<blockquote>Odysseus moved throughout the army, calming things. From ships and huts, soldiers rushed to reassemble, echoing like waves of the roaring sea crashing on shore, as Ocean thunders on. Men sat calmly in their places. But a single man kept on yelling out abuse— scurrilous Thersites, expert in various insults, vulgar terms for inappropriate attacks on kings, whatever he thought would make the Argives laugh. Of all the men who came to Troy, he was the ugliest— bow legged, one crippled foot, rounded shoulders curving in toward his chest. On top, his pointed head sprouted thin, scraggly tufts of hair. Achilles hated him, as did Odysseus, too, both subject to his taunts. But now Agamemnon was the target of his gibes. The Achaeans, despising Thersites in their hearts, were furious at him. But he kept shouting out, aiming noisy insults right at Agamemnon: “Son of Atreus, what’s your problem now? What do you lack? Your huts are stuffed with bronze, plenty of choice women, too—all presents we Achaeans give you as our leader, whenever we ransack some city. Or are you in need of still more gold, a ransom fetched by some horse-taming Trojan for his son tied up and delivered here by me or by some other Achaean? Or do you want a young girl to stash away, so you’re the only one who gets to screw her? It’s just not fair that you, our leader, have botched things up so badly for us, Achaea’s sons. But you men, you soldiers, cowardly comrades, disgraceful people, you’re Achaean women, not warriors. Let’s sail home in our ships, leave this man, our king, in Troy here to enjoy his loot. That way he might come to recognize whether or not we’re of some use to him. Now Agamemnon has even shamed Achilles, a much finer warrior than himself, stealing a prize, keeping it for his own use. Then there’s Achilles, no heart’s anger there, who lets it all just happen. If he didn’t, this bullying of yours, son of Atreus, would be your last.”

Thersites yelled out these insults right at Agamemnon, the people’s shepherd, abusing him. Noble Odysseus stood up quickly, confronting Thersites. Scowling, he lashed out sternly:

“Shut up, chatterbox. You’re a champion talker. But don’t try to have it out with kings, all by yourself. Let me tell you something— of all those who came to Troy with Atreus’ sons, you’re the most disgraceful. So shut your mouth. No more words from you abusing our kings, seeking to sneak back home. How this war will end, we’ve no idea—whether Achaea’s sons will go back home successful or will fail. You sit here, railing at Agamemnon, Atreus’ son, leader of his people, because Danaan heroes have given him so many gifts—but that’s a cheap insult. So I’ll tell you how things are going to be. If I find you being so foolish any more, then let Odysseus’ head no longer stay upon his shoulders, let him no longer be called the father of Telemachus, if I don’t grab you, rip off all your clothes, cloak and tunic, down to your cock and balls, and beat you back to the fast ships in tears, whipping you in shame from our assembly.”

Saying this, Odysseus lashed out with the sceptre, hitting Thersites hard across his back and shoulders. He doubled up in pain, shedding many tears. In the middle of Thersites’ back sprang up bloody welts beneath the golden sceptre. He sat down, afraid and hurt, peering around, like an idiot, and rubbing away his tears. The soldiers, though discontent, laughed uproariously, saying to one another:

“Comrades, before now Odysseus has done good things thinking up fine plans and leading us in war. But that’s the best thing he’s done by far to help the Argives, shutting up that rabble-rouser. Thersites’ bold spirit won’t urge him on to trash our kings again with his abuse.”
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<blockquote>[Athena] dressed [Odysseus] in different clothes—a ragged cloak, a dirty tunic, ripped and disheveled, stained with stinking smoke. Then she threw around him a large hairless hide from a swift deer and gave him a staff and a tattered leather pouch, full of holes and with a twisted strap.
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