Odysseus told the Cyclops his name was Nobody. When Polyphemus screamed for help — "Nobody is killing me!" — his kin walked away. The greatest trick in the ancient world, rendered in bold linework.
In the cave of Polyphemus, pinned between certain death and impossible odds, Odysseus did what he did best: he lied. "My name is Nobody," he said. When the blinded giant cried out in agony, his brethren asked who harmed him. "Nobody!" he roared. So they left. This single act of cunning — so simple, so devastating — is the essence of the Odyssey. Wit over strength, every time.