They came to the cave mouth and asked who hurt him. “Nobody is killing me by treachery,” he cried. They answered that if nobody hurt him it must be sickness from Zeus, and he should pray to his father Poseidon. Then they went away. I laughed inside at how my name and plan had fooled them.
Groaning, he groped and rolled the stone from the door, sat in the entrance with arms spread to catch anyone who tried to pass with the sheep, and waited. I bound the rams in threes with willow — a man under each middle beast — and took the biggest ram myself, hanging under its belly, fingers twisted in the fleece. So we waited, groaning, for Dawn.
Looking back as we ran for the ship I still heard him roaring in the yard. We did not stop to divide the sheep until the prow was in deep water and the oars were biting.
At first light the flock went out. He felt along their backs and did not find us. Last of all went the great ram. He spoke to it, wondering why it lagged, grieving for his eye, and wishing it could speak and say where Nobody hid. Then he let it go. Once clear of the yard I dropped, freed my men, and we drove many fat sheep down to the ship.
The crew aboard welcomed us. They would have mourned the dead aloud, but I cut them short and ordered a quiet shove-off. When we were a shout’s distance out I called back: the man whose comrades he had eaten was no weakling — Zeus and the other gods had paid him out for his evil guest-gifts.
He tore off a hilltop and flung it. The rock fell ahead of the ship and the backwash drove us toward shore. I shoved us off with a long pole and urged the oars. I would have taunted once more, but the men begged me not to — the last throw had nearly wrecked us. Still I shouted my true name: Odysseus of Ithaca, sacker of cities, son of Laertes.