The Odyssey: Book II

Suit Up

If I were to wake up one morning and discover that my every move was being narrated by a disembodied voice, like Will Ferrel in Stranger Than Fiction, then I do not think I do any better than the voice of Emma Thompson uttering these words:

When young Dawn with her rose-red fingers shone once more the true son of Odysseus sprang from bed and dressed, over his shoulder he slung his well-honed sword, fastened rawhide sandals under his smooth feet and stepped from his bedroom, handsome as a god.¹

And thus we enter book two. There are several moments in Homer’s poetry when cinematic scenes present themselves fully-formed from the text like this. Homer even seems to have fashioned these as little modular units that he calls into service to transition scenes. You will forgive the vulgar comparison, but they feel a lot like mini-montages. Hopefully the comparison does not violate your mind with pictures of Telemachus donning a sweatsuit, guzzling down raw eggs, and then jogging his way through the early morning streets of Philadelphia while Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger pumps through the air.

Okay, okay, that was uncalled for. This is not a Rocky montage scene. I shot wide of the mark. No, no, it is, in fact, a Marvel Suit-Up scene. And if Telemachus will be played by Tom Holland, I already have images of some kind of Greco-spiderman with sword and spear in hand, while two hunting hounds flank his entry into a rocky amphitheater or some high seat to address the swollen inhabitants of Ithaca. The men part before him like the Red Sea before Moses when he confidently strides forward with the burden of glorious purpose.

Avengers, Assemble

Telemachus seems to have called to order the first assembly since Odysseus left for Troy. Ithaca has been locked in perpetual holiday like some kind of Bronze Age Groundhog Day. The young prince is given fair words unprompted by an elder of the island, Aegyptius (ee-JIP-shus), which casts a favorable light on Telemachus taking charge. Here Homer uses Aegyptius to bring up the cyclops again, even though we have yet to learn the story. Perhaps this technique functions to plow the field of our minds and sow the seeds of fear so that when we finally meet the cyclops, he will be recognized and we will await his grisly deeds with tense anticipation. Or perhaps this kind of meta exposition serves those who have heard the tale before, offering them an in-group perspective. It could even be a kind of ancient viral marketing—speak of your tale as though everyone already has heard of it, and your listener will experience classical FOMO, the ancient human Fear Of Missing Out.

A curious detail to note: the herald delegates the speaking role by granting the speaker a staff. He acts like an emcee handing out a microphone during a PTA meeting. This staff would apparently be called the σκῆπτρον (skêptron), from which we derive the word scepter. I believe I have found the line in the Greek text here at 2.37-38:

σκῆπτρον δέ οἱ ἔμβαλε χειρὶ κῆρυξ Πεισήνωρ πεπνυμένα μήδεα εἰδώς.²

While on the subject of etymologies, such an assembly, both the gathering of citizens and any edifice constructed for such a gathering, would be known as the ekklesia (ek-klee-SEE-ah). Assemblies like this are a core part of ancient civilizations. We see this in the title of one book of wisdom literature of the Hebrew Bible, קֹהֶלֶת (Kohelet, Koheleth, Qoheleth or Qohelet). We would recognize this by the name found in the Greek Septuagint, passed through Latin transliteration, and finally rendered as Ecclesiastes. This word and its usage form the basis for our modern sense of what Christian “church” is (but not the etymology of “church” per se). So I suppose this means that if any crusty Christian fundamentalists call you out for reading such a paragon of pagan literature, you tell ’em Telemachus holds church right here in book two (and also make them read St. Basil the Great’s Address To Young Men On The Right Use Of Greek Literature).

The Prince Is On A Mission From God

One of the notable features of an epic cycle is the grand vertical scale of the narrative vis-à-vis the powers of the heavens, on the earth, and in the underworld. Thus far we have recognized Odysseus and Telemachus as joint protagonists, but if we gaze upon high Olympus we must count Athena as our protagonist and Poseidon as our antagonist. Recall back to book one that bright-eyed Athena appeared to the prince in the form of Mentes and urged him set sail for news of his father. She counseled that if he discovered news of his father’s death, he should see to it his mother be wed forthwith to the best suitor, but if he were to catch any whisper that Odysseus yet lives, he should hold out hope another year and delay the suitors.

If this were medieval literature like Thomas Mallory’s, Le Morte d’Arthur, we could count on our protagonist to fail to follow this divine counsel, but Telemachus proves himself obedient to the letter. His adherence to Athena’s advice plays out quite naturally through the town hall meeting, such that you might find it hard to tell if it was fated from Athena, or he brought it to pass himself and simply had the right ideas planted.

First things are first on the meeting agenda, and so Telemachus makes a reprise of his righteous indignation, but the teen angst might be fading into the background. He calls upon the gods in a humble tone, recognizing himself as “a boy inept at battle” (2.66), though this could be a stroke of strategy to incubate the perception of his impotence in the minds of his enemies. In this way the great princes of Achaea might omit him from their calculations and leave him free to accomplish his task.

In the coup de grâce of his passionate rhetoric:

down on the ground he dashed the speaker’s scepter— bursting into tears.³

The world’s first mic drop. All of the assembly are struck silent with pity for him, all save Antinous, who wastes no time laying all the blame on Penelope, the very woman he is courting. He we are told a tale of her own cunning, how she would bide her time weaving a shroud for her father-in-law, but with equal skill and industry unweaving her work night after night. This ruse kept the suitors at bay for three whole years, but it was undone by the women of her house (the infidelity of whom will be a small theme of its own).

Antinous is a rogue, through and through. He seems to consider himself sufficiently wronged that a just recompense is the hospitality of the house of Odysseus in the form of bread, meat, and wine.

The Omen

As Telemachus’ finishes his rebuttal to Antinous, he threatens to invoke the gods to defend his claim, and his words are sealed with an omen of Zeus. Two eagles descend from high in the mountains in tight formation and slash at the people like Maverick and Goose performing a flyby.

While the elders read the omens clearly, youth is ever invincible and dismissive. Eurymachus (yoo-RI-ma-kus) belittles the sign as no more than flocks of birds. And what is more, he threatens the poor old man with hard fines if he continues to ill-fortune. We get a sense of their depravity and outright brigandry here. The teen gangs grown up in vacuum of the Trojan war have turned into the suitor mafia. Note these words, as bold as brass:

Who’s there to fear? I ask you. Surely not Telemachus, with all his tiresome threats. […] The prince’s wealth will be devoured as always, mercilessly—no reparations, ever…not while the queen drags out our hopes to wed her[.]⁴

The Ultimatum

Telemachus makes known his plan to the assembly. He is to set sail for news of his father in Sparta and Pylos. If his quest fails, he will hold a funeral for his father and see his mother wed. But if he learns his father is alive still, he will hold out another year. All things working out to the letter of Athena’s will it would seem.

Mentor chimes in at the end of the assembly to shake his fist at the youth for their disrespect of Odysseus. This is the real Mentor, though shortly we will see Athena take his form in order to accompany Telemachus in his journey.

The Prayer

Starting in 2.293, we get an ancient example of prayer which I find fascinating. What does prayer look like to an ancient Achaean? The first thing we see is invocation, or calling out to the god, though not strictly by name. He refers to Athena as: the one who came yesterday to his house as a god. The second thing we see might also be considered the invocation of a promise. It seems to take the form of: you told me to do X, but now my state is worse than before. Implicit in all this is some outcome promised or hoped for which is quickly fading from possibility in the mind of the supplicant. The answer to his prayer is immediate, though to him it must look like nothing more than an interruption.

Mentor, The Mentor

If the name, Mentor, and the wise counsel he offers to the youth Telemachus seem beyond coincidence, they are. This relationship is where mentorship was born, at least etymologically. And wise counsel is indeed given and followed faithfully. The first thing Telemachus does is make his way to the storehouse to requisition rations for him and a whole crew to set sail under the cover of darkness.

The rations are simple: bread and wine. I would wonder if they are meant symbolically as stand-ins for all manner of food and drink, except that they are repeatedly spoken of with detail. I particularly love the phrase « barley-meal—the marrow of men’s bones ». Muse on that phrase for a minute to think of how completely essential grains were to life. Now think of Wonder Bread. Now back to barley-meal, the marrow of men’s bones. One of these things is not like the other.

While the prince secures the rations, the goddess in form of Mentor enlists a crew ready to set sail for news of Odysseus. A sense of urgency and secrecy fills the pages here. Their departure assisted by a divine slumber cast over the suitors (do you think she added 2x hangover damage the next day?), a small victory feels gained at the words: All lay hands to tackle!⁵

And so we leave our crew, bowls brimming with wine as they speed over the wine-dark sea to fairer fortune.