending to feel bad for these dudes. In her mind, she’s already booked the metaphorical caterer for their smackdown reception.
You can almost see Telemachus sitting there, wide-eyed, thinking, “Wait, poison arrows? Drinking parties? My dad’s a lot cooler than I thought… and also a bit terrifying.” Meanwhile, Minerva’s over here mentally gearing up for the day Ulysses finally comes home to transform this suitor infestation into a historical reenactment of Revenge of the King.
The Odyssey
“But there! It rests with heaven to determine whether he is to return, and take his revenge in his own house or no; I would, however, urge you to set about trying to get rid of these suitors at once. Take my advice, call the Achaean heroes in assembly to-morrow morning—lay your case before them, and call heaven to bear you witness. Bid the suitors take themselves off, each to his own place, and if your mother’s mind is set on marrying again, let her go back to her father, who will find her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts that so dear a daughter may expect. As for yourself, let me prevail upon you to take the best ship you can get, with a crew of twenty men, and go in quest of your father who has so long been missing. Some one may tell you something, or (and people often hear things in this way) some heaven-sent message may direct you. First go to Pylos and ask Nestor; thence go on to Sparta and visit Menelaus, for he got home last of all the Achaeans; if you hear that your father is alive and on his way home, you can put up with the waste these suitors will make for yet another twelve months. If on the other hand you hear of his death, come home at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due pomp, build a barrow to his memory, and make your mother marry again. Then, having done all this, think it well over in your mind how, by fair means or foul, you may kill these suitors in your own house. You are too old to plead infancy any longer; have you not heard how people are singing Orestes’ praises for having killed his father’s murderer Aegisthus? You are a fine, smart looking fellow; show your mettle, then, and make yourself a name in story. Now, however, I must go back to my ship and to my crew, who will be impatient if I keep them waiting longer; think the matter over for yourself, and remember what I have said to you.”
Analysis
Minerva is out here giving TED Talks in Ancient Problem-Solving 101. Her advice is a mix of no-nonsense strategy and the kind of tough love that would make any Spartan mom proud. “Whether Ulysses comes back or not is above my pay grade,” she says, shrugging off the cosmic uncertainty like a divine guidance counselor. “But you? You’ve got work to do, kid.”
First up: call an assembly. She makes it sound so casual, like it’s not a massive ancient Greek town hall with a side of public shaming. “Lay your case before them, call heaven to witness, and politely tell these suitors to pack up their toga parties and go home.” Easy, right? Except she knows, and Telemachus knows, these suitors aren’t going anywhere without a fight—or at least a wine-fueled argument.
Then she gets into the mother situation, which is as delicate as a lyre string. “If Penelope really wants to marry one of these guys, she can go back to her dad’s place and let him deal with it.” This is Minerva’s polite way of saying, “Your mom’s stalling like a pro, and it’s time someone started managing this family circus.”
Next, Minerva channels her inner travel agent: “Take a ship, grab a crew, and hit the road—or rather, the sea. Go find Nestor in Pylos and Menelaus in Sparta, because if anyone knows where your dad is, it’s one of those chatty Achaean veterans.” She’s basically suggesting a divine version of Yelp reviews: “Ask around, you’ll either get leads or some vague prophecy. Either way, you’ll feel productive.”
But then comes the real kicker: “If he’s alive, great, keep enduring the suitors for another year. If he’s dead, build him a tomb, host the funeral of the century, and let your mom finally pick a suitor—preferably one who doesn’t drink your wine cellar dry.” And once that’s sorted? Telemachus is officially off the bench and into the game. “By the way, kid, you’re old enough to stop blaming baby teeth for your problems. Remember Orestes? He handled his dad’s murder business with flair—how about you take some notes?”
And the exit? Classic Minerva. “Well, gotta go, my crew’s probably wondering why I’m still here. Don’t forget anything I said, and hey, maybe think about that whole ‘killing the suitors’ thing.’” Telemachus is left standing there like, “Cool, cool, I’ll just casually start plotting some vengeance murder while you’re off doing… whatever it is gods do.”
You can practically hear her divine sandals clinking as she struts away, thinking, “That’ll light a fire under him.” Minerva knows how to drop some wisdom and leave with maximum mic-drop energy.
The Odyssey
“Sir,” answered Telemachus, “it has been very kind of you to talk to me in this way, as though I were your own son, and I will do all you tell me; I know you want to be getting on with your voyage, but stay a little longer till you have taken a bath and refreshed yourself. I will then give you a present, and you shall go on your way rejoicing; I will give you one of great beauty and value—a keepsake such as only dear friends give to one another.”
Minerva answered, “Do not try to keep me, for I would be on my way at once. As for any present you may be disposed to make me, keep it till I come again, and I will take it home with me. You shall give me a very good one, and I will give you one of no less value in return.”
With these words she flew away like a bird into the air, but she had given Telemachus courage, and had made him think more than ever about his father. He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that the stranger had been a god, so he went straight to where the suitors were sitting.
Analysis
Telemachus is really leaning into his host with the most energy here. “Thanks for the pep talk, random stranger who may or may not be my dad’s old drinking buddy. Let me repay you with a bath, a snack, and a high-end parting gift, because that’s what classy folks do.” You can tell he’s desperate for a normal interaction in this house of freeloading chaos goblins.
Minerva, though, isn’t having it. “A bath? A present? Nah, kid, I’m good. Keep your fancy keepsake; I’ll grab it next time. Spoiler alert: I’m a literal goddess, so unless you’re handing out lightning bolts or ambrosia, it’s not topping what I’ve got at home.” She’s got things to do, mortals to inspire, and she doesn’t have time to lounge around with a loofah.
And then—bam—she pulls the ultimate exit move, flying off into the sky like a bird. Telemachus is left standing there, probably blinking at the spot where she disappeared, thinking, “Well, that’s not normal.” But instead of freaking out like any sane person might, he gets this sudden burst of courage. It’s like a divine Red Bull hit him mid-conversation, and now he’s juiced up and ready to confront the suitors.
The best part? Telemachus’s lightbulb moment: “Wait a second… That wasn’t a regular dude. That was a god.” And instead of having a full-blown existential crisis about being casually coached by a divine being, he immediately marches over to the suitors like he’s about to deliver the State of the Union.
Minerva really knows how to make an impression. Not only does she drop some life-changing advice, but she also executes the kind of dramatic exit that makes you think, “Did I just get a pep talk from someone who could smite me with a spear?” Telemachus may still have a house full of unruly suitors, but at least now he’s got a little swagger in his step and a plan in his pocket. Well played, Minerva. Well played.
The Odyssey
Phemius was still singing, and his hearers sat rapt in silence as he told the sad tale of the return from Troy, and the ills Minerva had laid upon the Achaeans. Penelope, daughter of Icarius, heard his song from her room upstairs, and came down by the great staircase, not alone, but attended by two of her handmaids. When she reached the suitors she stood by one of the bearing posts that supported the roof of the cloisters with a staid maiden on either side of her. She held a veil, moreover, before her face, and was weeping bitterly.
“Phemius,” she cried, “you know many another feat of gods and heroes, such as poets love to celebrate. Sing the suitors some one of these, and let them drink their wine in silence, but cease this sad tale, for it breaks my sorrowful heart, and reminds me of my lost husband whom I mourn ever without ceasing, and whose name was great over all Hellas and middle Argos.”
“Mother,” answered Telemachus, “let the bard sing what he has a mind to; bards do not make the ills they sing of; it is Jove, not they, who makes them, and who sends weal or woe upon mankind according to his own good pleasure. This fellow means no harm by singing the ill-fated return of the Danaans, for people always applaud the latest songs most warmly. Make up your mind to it and bear it; Ulysses is not the only man who never came back from Troy, but many another went down as well as he. Go, then, within the house and busy yourself with your daily duties, your loom, your distaff, and the ordering of your servants; for speech is man’s matter, and mine above all others—for it is I who am master here.”
Analysis
Oh, Phemius, still strumming his lyre and delivering the kind of tearjerker that leaves his audience staring into their wine like it’s the bottom of a well. The man knows his crowd—except for Penelope, who’s up in her room like, “Great, another hit single about how terrible my life is.” When she can’t take it anymore, she makes a dramatic entrance down the grand staircase, flanked by handmaids and dripping in tragic widow chic. The veil, the tears—she’s pulling out all the stops, a walking symbol of grief and grace.
Then she hits Phemius with the ancient Greek version of a Spotify request: “Can you not with the heartbreak ballads tonight? Maybe something lighter, like heroic feats or, I don’t know, literally anything that doesn’t remind me of my husband’s endless ghosting adventure?”
Enter Telemachus, who clearly woke up with some newfound audacity. He jumps in like, “Mom, let the bard do his thing. He’s just the messenger. If you want to be mad, take it up with Zeus, who’s out there spinning tragedy like it’s his personal pottery class.” And while that’s a solid point, he doesn’t stop there. Oh no. Telemachus decides to go full mansplainer: “You know, Ulysses isn’t the only guy who didn’t make it back from Troy, so maybe… chill? Also, stick to your loom and the servants, because speeches are my business now.”
You can almost hear the collective gasp from the suitors, who are sitting there thinking, “Is this kid really telling Penelope, Penelope, to zip it?” Meanwhile, Penelope’s probably frozen in place, clutching her veil and wondering when her sweet, broody son turned into a snarky patriarch-in-training.
It’s a bold move from Telemachus, though—one part “finding his voice” and one part “really bad timing.” Sure, he’s trying to assert himself as the man of the house, but telling your grieving mom to go busy herself with weaving? Yikes. Minerva may have given him courage, but maybe she could’ve thrown in a quick lesson on reading the room.
Still, you can’t entirely fault the kid. He’s got a house full of suitors eating him out of house and home, a missing dad, and now his mom publicly sobbing during dinner entertainment. This is Ancient Greek drama at its peak, and Telemachus is fumbling his way through it like a teenager who’s trying to act grown-up but still has a lot to learn.
The Odyssey
She went wondering back into the house, and laid her son’s saying in her heart. Then, going upstairs with her handmaids into her room, she mourned her dear husband till Minerva shed sweet sleep over her eyes. But the suitors were clamorous throughout the covered cloisters, and prayed each one that he might be her bed fellow.
Then Telemachus spoke, “Shameless,” he cried, “and insolent suitors, let us feast at our pleasure now, and let there be no brawling, for it is a rare thing to hear a man with such a divine voice as Phemius has; but in the morning meet me in full assembly that I may give you formal notice to depart, and feast at one another’s houses, turn and turn about, at your own cost. If on the other hand you choose to persist in spunging upon one man, heaven help me, but Jove shall reckon with you in full, and when you fall in my father’s house there shall be no man to avenge you.”
The suitors bit their lips as they heard him, and marvelled at the boldness of his speech. Then, Antinous, son of Eupeithes, said, “The gods seem to have given you lessons in bluster and tall talking; may Jove never grant you to be chief in Ithaca as your father was before you.”
Telemachus answered, “Antinous, do not chide with me, but, god willing, I will be chief too if I can. Is this the worst fate you can think of for me? It is no bad thing to be a chief, for it brings both riches and honour. Still, now that Ulysses is dead there are many great men in Ithaca both old and young, and some other may take the lead among them; nevertheless I will be chief in my own house, and will rule those whom Ulysses has won for me.”
Analysis
Penelope, the queen of quiet dignity, takes her son’s sass, files it away, and heads upstairs to cry it out in peace. Classic mom move: internalize the chaos, mourn silently, and wait for divine intervention—which, luckily for her, Minerva shows up with a little “sweet sleep” delivery. You know Penelope’s thinking, “Thank Zeus for naps, because I can’t deal with suitors, bards, and my son’s newfound bossiness today.”
Meanwhile, back in the cloisters, the suitors are being exactly as gross as you’d expect, sitting around praying to be Penelope’s next “bed fellow.” That phrase alone feels like it needs a good scrubbing with soap and some holy water. These guys have no shame—just a bottomless appetite for wine, oxen, and wildly inappropriate dreams.
Enter Telemachus, who has officially reached his breaking point. He stands up and drops what is essentially a mic: “Shameless, insolent freeloaders! Enjoy your meal now, because tomorrow, you’re on notice.” He basically tells them to start hosting their own potluck dinners or face the wrath of Zeus—who, frankly, is probably too busy with his own drama to notice, but it’s the thought that counts. The suitors don’t know whether to laugh or start looking for the exit.
Antinous, professional jerk and king of petty comebacks, jumps in: “Wow, Telemachus, nice speech. Did the gods teach you how to trash talk, or are you naturally this delusional? By the way, you’ll never be king.” Classic Antinous—so smug he probably thinks he invented hubris.
But Telemachus? He doesn’t flinch. “Oh, is being chief the worst thing you can imagine for me? Cool, because I do want to be chief. Riches, honor, power? Yeah, I’ll take that. But even if someone else gets the top job in Ithaca, I’ll still rule my own house. My dad left me that much, and you lot are living on borrowed time.” Boom. Telemachus has leveled up from brooding teenager to CEO of Don’t Mess With Me, Inc.
The suitors are biting their lips, probably realizing this kid has Minerva in his corner and a growing taste for vengeance. Antinous might have thrown shade, but Telemachus isn’t playing anymore. He’s laying the groundwork for what we all know is coming: suitor eviction, Ulysses-style. Better enjoy that last cup of wine, boys—it’s about to get messy.
The Odyssey
Then Eurymachus, son of Polybus, answered, “It rests with heaven to decide who shall be chief among us, but you shall be master in your own house and over your own possessions; no one while there is a man in Ithaca shall do you violence nor rob you. And now, my good fellow, I want to know about this stranger. What country does he come from? Of what family is he, and where is his estate? Has he brought you news about the return of your father, or was he on business of his own? He seemed a well to do man, but he hurried off so suddenly that he was gone in a moment before we could get to know him.”
“My father is dead and gone,” answered Telemachus, “and even if some rumour reaches me I put no more faith in it now. My mother does indeed sometimes send for a soothsayer and question him, but I give his prophecyings no heed. As for the stranger, he was Mentes, son of Anchialus, chief of the Taphians, an old friend of my father’s.” But in his heart he knew that it had been the goddess.
Analysis
Eurymachus, always the diplomat—or at least the guy who tries to sound reasonable while eating someone else’s dinner. He kicks things off with a “Don’t worry, buddy, nobody’s going to rob you while we’re around.” Sure, Eurymachus. Nobody’s robbing him; they’re just permanently “borrowing” his oxen, wine, and sanity. It’s like saying, “We won’t take your wallet, but we’ll drain your bank account while you’re not looking.”
But then he pivots, showing his real motive: “So, about this stranger. Who is he? Where’s he from? And does he have the tea on your dad, or was he here for his own mysterious reasons?” Eurymachus clearly missed his calling as an ancient Greek TMZ reporter. He’s laser-focused on Mentes, probably hoping for some juicy gossip or at least a new lead to mock Telemachus with over the next round of wine.
Telemachus, to his credit, keeps it cool. “Dad’s dead, end of story. And no, I’m not putting stock in soothsayers anymore. Mom tries, but come on, it’s all just ‘Maybe he’s alive, maybe he’s not.’ Big help.” He’s shutting down the rumor mill before it even starts, and you can tell he’s tired of every conversation somehow circling back to his missing father.
As for the mysterious guest? Telemachus sticks to the script Minerva set up: “Oh, that was Mentes, my dad’s old buddy from way back. Totally normal guy, totally not divine. Definitely just here to chat about trade routes and casually inspire me.” But deep down, Telemachus knows the truth. Minerva’s visit wasn’t just a pep talk; it was a wake-up call. He’s playing it close to the chest, though—no need to give Eurymachus and the suitor crew any ammo.
You can almost see Eurymachus squinting, trying to decide if Telemachus is bluffing. Meanwhile, Telemachus is standing there like, “Ask about my dad one more time and see what happens.” He may still be outnumbered and outmaneuvered for now, but the kid’s got a spark in his eye—and it’s starting to make the suitors squirm.
The Odyssey
The suitors then returned to their singing and dancing until the evening; but when night fell upon their pleasuring they went home to bed each in his own abode. Telemachus’s room was high up in a tower that looked on to the outer court; hither, then, he hied, brooding and full of thought. A good old woman, Euryclea, daughter of Ops, the son of Pisenor, went before him with a couple of blazing torches. Laertes had bought her with his own money when she was quite young; he gave the worth of twenty oxen for her, and shewed as much respect to her in his household as he did to his own wedded wife, but he did not take her to his bed for he feared his wife’s resentment. She it was who now lighted Telemachus to his room, and she loved him better than any of the other women in the house did, for she had nursed him when he was a baby. He opened the door of his bed room and sat down upon the bed; as he took off his shirt he gave it to the good old woman, who folded it tidily up, and hung it for him over a peg by his bed side, after which she went out, pulled the door to by a silver catch, and drew the bolt home by means of the strap. But Telemachus as he lay covered with a woollen fleece kept thinking all night through of his intended voyage and of the counsel that Minerva had given him.
Analysis
The suitors, those perpetual party animals, eventually wrap up their Ancient Greek rager, probably staggering out while humming Phemius’s sad bops like they’re leaving karaoke night at a bar. Each of them heads off to their own house, presumably to dream of more ox roasts and shameless flirting with Penelope. For all their bravado, you can tell they’re not exactly worried about Telemachus’s “big plans” just yet.
Meanwhile, Telemachus retreats to his tower room—because of course he has a tower room, as every brooding young hero should. This is where the mood shifts from suitor chaos to emo prince vibes. Enter Euryclea, the MVP of loyal old women. She’s been lighting Telemachus’s way since he was a baby and probably knows more about this family’s dysfunction than anyone else in the house.
Quick sidebar: Laertes buying Euryclea for “the worth of twenty oxen” is a strange flex, but okay. And the detail about respecting her like his wife but not taking her to bed? Peak Ancient Greek soap opera energy. “Sure, I spent a fortune on her, but I’m not touching that—my wife’s side-eye would melt Zeus’s lightning bolts.”
Euryclea still clearly adores Telemachus, though. She lights his way, folds his shirt like it’s a sacred relic, and secures his door with enough care to suggest she’s the real head of security around here. She probably still sees him as the kid she used to rock to sleep, even if he’s now making plans to set sail and overthrow a house full of freeloaders.
Telemachus, wrapped up in his woolen fleece, can’t sleep—classic pre-adventure jitters. He’s lying there, staring at the ceiling, mentally running through Minerva’s advice like a checklist. “Call the assembly, send Mom’s suitors packing, grab a ship, and hit the road. Easy, right? Definitely not terrifying. Thanks for the pep talk, divine stranger.”
This is Telemachus’s big turning point. The brooding prince is starting to look more like the budding hero, but for now, he’s just a guy in a tower, thinking too hard and probably wishing he had a Spotify playlist to drown out his nerves.
