Odysseus answered, “Truly you are hard to persuade. I swore an oath, and still you doubt. Come — make a bargain. If your master returns to this house, clothe me and send me to Dulichium as I ask. If your master fails to arrive on the day I name, set your men on me and hurl me from a cliff, so another beggar may fear to cheat for a meal.”
Eumaeus smiled grimly. “That would be a fine name for me afterward — to kill a guest I had welcomed, and then pray Zeus of strangers for help. It is time for supper. My men will be in soon with the herd.”
While they spoke the other swineherds drove the pigs into the pens for the night, and the place filled with squealing as the beasts settled. Eumaeus called to his companions: “Bring the best boar. We will honor this stranger from far away, and take some comfort ourselves, who have long worn ourselves out over these swine while others feast without payment.”
He split wood. They led in a fat five-year-old boar. The swineherd did not forget the deathless gods: he flung bristles from the beast’s head into the fire and prayed that Odysseus might come home. Then they slaughtered, singed, jointed, and roasted the meat. Eumaeus stood carving and remembered each man’s share — and he set aside a long chine for Odysseus, honoring his guest.
Odysseus said, “Eumaeus, may Zeus love you as I do for the honor you show a worn man.” Eumaeus answered, “Eat, friend, and take what is here. God gives and god withholds as he wills; he can do all things.” He burned the first cuts to the immortals, poured wine, and put the cup in Odysseus’s hands. They ate roasted pork, and Mesaulius, a servant bought in Eumaeus’s own absence, poured bread. When desire for food and drink left them, Mesaulius cleared the boards, and they turned to sleep.
Night came on wild and moonless. Rain fell without pause, and a wet west wind blew hard. Odysseus tested the swineherd, eager to see whether he would strip his own cloak or bid another give one.
“Listen, Eumaeus and you others,” he said. “I will tell a wish — wine makes even a cautious man bold. I wish I were young and strong again, as when we lay in ambush under Troy’s walls. Odysseus and Menelaus led us, and I was third in command. We crouched in marsh reeds under armor, and a freezing night came down from the north, bitter with frost. The others had cloaks and shields. I had left my cloak behind like a fool, thinking I would not need it, and had only my shield and belt.”
“In the third watch, when the stars had wheeled, I nudged Odysseus with my elbow — he was quick to hear — and whispered that the cold would kill me. He said softly, ‘Be still,’ then raised his head on his arm and spoke to the rest as if from a dream: ‘Friends, a god sent me a vision. We lie too far from the ships. Someone should run back and tell Agamemnon to send more men from the camp.’”
“Thoas son of Andraemon sprang up at once, threw off his purple cloak, and ran toward the ships. I pulled the cloak over myself and lay warm until Dawn of the gold throne came. I wish I had that youth and strength now among your herdsmen. Then one of you would lend a cloak for love or respect. As it is, you slight me for these foul rags.”
Eumaeus answered, “Old man, that was a fine story, and nothing in it rings false. You will not lack clothes or anything else a hard-pressed guest should have — for tonight. In the morning you must shake your own rags again. We have few spare cloaks and tunics here; each man has one change. But when Odysseus’s son comes, he will give you cloak and tunic and send you wherever your heart wants.”