The Return of Odysseus

After twenty long years—ten fighting in the Trojan War and ten more struggling to return home across the wine-dark sea—the great hero Odysseus finally stood once again on the shores of his beloved island kingdom of Ithaca. But the man who had left as a young king in the prime of his life was now weathered by two decades of war and wandering, his beard streaked with gray and his body marked by countless battles and adventures.

As Odysseus gazed across the familiar landscape of his homeland, his heart was filled with both joy and deep concern. Twenty years was a long time—long enough for enemies to assume he was dead, long enough for his infant son to grow to manhood, long enough for his faithful wife Penelope to be pressured into remarrying. What would he find in the palace he had left so long ago?

Athena, the grey-eyed goddess who had been his patron throughout his long journey, appeared beside him in the form of a young shepherd boy.

“Welcome home, Odysseus of the many wiles,” she said with a knowing smile. “But you must be cautious. Much has changed in Ithaca during your absence.”

“What do you mean, goddess?” Odysseus asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.

“Your palace has been overrun by suitors,” Athena explained gravely. “More than a hundred young nobles from Ithaca and the surrounding islands have taken up residence in your great hall. They claim to be courting your wife Penelope, but in truth they are devouring your wealth, plotting to steal your throne, and making plans to kill your son Telemachus if he interferes with their schemes.”

Odysseus felt a cold rage building in his chest. “And my wife? My son?”

“Penelope remains faithful to your memory,” Athena assured him. “For three years she has delayed choosing a new husband by claiming she must first finish weaving a funeral shroud for your father Laertes. Each day she weaves, and each night she secretly unravels her work. But the suitors have discovered her trick, and they now demand that she choose one of them immediately.”

“And Telemachus?”

“Your son has grown into a fine young man, brave and intelligent like his father. Even now he searches for news of you throughout the Greek islands. But he is in great danger—the suitors have set an ambush for him, planning to kill him when he returns.”

Odysseus clenched his fists. These parasites had not only invaded his home and consumed his wealth, but they dared to threaten his family. Justice would be served, but it must be done carefully and at the right moment.

“What do you counsel, wise Athena?” he asked.

The goddess smiled and waved her hand over Odysseus. Immediately, his appearance changed dramatically. His hair turned white and thinned, his back became bent with apparent age, and his clothes transformed into the ragged garments of a wandering beggar.

“Enter your own palace as a stranger,” Athena advised. “Learn the full extent of the suitors’ crimes, identify those who might be loyal to you, and wait for the right moment to reveal yourself and take your revenge.”

Disguised as an aged beggar, Odysseus made his way toward the palace. As he walked through the town, his heart ached to see how much his kingdom had changed. The people looked worried and oppressed, the buildings showed signs of neglect, and there was an atmosphere of lawlessness that had never existed during his reign.

As he approached the palace gates, Odysseus encountered his first faithful friend—his old hunting dog, Argos. The animal was now ancient and feeble, lying forgotten on a pile of dung near the palace entrance. But despite Odysseus’s magical disguise, Argos immediately recognized his master.

The faithful dog lifted his head, wagged his tail weakly, and tried to struggle to his feet. Odysseus, deeply moved but unable to reveal his identity, could only pause briefly to pat the loyal animal’s head.

“Good dog,” he whispered softly. “You have not forgotten.”

Argos, having seen his beloved master return at last, peacefully closed his eyes and died, his long vigil finally ended.

Fighting back tears, Odysseus entered the great hall of his own palace. The scene that greeted him filled him with disgust and fury. The hall was packed with young men who were clearly not guests but occupiers. They lounged on couches, consumed vast quantities of food and wine, played dice with his treasures, and treated his servants with casual cruelty.

At the head of the hall, on what had once been Odysseus’s own throne, sat the leader of the suitors—Antinous, a arrogant young nobleman from a neighboring island. He was addressing the others with the confidence of someone who believed himself already the ruler of Ithaca.

“My friends,” Antinous was saying, “we have been patient long enough. Penelope has played her weaving trick for three years, making fools of us all. Tomorrow, we will demand that she choose one of us as her husband, or we will choose for her.”

“And what of her son?” asked another suitor, Eurymachus, almost as arrogant as Antinous.

“Telemachus will not be a problem much longer,” Antinous replied with a cruel smile. “Our ship waits in the straits. When he returns from his foolish quest to find his dead father, we will ensure he meets with an unfortunate accident. A grieving widow is much easier to control than one who has a grown son to protect her.”

The other suitors laughed at this callous plan, and Odysseus had to use all his self-control not to draw his sword immediately. But he needed more information, and he needed to find allies within the palace.

Playing his role as a beggar, Odysseus approached the suitors humbly. “Great lords,” he said in a quavering voice, “might an old traveler beg for some food and a place to rest by your fire?”

Most of the suitors ignored him completely, but Antinous looked up with annoyance. “Get out of here, you filthy old man. We have no food to waste on beggars.”

“Please, my lord,” Odysseus persisted, “I have traveled far and have nothing. Surely men of your obvious nobility would show mercy to one less fortunate?”

This only angered Antinous further. He picked up a footstool and hurled it at Odysseus, striking him in the shoulder. “I said get out! Next time I’ll throw something heavier!”

Several of the other suitors laughed at this cruelty, but Odysseus noticed that a few looked uncomfortable with Antinous’s behavior. These might be men who could still be reasoned with when the time came for justice.

At that moment, a woman’s voice rang out from the stairs leading to the upper chambers. “What is this disturbance in my hall?”

Odysseus looked up and saw his wife Penelope descending the stairs, and his heart nearly stopped. She was still beautiful, though twenty years of worry and grief had added silver to her dark hair and lines to her face. She moved with the same grace he remembered, but there was a sadness in her eyes that spoke of long years of faithful waiting.

“My lady,” Antinous said with false courtesy, “this beggar has been disturbing our feast. I was merely sending him away.”

Penelope’s eyes flashed with anger. “This is still my house, Antinous, though you and your companions seem determined to forget that fact. What kind of hostess would I be if I turned away a traveler seeking hospitality?”

She turned to Odysseus, and for a moment he thought she might recognize him despite his disguise. But she saw only an old beggar who needed help.

“Come, stranger,” she said kindly. “You may eat with the servants in the kitchen, and perhaps you have news of the outside world. It has been long since we heard tales from other lands.”

As Odysseus followed one of the servants toward the kitchen, he heard Penelope addressing the suitors in a voice filled with quiet steel.

“Gentlemen, I have tolerated your presence in my hall because custom demands hospitality. But your behavior grows ever more presumptuous. This is still the house of Odysseus, and while there is breath in my body, it will be governed by the laws of honor and hospitality that he taught me.”

“Your husband is twenty years dead, woman,” Antinous snarled. “It is time you accepted reality and chose a new one.”

“When I see proof of Odysseus’s death,” Penelope replied with dignity, “then I will consider your suits. Until then, you are guests in this house, and you will behave as such or leave.”

In the kitchen, Odysseus was given simple food by the servants, many of whom he recognized despite the years that had passed. To his joy, he discovered that most of the household staff remained loyal to their old master’s memory. Eurycleia, his old nurse who had cared for him from birth, was still alive, though very aged.

The old woman served him food with the same kindness she had always shown to strangers, not recognizing the man she had raised from infancy. But as she helped him wash his feet—a traditional gesture of hospitality—her fingers found a familiar scar on his leg.

Odysseus had received this scar as a young man during a boar hunt with his grandfather Autolycus. Eurycleia had tended the wound herself and would never forget its distinctive shape.

The old nurse’s eyes widened in shock, and she opened her mouth to cry out in recognition. But Odysseus quickly placed his hand over her mouth.

“Silence, dear nurse,” he whispered urgently. “I am indeed Odysseus, but no one must know yet. The time is not right for my return to be revealed.”

Tears of joy streamed down Eurycleia’s weathered face. “My boy,” she whispered, “my dear boy, you have come home at last. But how changed you are! And how dangerous your situation is!”

“Tell me everything,” Odysseus commanded quietly. “How many suitors are there? Which servants can be trusted? What is Penelope’s true situation?”

Eurycleia quickly provided the information he needed. There were 108 suitors in total, along with their personal servants and guards. Most of the household staff remained loyal to Odysseus’s memory, but they were afraid and outnumbered. Penelope had indeed remained faithful, but the pressure on her to remarry was becoming unbearable.

“Tomorrow,” Eurycleia whispered, “she plans to hold a contest. She will marry whichever suitor can string your great bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axe heads, as you used to do for sport.”

Odysseus smiled grimly. His great bow had been a gift from Iphitus, and it required tremendous strength and skill to draw. He doubted any of the soft, pampered suitors could even string it, much less shoot it accurately.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, then, justice will be served.”

The next morning brought great excitement to the palace. Penelope announced the contest to the assembled suitors, who were confident that one of them would surely succeed and claim her hand in marriage.

“Bring forth the great bow of Odysseus,” Penelope commanded, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil. “Whichever of you can string this bow and shoot an arrow through twelve axe heads placed in a row shall be my husband.”

The great bow was brought from its place of honor, along with a quiver full of arrows. The suitors examined it eagerly, each boasting of his skill in archery and his certainty of success.

Antinous stepped forward first, declaring his right as the leader of the suitors to attempt the task. He took the bow confidently, but as soon as he tried to string it, his face reddened with effort. Despite straining with all his might, he could not bend the bow enough to attach the string.

“This bow has grown stiff with age,” he declared, trying to save face. “Let us warm it by the fire, and then it will be easier to string.”

One by one, the other suitors attempted the task. Each failed completely. Even with the bow warmed by the fire, with their hands rubbed with fat to improve their grip, and with several men helping each attempt, none could string the great weapon.

As the suitors grew frustrated and began to argue among themselves, Odysseus stood up from his place among the servants.

“My lords,” he said in his beggar’s voice, “might an old traveler try his hand at this bow? In my youth, I was something of an archer.”

The suitors burst into mocking laughter. “This old fool thinks he can succeed where we have failed!” Antinous sneered.

But Penelope, who had been watching the proceedings with growing sadness, spoke up. “Let him try. What harm can it do? And if he succeeds, I will reward him richly, though of course the contest is only for those seeking my hand in marriage.”

Odysseus took the great bow in his hands, and his heart filled with joy to hold his old companion again. He examined it carefully, as if checking for cracks or flaws, but really he was simply savoring the feel of the weapon he had used for so many years.

Then, with casual ease that shocked everyone present, he strung the bow in one smooth motion. The suitors fell silent, their mockery dying in their throats as they realized the supposed beggar possessed strength far beyond their own.

Odysseus tested the bow’s tension by plucking the string, which sang with a clear, musical note. Then he selected an arrow, nocked it, and drew the bow to its full extent. The assembled crowd held its breath as he aimed at the row of twelve axe heads that had been set up at the far end of the hall.

The arrow flew straight and true, passing through all twelve axe head openings without touching any of them. It was a shot of such perfect skill that even the hostile suitors could not help but gasp in amazement.

But Odysseus was not finished. As the suitors stood stunned by his display of marksmanship, he straightened to his full height. The magical disguise placed on him by Athena fell away like a discarded cloak, revealing the true king of Ithaca in all his terrible wrath.

“You dogs!” Odysseus roared, his voice filling the great hall like thunder. “You thought Odysseus would never return! You have devoured my wealth, terrorized my wife, plotted to murder my son, and turned my palace into a den of thieves! Now face the justice you have earned!”

The suitors panicked, some trying to flee, others reaching for weapons that were not there—Odysseus had secretly had all weapons removed from the hall except for his bow. Antinous, the leader of their villainy, stood frozen in shock.

“You cannot be Odysseus!” he gasped. “Odysseus is dead!”

“Your mistake,” Odysseus replied coldly, and shot an arrow that took Antinous through the throat. The arrogant suitor fell backward, dead before he hit the ground.

Chaos erupted in the hall. Some suitors begged for mercy, claiming they had been forced to participate in the others’ crimes. Some tried to fight with furniture and cups, having no other weapons. But Odysseus was implacable, and he was not alone.

Telemachus, who had returned from his journey and been secretly informed of his father’s return, appeared armed with spear and shield. Eumaeus and Philoetius, two loyal servants, also took up arms. Even old Eurycleia helped by barring the doors to prevent escape.

The battle was swift and decisive. Odysseus, still the greatest warrior of his generation despite twenty years of hardship, cut through the suitors like a scythe through grain. His arrows found their marks with deadly precision, and when his quiver was empty, he took up spear and sword with equal skill.

When the slaughter was finished, 108 suitors and their disloyal servants lay dead in the great hall. Only a few were spared—those who could prove they had taken no part in the worst crimes and had shown respect for the laws of hospitality.

As the survivors fled the palace, Odysseus stood among the bodies of his enemies, finally master of his own house once more. But his thoughts were not of victory—they were of the woman who waited upstairs, the wife who had remained faithful through twenty years of uncertainty and sorrow.

Penelope, who had been confined to her chambers during the battle, was brought word that the stranger had revealed himself to be her husband. But twenty years of disappointment and false hopes had made her cautious.

“Prove to me that you are truly Odysseus,” she said when he came to her, still not quite believing it could be true.

Odysseus understood her caution and was moved by her careful faithfulness. He mentioned details of their life together that only her true husband could know—how he had built their marriage bed around a living olive tree, making it immovable, and other intimate secrets they had shared.

Finally convinced, Penelope threw herself into her husband’s arms, and their reunion was worth all the years of separation and suffering. They wept together for the time that had been lost, rejoiced in their survival, and shared the stories of all that had happened during their long separation.

The next day, Odysseus was reunited with his father Laertes, who was overjoyed to see his son alive and to learn that the family honor had been restored. Though some of the dead suitors’ families initially sought revenge, Athena intervened to establish peace, recognizing that justice had been served.

And so Odysseus, after twenty years of war and wandering, finally reclaimed his throne, his family, and his peaceful kingdom. His long journey was over, and the hero who had endured so much could finally rest in the home he had never stopped longing to see again.

The story of Odysseus’s return reminds us that patience, faithfulness, and justice will ultimately triumph over arrogance and wickedness. It teaches us that home is not just a place, but the people we love and the values we hold dear. And it shows us that no journey, however long and difficult, is too much to endure when it leads us back to those who matter most.