Twenty years had passed since Ulysses left his home. When he finally stepped onto the shore of Ithaca, he did not recognize his own kingdom. It was overgrown, neglected, and filled with the stench of arrogance. A group of suitors had taken over his palace, living off his wealth, drinking his wine, and demanding that Penelope choose a new husband.
The goddess Athena met him at the harbor, her eyes gleaming with amusement. She transformed his appearance, turning the rugged, sun-browned king into a bent, grey-haired beggar. She She told him that he could not win by force—not yet. He had to win by patience.
Ulysses walked to his own palace gates. He was insulted by the suitors, spat upon, and treated like vermin. He watched them from the corner of his own banquet hall, his fingers itching for his sword. He saw his son, Telemachus, struggling to maintain his dignity, and he saw his wife, Penelope, whose eyes were hollowed out by grief. Every moment of his humiliation was a burning coal in his chest, but he stayed silent. He had to study his enemies, learn their numbers, and wait for the one moment where their confidence would be their undoing.