Outside the court a walled orchard of four acres held pears, pomegranates, apples, figs, and olives. Fruit never failed; a new crop ripened before the old fell. Grapes dried, gathered, or crushed in their season. Flower beds bloomed year round. Two streams watered garden and house; townsfolk drew from one.
Golden youths on pedestals held torches for the night feast. Fifty maids ground grain, wove, or spun — Athena’s pupils at every useful craft. As the Phaeacians were the best sailors alive, so their women excelled all others at the loom. The linen was woven tight enough to turn oil.
When he had looked enough he stepped inside. The chiefs were pouring last offerings to Hermes before sleep. Still hidden, Odysseus crossed the court, clasped Arete’s knees — and the mist dropped. The hall went still at the sudden man among them.
“Queen Arete, daughter of Rhexenor,” he said, “I beg you, your husband, and these guests — may the gods give them long life and children to inherit their honors — send me home as soon as you can. I have been long in pain and far from my friends.” He sat in the ashes of the hearth.
Silence held until old Echeneus spoke. It was wrong, he said, for a stranger to sit in the ashes while everyone waited on the king. Alcinous should seat him on a silver-inlaid chair, mix wine for Zeus who guards suppliants, and have the housekeeper bring food.
Alcinous took Odysseus by the hand, lifted him, and set him in the place of Laodamas, his favorite son. A maid poured water from a gold ewer into a silver basin. Another brought bread and what the house held. Odysseus ate. Pontonous mixed wine for offerings to Zeus.