Book VIII · Ῥαψωδία θ

So the second rosy-fingered Dawn pulled up, doing her early-bird thing,

the sacred energy of Alcinous peeled itself off the bed and rose,

and that godborn city-wrecker Odysseus, my guy got up too.

And the sacred energy of Alcinous took point for the whole crew,

guiding them to the Phaeacian meeting ground, the one posted up by their ships.

packed in close: meanwhile Pallas Athena was out working the town,

fully cosplaying the herald of switched-on Alcinous,

out here cooking up the comeback for big-hearted Odysseus,

and she'd slide up to each man and drop this in his ear:

roll through to the assembly, so you can get the tea on this stranger,

the one who just rocked up to switched-on Alcinous's place,

fresh off getting tossed round the sea, built like the deathless gods."

Saying that, she lit a fire under the spirit and the chest of every one,

mortals crowding in: and loads of them straight up gawked when they clocked

the switched-on son of Laertes. Because Athena had looksmaxxed

a god-tier glow-up down over his head and his shoulders,

and made him look taller and beefier to the eye, an instant upgrade,

properly daunting and respected, and so he'd ace the contests,

the whole stack of them the Phaeacians would run Odysseus through.

But once they'd all gathered up and were assembled together as one,

Alcinous took the floor among them and started running his mouth:

let me say what the spirit in my chest is hyping me to say.

This stranger here, no clue who he is, drifted up to my crib

on his travels, whether from the dawn side or the sunset side of folks:

he's pressing for an escort and begging us to make it locked-in solid.

because no cap, nobody else who's ever pulled up to my place

sits round here sobbing for ages, waiting on a ride back home.

Come on, let's haul a black ship down to the gleaming sea,

a maiden voyage, and let two and fifty of the young lads

Lash your oars down snug to the pins, every last one of you,

then hop out: and after that get a quick feast cooking,

swing by my place: I'll lay it on properly for the whole lot of you.

That's the brief for the young lads: as for the rest of you,

so we can show the stranger a proper good time inside the halls:

nobody bail on this. And go call up the divine bard,

Demodocus: because the god blessed that man above everyone,

with the gift of song, to delight us however his spirit moves him to sing."

while a herald dipped off to go fetch the divine bard.

And the handpicked young lads, two and fifty of them locked in,

headed down, exactly like he ordered, to the shore of the restless sea.

And once they'd made it down to the ship and the water,

fitted the mast up and ran the sails onto the black hull,

slotted the oars into the leather thong-loops, snapping them in,

all in proper order: and hauled the white sails out tight.

They moored her high up in the swell: and after all that

The porches and the courtyards and the halls filled right up with men

crowding in: there were loads of them, young heads and old heads alike.

For them Alcinous put twelve sheep to the knife, no holding back,

eight white-tusked pigs, and two shamble-footed cattle:

Then the herald came up close, walking in the trusty bard,

the one the Muse loved hard, and she'd handed him good and bad both:

she robbed him of his eyes but gave him the sweetest song there is.

For him Pontonous set down a silver-studded throne,

and the herald hooked the clear-voiced lyre off a peg,

right above his head, and showed him by hand how to grab it,

and laid a basket and a beautiful table beside him,

plus a cup of wine, to sip whenever his spirit told him to.

But once they'd absolutely demolished the food and drink and the craving backed off,

the Muse moved the bard to sing the glories of men,

off a track whose fame at that point was hitting the wide sky,

the beef between Odysseus and Achilles, son of Peleus,

with savage words, and Agamemnon, the lord of men,

was lowkey thrilled in his head that the best of the Achaeans were beefing.

Because that's exactly how Phoebus Apollo had called it for him,

in holy Pytho, the day he crossed the stone threshold

came rolling in on the Trojans and the Greeks through the plans of mighty Zeus.

That's what the famous bard was spinning: meanwhile Odysseus

took his big purple cloak in his sturdy hands and gripped it,

dragged it down over his head, hiding his handsome face,

And honestly, every time the divine bard paused the singing,

he'd wipe the tears, peel the cloak back off his head,

and grab a two-handled cup and pour one out for the gods:

but the second the bard cranked it up again and the best of the Phaeacians

Odysseus would tug the cloak back over his head and start sobbing all over.

There he stayed, leaking tears, fully unclocked by everybody else,

but Alcinous was the one and only who peeped it and clocked it,

sitting right beside him, and he caught the heavy groaning.

"Listen up, Phaeacian leaders and big names, all of you:

by now we've fully maxed out our spirit on the shared feast

and the lyre, which is the perfect plus-one to a lush feast:

so now let's head out and get into the contests, the lot of them,

once he's made it back home, how far we top everybody else

at boxing and wrestling and jumping and on our feet."

Saying this he led the way, and they all fell in behind.

The herald hooked the clear-voiced lyre back onto its peg,

guiding him along the exact same route the others were taking,

the best of the Phaeacians, who were itching to peep the games.

They rolled out to the assembly ground, a huge crowd tagging along,

thousands of them: and loads of fine young lads stood up.

plus Nauteus and Prymneus and Anchialus and Eretmeus,

plus Ponteus and Proreus, Thoon and Anabesineos,

and Amphialus too, son of Polyneus, son of Tecton:

up got Euryalus and all, basically the spitting image of murderous Ares,

every Phaeacian, second only to flawless Laodamas.

And the three sons of flawless Alcinous stood up too,

Laodamas and Halius and godlike Clytoneus.

First off they tested themselves on their feet, racing it out:

took off together fast as anything, kicking up dust across the plain.

At running, the standout best by miles was flawless Clytoneus:

about the stretch a mule team turns over in one fresh furrow,

that's how far he shot clear of the pack to reach them, while the rest got left in the dust.

and there it was Euryalus who edged out all the best of them.

At the jump it was Amphialus who came out way ahead of the lot:

at the discus it was Elatreus, the best by an absolute country mile,

and at boxing it was Laodamas, the good son of Alcinous.

Laodamas, the son of Alcinous, spoke up among them:

"Come on, mates, let's ask the stranger if he knows

any contest, if he's learned one: his build's honestly no joke,

the thighs and the calves and both his hands up top,

on his prime either, he's just been wrecked by loads of hard knocks.

Because the way I see it, there's literally nothing worse than the sea

for mangling a man, however built he might be."

Then Euryalus came back at him and said:

Go up and challenge him yourself and put the word to him."

And once the good son of Alcinous heard that,

he went and planted himself dead centre and hit Odysseus with this:

"Come on then, you and all, sir stranger, give the contests a go,

Because there's no bigger glory for a man, while he's still breathing,

than the stuff he pulls off with his feet and his own two hands.

So come on, have a go, and shake the worries off your spirit:

your journey won't be on hold much longer now, no, by now

Then big-brain Odysseus came back at him with this:

"Laodamas, why are you all egging me on, taking the mick?

The worries on my mind hit way harder than any contests,

seeing as I've been through loads and grinded through so much already,

begging the king and the whole population to ship me home."

Then Euryalus fired back at him and dissed him to his face:

"Yeah no, stranger, I'm not clocking you for a guy who knows

the contests, the kind there's loads of going round among people,

the boss of some sailors who are basically traders,

the type who keeps tabs on cargo and watches over the freight

and the greedy little profits: you don't look like an athlete, my guy."

Then big-brain Odysseus shot him a dark side-eye and came back with this:

So the gods don't go handing out the charming gifts to everybody,

not the build, not the brains, not the way with words.

Because one man might come weaker in the looks department,

but the god crowns his words with glory, and people gaze

sweet and modest with it, standing out in the crowd,

and when he walks through town they look at him like he's a god.

But another man's a dead ringer for the immortals in looks,

and yet not a scrap of grace gets wrapped around his words:

could craft them better, but upstairs the lights are fully off.

You've stirred up the spirit right here inside my chest,

talking out of pocket: I'm no rookie at the contests,

the way you're going on, nah, I reckon I mogged the best

But now I'm in the grip of hardship and pain: because I've been through plenty,

hacking my way through the wars of men and the brutal waves.

But even so, beaten up as I am, I'll give the contests a go:

your words bit deep, you've gone and pushed me right into it."

a bigger, thicker one, way more solid by no small margin

than the kind the Phaeacians were chucking among themselves.

He whipped it round and sent it flying off his sturdy hand:

the stone went whirring, and the long-oared Phaeacians ducked to the ground,

under the rush of the stone: and that throw absolutely mogged the whole field, clean past every marker,

flying light off his hand: and Athena planted the marks,

disguised as a man, and she found her voice and called it out:

"Even a blind man, stranger, could pick out your mark,

nah, it's way out front. As for this contest, you can chill:

not one of the Phaeacians is touching that or mogging it back."

So she said, and Odysseus, that goat who's been through it, was buzzing,

chuffed he'd clocked a friendly soul out there in the games.

"Now go match that, young lads: and pretty soon I reckon I'll send

another one just as far, or even further than that.

And anyone else whose heart and spirit is hyping them to,

pull up and have a go, since you've properly ticked me off,

any of the Phaeacians, except Laodamas himself.

Because this one's my host: who'd throw down on a guy treating him right?

That man's an absolute clown and a total nobody

who'd start a contest beef with his own host,

But of the rest I'm turning nobody down and brushing nobody off,

nah, I want to clock them and test myself face to face.

Because I'm not bad at all at any contest there is among men:

I know my way round a polished bow, properly,

of enemy fighters, even with loads of my own mates

standing close and loosing at the targets too.

Only Philoctetes ever used to top me with the bow

in the land of the Trojans, whenever we Achaeans were shooting:

of all the mortals there are walking this earth eating bread.

With the men of old, though, I'm not picking any fights,

not with Heracles, not with Eurytus of Oechalia,

the ones who used to throw down against the immortals over archery.

old age in his halls: because Apollo got proper heated

and finished him, since he kept calling him out to a shoot-out.

And with a spear I throw further than the next man even shoots an arrow.

On foot, the one thing I'm scared of is somebody beating me,

in the heaps of waves, since there wasn't steady upkeep

aboard the ship: so my limbs are loosened right up on me."

So he said, and the whole lot of them went dead silent.

Alcinous was the one and only who came back at him with this:

and you just want to flex the excellence that's riding with you,

heated because that man stood next to you in the games

and dissed you, the way no mortal would knock your excellence,

nobody who knew how to talk straight in his own head:

some other hero too, whenever you're back in your own halls

feasting beside your wife and your kids,

keeping our excellence in mind, the kind of feats Zeus

keeps setting on us, all the way down from our fathers' time.

nah, we run quick on our feet and we're the best with ships,

and we're always about the feast and the lyre and the dancing

and fresh changes of clothes and warm baths and beds.

But come on, all you Phaeacian dancers, the best of you,

once he's back home, how far we top everybody else

at sailing and on foot and at dancing and at song.

And somebody go quick and fetch Demodocus the clear-voiced lyre,

the one that's lying round somewhere in our house."

to go fetch the polished lyre from the king's house.

And the nine appointed referees all stood up,

the public stewards, who ran each part of the games clean,

and they smoothed the dancing floor and widened the lovely ring.

for Demodocus: and he then stepped into the middle: and around him stood

young lads in their first prime, experts at the dancing,

and they struck the divine dancing floor with their feet. Meanwhile Odysseus

gazed at the flashing of their feet and marvelled deep in his spirit.

about the love of Ares and fair-crowned Aphrodite,

how the two of them first hooked up in the house of Hephaestus

on the down-low: and he showered her with gifts, and shamed the bed and the marriage

of lord Hephaestus. And straight away a messenger pulled up to him,

And once Hephaestus copped that heart-stinging report,

he stalked off to his forge, plotting bad vibes in his head:

he set a huge anvil on the block and started hammering out chains,

unbreakable, impossible to undo, so they'd stay locked right there.

he stalked off to the bedroom, where his own dear bed was laid:

and he poured the bonds in a circle all round the bedposts,

loads of them dangling down off the rafters up top too,

fine as spiderwebs: nobody could even spot them,

But once he'd poured the whole trap all over the bed,

he made out he was off to Lemnos, that well-built town,

the dearest of every land to him by a country mile.

And gold-reined Ares was not keeping any blind watch,

he made his way to the house of glorious Hephaestus,

itching for the love of fair-crowned Cytherea.

And she, just back from her father, the mighty son of Kronos,

had sat herself down: and Ares went on inside the house,

"Come here, gorgeous, to bed, let's lie down and enjoy ourselves:

because Hephaestus isn't around the place anymore, nah, by now

he's dipped off to Lemnos to kick it with the Sintians and their gnarly accents."

That's what he ran his mouth with, and to her the whole lying-down plan honestly sounded like a vibe.

came pouring down over them, that slick big-brain rig Hephaestus had cooked up,

and there was zero chance of twitching a single limb, let alone lifting one.

And right then they clocked it, deadass: yeah, no slipping out of this one.

And the famous one with the busted legs came rolling up close on them,

because Helios was running surveillance for him and slid him the tip.

So he stormed up to his house, his whole chest absolutely wrecked inside him,

and posted up in the doorway, raw savage fury grabbing him by the throat,

and he let out this bloodcurdling yell so every single god could clock it:

pull up and feast your eyes, because this is not a laughing matter and you cannot unsee it:

the way Aphrodite, Zeus's own daughter, keeps disrespecting me on the regular,

because I'm lame, while she's out here glazing destructive Ares,

seeing as he's the pretty one with two working legs, and me, I

my two parents, the pair of them, who genuinely should never have had me.

But come clock where these two are sleeping all loved up,

crashed out in my own bed, and watching it is straight up killing me.

Real talk, I doubt they'll be wanting to lie like that one second longer,

the snooze, but my trap and my chains are gonna keep them right there

until her father coughs up every last bride-gift back to me,

the whole bag, all of it, that I handed over for the dog-faced girl,

since yeah, his daughter's gorgeous, but she's got zero self-control."

Poseidon, who holds the earth, pulled up, and Hermes pulled up,

the helpful one, and lord Apollo who works from way off, he pulled up too.

But the lady goddesses each stayed posted up at home, too mortified to show their face.

So the gods, those givers of good things, posted up in the doorway,

the second they peeped the big-brain handiwork of Hephaestus.

And one of them would lean over to whoever was next to him and go:

"Crime doesn't pay, no cap: even the slow guy runs down the fast one,

the way slow Hephaestus just now fully nabbed Ares,

with sheer craft, lame as he is. So Ares owes the adultery fine, periodt."

That's the kind of chatter they were trading back and forth,

and Apollo, lord, the son of Zeus, leaned over and put it to Hermes:

"Hermes, son of Zeus, the runner, you giver of good things,

crashed in bed right next to golden Aphrodite?"

And then the runner, the slayer of Argus, came firing back with this:

"Bro, if only, lord Apollo, you who shoot from a distance.

Wrap three times the endless chains round me, lock me down tight,

and I'd still be sleeping right beside golden Aphrodite, no contest, no notes."

That's what he said, and the laughter rippled clean through the deathless gods.

But Poseidon, he wasn't laughing, nah, he just kept on begging

Hephaestus the famous craftsman to cut Ares loose,

"Let him go, and on me, I personally vouch for it, just like you're asking,

he'll pay the full fair amount in front of all the deathless gods."

And then the famous one with the busted legs came back at him:

"Poseidon, you who hold the earth, don't go putting that on me.

How am I supposed to keep you bound up among the deathless gods,

if Ares straight up dips on the debt and slips the chains too?"

And then Poseidon, the one who literally shakes the ground, said back:

"Hephaestus, look, even if Ares ducks the debt and

And then the famous one with the busted legs answered him:

"There's no way, and it wouldn't even be right, to say no to your word."

Saying this, mighty Hephaestus let the chains drop off the pair of them.

And once those two were sprung from that bind, strong as it was,

and she, smile-loving Aphrodite, made a beeline for Cyprus,

for Paphos, where she's got her sacred grove and an altar all smoking.

There the Graces ran her a bath and rubbed her down with oil,

the deathless kind that's forever glistening on the gods who never die,

That's the song the famous bard was spinning, and meanwhile Odysseus

was eating it up deep in his chest, just listening, and so were the rest,

the long-oared Phaeacians, men whose whole brand is ships.

Then Alcinous told Halius and Laodamas to get up and dance,

So once they'd scooped up the gorgeous ball into their hands,

the purple one that big-brain Polybus had crafted for them,

one of them would arch all the way back and launch it at the shadowy clouds,

and the other one, springing sky-high off the ground,

And once they'd run that whole straight-up tossing routine to the end,

the pair of them locked into dancing on the everything-feeding earth,

swapping spots so fast it straight up blurred, and the other young lads kept the beat,

posted round the ring, and a big rhythmic clatter went rolling up off them.

"Lord Alcinous, the standout among all your people,

you talked these boys up as the best dancers there are,

and yeah, it all checks out, and watching it I'm honestly in pure awe."

That's what he said, and the sacred energy of Alcinous was buzzing off it,

"Listen up, leaders and rulers of the Phaeacians, all of you:

this stranger reads as properly switched-on to me, no question about it.

So come on, let's hook him up with a guest-gift, the way it's only right.

Because twelve standout kings run this land as the

each of you, go bring this man a freshly washed cloak and a tunic

plus a talent of solid gold, the genuinely high-value stuff.

Let's get it all rounded up quick, in one pile, so the stranger

can hold it in his own two hands and roll to dinner buzzing inside.

words and a gift both, since what he came out with earlier was out of pocket."

That's what he said, and every one of them was like "bet" and gave the word,

and each one sent his own herald off to go fetch the gifts.

And then Euryalus came firing back with this:

say less, I'll make it right with the stranger, just like you're asking.

I'll give him this sword, solid bronze through and through, with a handle

of silver on it, and the sheath wrapped all the way round

in freshly cut ivory: it'll be worth a serious bag to him."

and he found his voice and hit him with these winged words:

"All the best to you, stranger, father, and if any rough word

slipped out, may the storm-winds snatch it up and yeet it clean off.

And may the gods grant you the sight of your wife and a safe trip

And then Odysseus, big-brain as ever, came back at him:

"All the best to you too, friend, and may the gods load you all the way up,

and may you never once feel the lack of this sword down the line,

the one you just handed me after squaring it all up with words."

And the sun dipped low, and there the glorious gifts were, sitting ready for him.

And the noble heralds hauled them off to Alcinous's place,

and the sons of flawless Alcinous took the gorgeous gifts in hand

and set them down beside their respectable mother.

and once they'd come inside, they dropped down on the high thrones.

And right then the sacred energy of Alcinous turned to Arete and said:

"Bring us a chest, woman, a standout one, whatever's the best one we've got,

and lay a freshly washed cloak inside it yourself, plus a tunic.

so once he's washed up and clocked everything laid out neat,

all the gifts the flawless Phaeacians hauled him here,

he can vibe with the feast and the hymn the bard's putting down.

And I'm personally gonna gift him this gorgeous cup of mine,

he can pour one out in his hall to Zeus and the rest of the gods."

That's what he said, and Arete called out to her handmaids

to stand a big tripod over the fire as quick as they possibly could.

So they stood the bath tripod up over the blazing flame,

The fire wrapped right round the belly of the tripod, and the water heated up,

and meanwhile Arete was hauling out the gorgeous chest

for the stranger from her storeroom, packing the lovely gifts inside,

the clothing and the gold the Phaeacians had loaded him up with,

and she found her voice and hit him with these winged words:

"Now eyes on the lid yourself, and quick, throw a knot on it,

so nobody robs you blind on the road, the second you're back out there

sleeping the sweet sleep aboard your dark ship."

right away he fitted the lid and quick, threw a knot on it,

an intricate one, the kind lady Circe had once drilled into his head.

And then the housekeeper was telling him to go wash up

in the bath, and stepping into the tub he was honestly glad in his chest

much, not since he ditched the home of fair-haired Calypso:

back then the care was steady on him, like he was a literal god.

So once the maids had washed him down and rubbed him with oil,

and draped a gorgeous cloak round him and a tunic too,

and Nausicaa, with beauty straight from the gods all over her,

posted up by the post of the sturdily built roof,

and stared at Odysseus, eyes locked dead on him in plain awe,

and she found her voice and hit him with these winged words:

you'll keep me in mind, since you owe your life to me first, just saying."

And then Odysseus, big-brain as ever, came back at her:

"Nausicaa, daughter of big-hearted Alcinous,

may Zeus just make it so right now, the loud-thundering husband of Hera,

then even there I'd be praying to you like you're a literal god,

always, every single one of my days, since you saved my life, girl."

That's what he said, and he sat down on the throne right beside King Alcinous.

And by now they were dishing out the portions and mixing the wine.

Demodocus, honoured by the whole people, and he sat him down

smack in the middle of the diners, propped against a tall pillar.

And right then Odysseus, big-brain as ever, called out to the herald,

after slicing off a cut from the chine, with most of it still left riding on,

"Herald, here, take this meat over to him so he can eat,

to Demodocus, and let me show the man some love, gutted as I am,

because bards get their cut of honour and respect

from every single mortal walking this earth, seeing as

That's what he said, and the herald carried it over and set it

into the hands of the hero Demodocus, who took it, glad in his chest.

So they all sent it on the spread laid out ready in front of them.

But once they'd demolished the food and drink and the craving backed off,

"Demodocus, I rate you above every other mortal there is, no contest:

either the Muse, Zeus's child, taught you, or it was Apollo himself,

because the way you sing the fate of the Achaeans is so dead-on,

all they did and went through and grinded out, the Achaeans,

But come on, switch it up and give us the saga of the horse,

the wooden one Epeius built with Athena backing his play,

the whole trap Odysseus, that legend, hauled up to the citadel

loaded with the men who ended up sacking Ilium top to bottom.

then straight away I'll be telling every single person out there

that some god, freely and fully, gifted you the divine song."

That's what he said, and the bard, moved by the god, launched in and lit the song up,

picking it up from the part where the Argives, piling onto

while the rest of them, ringed around famous Odysseus,

were already sitting tucked away inside the horse in the Trojans' assembly,

because the Trojans themselves had hauled it up to the citadel.

So there it stood, and they sat around it yapping in endless circles,

either to slice the hollow timber open with pitiless bronze,

or to drag it up to the heights and chuck it off the cliffs,

or to let it stand as a massive offering to charm the gods,

which is exactly the way the whole thing was destined to land,

around the great wooden horse, where all the best of the

Argives sat parked, bringing death and doom straight to the Trojans.

And he sang how the sons of the Achaeans gutted the city,

pouring out of the horse, ditching the hollow ambush spot.

but Odysseus making a straight beeline for the house of Deiphobus,

like the war-god himself, rolling in alongside godlike Menelaus.

And right there, he said, taking on the most savage fight there was,

he came out on top, all thanks to big-hearted Athena.

was straight up melting, tears soaking the cheeks under his eyelids.

Like a woman crying, flung down over the body of her own husband,

the one who'd dropped in front of his own city and his own people,

keeping the pitiless day off the town and off his children,

flings herself over him wailing high, but the men behind her,

jabbing at her back and her shoulders with their spears,

haul her off into slavery, into a life of grinding work and misery,

and her cheeks waste away with the most pitiful grief of all,

And there, while he was leaking tears, he slipped past everybody else,

but Alcinous, only him, clocked it and properly noticed,

parked right next to him, and heard him heaving heavy sighs.

And quick, he turned and addressed the oar-loving Phaeacians:

let Demodocus go ahead and rest the clear-toned lyre for now,

because this song he's putting down isn't landing as a vibe for everyone here.

Ever since we started feasting and the divine bard kicked off,

this whole time the stranger hasn't let up from his miserable wailing,

So come on, let the bard pause it, so we can all enjoy it the same,

hosts and guest alike, since honestly this way is so much nicer,

because every bit of this got set up for the sake of our honoured guest,

the escort and the loving gifts, the ones we're handing over out of love.

to any man who's got even a little scrap of sense in his head.

So you too, now, don't go hiding behind your clever little dodges

on whatever I ask you, since it's so much nicer if you just spit it out.

Tell me the name your mother and father called you back there,

Because there's literally not one single person who goes totally nameless,

not the lowlife and not the noble one, the second they're born,

no, parents pin a name on everyone the moment they have a kid.

And tell me your land, your people, your city,

Because the Phaeacians don't run steersmen, none whatsoever,

and there aren't any rudders either, the kind other ships carry,

no, the ships themselves know the thoughts and the minds of men,

and they know the cities and the rich fields too

wrapped up in mist and cloud, and there's never once any fear

that they'll catch some harm or get wrecked along the way.

But here's a thing I once heard my own father drop,

Nausithous, who used to claim Poseidon held a grudge against us,

he said one day a gorgeous ship of Phaeacian men

coming back from an escort run across the misty sea

would get smashed, and a huge mountain would close down over our city.

That's what the old man said, and the god may pull it off,

But come on, tell me this and lay it out for me straight:

where you got knocked off course to, and which lands of men

you reached, the people themselves and the well-settled cities,

both the ones who are harsh and savage and never play fair,

And tell me why you cry and grieve deep down in your chest

when you hear the fate of the Argive Danaans and Ilium.

The gods themselves engineered the whole thing, spun out the ruin

for those men, so it'd be a song for the people yet to come.

some noble one, a son-in-law or a father-in-law? Those are the ones

who count for the most after your own blood and your own kin.

Or maybe some friend, a man who knew exactly how to please you,

a noble one? Because honestly a friend's no less than a brother,