Hermes left for Olympus. I went on to Circe’s doors and called. She let me in, seated me, and gave the drug in a golden cup. I drank and she struck; nothing changed. I drew my sword. She shrieked, clasped my knees, and asked who I was — no man had ever withstood her drug. She knew me then for Odysseus of the many turns, whom Hermes had always said would come in his black ship.
She invited me to her bed so we might trust each other in love. I made her swear first. When she had sworn I went with her. Maids prepared a bath and a feast, but I sat without tasting, heart heavy for my men. Circe asked why I sat like a mute. I said no true man could eat while his friends were pigs in the sties.
When Circe saw that I would not eat, she did not mock me. She went straight through the court with her wand and opened the sty doors. That was the first mercy I had from her, and it was the one I needed.
She took her wand to the pens, rubbed each sow with another drug, and the bristles fell away. They became men again — younger, taller, and more handsome than before — and wept in her halls till the roof rang. Circe told me to beach the ship, hide the gear in caves, and bring the rest of the crew.
I did. Eurylochus tried to hold the men back, reminding them of the Cyclops and begging them not to walk into another trap. I thought of cutting his head off then and there, even as kin by marriage, but the others checked me. They all went up; Eurylochus followed at last for fear of my anger.
Circe bathed them, clothed them, and feasted them. So we stayed a full year in her halls, eating endless meat and sweet wine, until the longing for home grew sharper than any comfort Circe could set before us. When the seasons turned again the men took me aside and said it was time to remember home if heaven meant me to be saved. That night on Circe’s bed I asked her to keep the promise she had once sworn and send us on our way.