Treasury of Greek Mythology Read online

  And while her brother went in white, trying to make everyone confuse him with the sun god Helios, Artemis wore stylish high boots and a short tunic of many colors, and men looked at her. They said she was as dreamy as the moon goddess Selene. Though she didn’t invite their glances, it felt good to be watched.

  Her brother surrounded himself with the nine Muses. Artemis surrounded herself with innumerable sea nymphs and wood nymphs. Plus she had swift hounds, some half white that nearly disappeared they ran so fast, some with hanging ears that fluttered like feathers, and one all speckled brown and pink like a quail egg. Together they hunted rabbit and porcupine and gazelle and lynx and stag. No, this young goddess was never lonely.

  Artemis never married, but she was rarely alone. Dogs and sea nymphs and wood nymphs ran with her on the hunt through woods as prey fled from the famed archer.

  And, unlike Apollo, she never sought the praise of people. She preferred, in fact, to keep her distance from them, holding hands with her retinue of nymphs in wide circle dances that made the very mountains shiver with pleasure.

  It was only when birthing women found their labor pains too great that she entered cities; for there was something about her that eased newborns’ way. It was natural, she guessed. Hadn’t she herself flowed from her mother like a good wish, after all? She would put on gold armor and travel in her golden chariot pulled by brawny bucks with towering antlers, all bridled with gold, all caught by her with nothing but her bare hands, and spare these women so much grief. Now that was something worth getting praised for.

  WARRIOR Women

  In Greek mythology Amazons were skillful archers who lived without men—like Artemis. But unlike the hunter Artemis, they were warriors on horseback. While many scholars call them fictitious, the Greek historian Herodotus claimed they are based on ancestors to the Sarmatians, living from the fifth to the fourth century B.C., whose women rode into battle beside men. Others see their origin in tribes in southern Ukraine and Russia, or in Crete during Minoan times, all cultures that had women warriors.

  An Amazon warrior on horseback

  But not all women recognized they owed their good fortune in childbearing to Artemis. One of the ungrateful was Niobe, daughter of the god Tantalus. She and her husband Amphion, a son of Zeus, had six brave and strong sons and six beautiful and graceful daughters. Niobe crowed with pride. She claimed the people of Thebes should make offerings to her, rather than to Leto, the mother of Apollo and Artemis. It made sense to Niobe: She had twelve children when Leto had only two. She vastly underestimated the danger making Leto her rival.

  Leto went complaining straight to her children, both famed archers. Apollo tracked down Niobe’s sons as they hunted on Mount Cithaeron. He shot arrows into all. Artemis wouldn’t let Niobe get off that easily, though. Only the cruelest of acts could make it clear that gods would tolerate no challenges. Artemis wanted the mother to witness each arrow as it hit the mark. She entered Niobe’s home and shot arrows into her girls.

  Niobe sank to the ground like a stone. But again she was not allowed even this cold end. This bereft mother wasn’t a senseless stone; no, no, she felt arrows hit her children over and over. She cried forever, a constant fountain. That sent a message, all right.

  Apollo could do what he wanted. But Artemis was a force to be reckoned with in her own right. Women knew it. That was enough for her.

  Hera was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea, so she had gotten off to a bad start—swallowed by her father and all. But she didn’t think much about her early life. Nor did she care much about the interminable war between the Olympians and the Titans that commenced almost immediately after she and her siblings were freed from their papa’s belly. No, none of that mattered. Life really started for Hera when she put on her gold sandals and strutted before that brother of hers, Zeus, and, oh glorious moment, he looked at her in that way of his. She felt awakened, energized. He was a handsome devil. But, oh, he turned out to be a troublesome devil.

  It would have been a jewel in her crown if she’d been his first wife. But, then, Zeus drank his first wife—that ill-fated nymph, Metis. And they called her wise. Ha! So no, no no no, better not to have been the first.

  But then he went on to a Titan wife—with a body larger than his, imagine!—and then another nymph, and then, of all things, her own sister Demeter, and next he took Leto, the daughter of Titans. This devilish god was worse than a billy goat, and he was driving Hera to distraction. Most mortifying of all, that doe-eyed Leto bore him a son! It was Hera who should have borne his first son! Everything was going wrong.

  But Hera played it smart. No one should guess her smoldering anger. She wore an innocent maiden’s smile and carried herself as though basking in the admiration of the whole world. Everyone fell for it; she must be a beauty if she walked like that. And Zeus fell harder than anyone; he called Hera the most precious blossom he’d ever seen. She pinched her cheeks to darken them, as if with the blush of modesty, and she looked out at him from under long lashes. He needed her. But she wouldn’t yield until he made her not just his wife, but his queen. Queen Hera. The only true wife of King Zeus.

  Zeus was hers, at last.

  Vengeful, envious Hera knew how to play the blushing, comely bride. Selfish Zeus demanded any lovely he wanted. He crowned Hera queen, and they each got their just rewards.

  But what did he do? Without missing a beat, he moved from Hera’s embrace to the embrace of Maia, the daughter of that stupid Atlas, who bore the heavens on his shoulder girdle, and the granddaughter of Titans. Hera could predict the future: one simpering female after another in Zeus’ arms. It was revolting, actually. She vowed then and there to have revenge on every single future rival, into eternity. In fact, she would teach a lesson to anyone who helped Zeus meet other wives. Her punishments would be severe; they’d give pause. So there, Zeus.

  HERA’S Revenge

  Hera was always furious at Zeus’ romances. One was with the priestess Io. Zeus turned Io into a white cow to protect her from Hera. But Hera asked Zeus for the cow as a gift, and she made the giant Argus guard her. Argus had a hundred eyes; some eyes slept while others kept watch. Zeus had Hermes kill Argus and free Io. In grief, Hera set Argus’ eyes in the peacock’s tail. And she sent a gadfly to torment Io and drive her away from Zeus.

  A peacock displaying his tail

  And then the very worst thing happened.

  Zeus had drunk that first wife Metis and no one had ever given her another thought. But now, so long afterward, Zeus doubled over in pain and the next thing Hera knew, this … this thing … burst from his forehead. A goddess, in full armor. Zeus had given birth to his daughter Athena all on his own.

  Oh, that wasn’t really the case. No one could believe that. A male had no such powers. Females were the ones who could have babies. Hera’s grandfather had tried to stop her grandmother from giving birth by forcing the children to stay inside their mother. Hera’s father had tried to rob her mother of the benefits of giving birth by swallowing her babies as they were born. And now Hera’s husband, who was also her brother and thus the inheritor of such malicious behavior, had claimed the ability of giving birth for himself. It was all part of one giant effort to strip women of their most important power. Ridiculous! Athena was the result of Metis giving birth inside Zeus. She was not the product of Zeus alone. No!

  Though every other insult was hateful, this one was truly intolerable. In a rage, Hera closed in upon herself, concentrating all her energies on one tiny dot within her. Her grandmother Gaia had done it before her. Need. It was all a question of need. Hera practically melted with need. And, yes! Triumph! Life began within her—and this time it really was all on her own. A woman could do it all on her own. Hera would give birth to the god Hephaestus, her first child and the one that would be totally and completely hers. No matter what Zeus did, he couldn’t rob her of that.

  Hera, the queen of the gods, was angry at Zeus. Again. He was an inconstant and unloving husband, and she�
�d just about had it. Then he went and produced a daughter from his forehead. The pompous nitwit. So Hera decided to show him. She produced life all on her own, too. Even when it was still tiny and nestled within her, she knew it was a boy. Ha! He’d rival Zeus’ son Apollo. Ha ha ha!

  And then Hephaestus was born. Oh. Hera’s face went slack. Oh, that foot. That tiny, twisted, shriveled foot. Her hand recoiled. She stepped away from the babe. This was too much to bear. Her first child, created solely from her, and now he was a weak, useless thing. This thing shamed her. It disgraced her. With a shriek, she grabbed the child by his pitiful heel and cast him out, far far, into the wide and wild seas, forever lost.

  But he didn’t fall lost, despite Hera’s wishes. The lovely silver-footed Thetis held out her hands and caught the babe. Her father was Nereus, the son of Pontus. Her mother was Doris, the daughter of Oceanus. Thetis was born to the watery world and knew very well how to manage life there. She enclosed Hephaestus in a bubble of her own breath and brought him to a sea cave where he grew strong in her love.

  The sea creatures laughed at his funny foot. And when Hephaestus was grown and walked haltingly upon the land with the help of a cane, the land creatures pointed in derision, for they went with two legs or four legs or six or any even number, but who ever heard of a creature with three?

  Hephaestus refused to be spurned. He had a good brain. And strong hands and arms. And, most important of all, he was his mother’s son. He would find a way to be powerful. He would show the others. He searched the Earth and came upon Lemnos, an island with a mountain that roared. The soft sand beaches felt like silk under his weary feet. The many trees offered shade at last. He bit into olives fat with oil and loved the way it dripped through his beard. He closed his eyes and delighted in the twittering calls of the little owls. He threw rocks into the fire of the volcano and watched them melt. Ah. This was a good place. The fire would give him all the power he needed.

  Father of Invention

  Hera scorned Hephaestus’ shriveled foot. Others laughed at him. Ugly attitudes toward differences from the norm were common in ancient cultures. The early Israelites, for example, believed afflictions proved you’d done something wrong. Even today some cultures believe that. But the ancient Greeks recognized a healthy mind regardless. Hephaestus is known as the father of invention. He made the first wheelchair in literature, although the first record of a wheelchair used by a human was on a Chinese inscription from the sixth century A.D.

  Hephaestus crafting a weapon

  Soon he’d made himself a hammer, an anvil, and a pair of tongs. He set to work making things—anything he wanted. Armor and helmets and chariots. Necklaces and drinking cups and graceful little statues. Then he made himself a chair with wheels, so he could cross the land much faster. Everyone still poked fun at him, but they admired him all the same. They came asking him to invent things to meet their needs. He was generous and taught them how to craft things for themselves. Even Zeus came, and Hephaestus forged him a cape that served as his breastplate and came to be known as the Aegis—Zeus’ symbol thereafter.

  A sea nymph named Cabeiro fell in love with him, and they had two sons. Then he visited the island of Sicily, and the nymph Aetna fell in love with him and he fathered two more sons. Everywhere he went, someone loved him and someone bore him children.

  But the one Hephaestus loved was Athena, the gray-eyed goddess who was the very cause of his existence. She liked to come and work beside him at the forge. She crafted things for household use, but what she excelled at was making anything to help in battle. She invented the bridle—clever girl. She made a soft twitter sound as she worked, almost like an owl in love. And she ate olives like a glutton. What more could he ask? For sure, she’d love him back—females did that.

  Hephaestus worked so hard to win the affections of Athena. He taught her to use the forge, where she perfected swords, shields, helmets, armor—everything to tickle a woman warrior’s heart.

  But Athena had no interest in any man, least of all a lame one. She spurned Hephaestus’ advances and left him seething.

  Well, he’d show her, too. He’d get himself a wife that was the envy of the world. Just wait.

  When Cronus freed the Titans, he injured his father, Uranus, and hurled parts of him backward over his shoulder so that they scattered across the land and seas. Children sprang up, most from blood on the earth, but one from her father’s foam mixing with sea foam: Aphrodite. Such a strange birth might not seem the most promising start in life, but this goddess was lovely from her first breath.

  And she grew even lovelier. The changeable seas taught Aphrodite nuances of colors and movement, and she used them to inspire love. She could be almost transparent, then so richly hued a god felt he’d dined far too long but couldn’t yet stop. She could touch a god like a cool welcome spray on a hot afternoon or slam him like a tsunami that threatened to never let him up for air. She perfected her charms, and all under the guidance of that ancient god, Eros, the one who first led Night into the arms of Erebus, and Gaia into the arms of Uranus. Eros considered Aphrodite his special project.

  When Aphrodite was confident of her ability to enchant all the sea and river gods, she moved on to see how she’d fare with land gods. First, she went to the island of Cythera, then the island of Cyprus. Wherever her foot touched tender grasses sprouted and flowers bloomed, as though the ground itself felt blessed by her presence. And the gods … well, Aphrodite became a master at flirting in words and smiles and glances. She took up little deceits, flattering when necessary, teasing when effective. She never failed; if she wanted a god to love her, he did.

  And the goddesses? They envied her at first. But Aphrodite didn’t need every god everywhere to pine after her. So she taught the other divinities how to do what she did. And they practiced these feminine wiles well, but not quite as well as Aphrodite.

  Which meant every god wanted her as his wife.

  Zeus was alarmed. Discord among the gods could be dangerous. He had to step in and arrange a marriage for the gorgeous goddess quickly. But who? The husband of Aphrodite would be scorned by all others simply out of jealousy. Who could Zeus afford to have the others scorn?

  STAR Light … Star Bright

  Venus is the ancient Romans’ name for Aphrodite. The planet Venus is the brightest object in the sky after the sun and the moon. Venus orbits the sun faster than Earth does. When it comes up “behind” Earth, it is visible after sunset. When it “overtakes” Earth, it is visible before sunrise. So it goes from being the Evening Star to being the Morning Star. The ancient Greeks were the first to recognize that these two “stars” were in fact one object.

  The morning star sparkling on the horizon

  Then it was obvious: Everyone already scorned Hephaestus, the lame god of metalworking. Good. Nothing lost.

  But it wasn’t good for Aphrodite. Zeus was a thick-skulled idiot! She was the beauty of the universe, and she had honed her feminine skills so that she could marry any god she wanted. She’d be wasted on Hephaestus. The lame god was unsightly. Aphrodite winced at the very thought of him.

  Zeus wouldn’t relent.

  Hephaestus waited patiently through this debate, seeing immediately why Zeus had chosen him and, thus, knowing that the deal was sealed. He was overcome by the turn in his luck. Aphrodite was far better than the last wife he’d longed for, the goddess Athena, who had rejected him soundly and talked about nothing but war—why, she was battle-crazed. Aphrodite was totally unlike her. Hephaestus would make this marriage work. He would win Aphrodite’s affections. He went to his forge and made her a gold belt with the most delicate and intricate filigree that anyone had ever seen. Only the slimmest needle could poke through the myriad loops.

  Aphrodite took one look at the dazzling belt and donned it. She sensed instinctively that magic wove its way through the intrigues of the curlicues of that belt. Then she walked among the gods. Oh! Incomparable as Aphrodite was, this belt made her more so. She didn’t
have to whisper a word or bat an eye. Yes! With this girdle, Aphrodite could tolerate the marriage.

  By crafting a glorious belt, Hephaestus finally won a wife, and what a wife—the glamorous Aphrodite. She couldn’t resist the stunning belt; beauty will have beauty, after all.

  Zeus saw the nymph walking the Cyllene hills in the midst of sheep: Maia, daughter of Atlas. Clad in purple, she rose above the flock like an iris on a silvery stalk in a field of milkweed bolls. He wanted her as his wife. Which one would this be? He’d lost count. A cheery observation—the world teemed with lovely lasses.

  His arms itched to hold her. But Hera, his queen, would surely learn of it. That would be unpleasant; Hera had become a royal nag.

  So Zeus waited till evening and tucked Hera into bed, then snuck across the fragrant meadow and into the deep cave where Maia dwelled. The goddess turned her head in shyness so her thick curls covered her face. Zeus laughed loud; he could never resist the charms of sweet youth.

  At dawn on the fourth day of the ninth month later, a perfect son leaped from Maia’s womb into her arms. She named him Hermes and set him in a cradle deep within her cave home. But the tiny boy hopped out and ran for the mouth of the cave.

  Hermes laughed in glee, the same way his father laughed the night he visited Maia. There in his path was a spangleshelled tortoise. The boy killed it, then filled the emptied high-domed shell with cut reeds. He stretched ox hide over it, then used sheep horns to make a crosspiece and stretched seven gut strings upon them. Behold, this babe had just invented the first lyre. He strummed and sang to Maia; they spent the afternoon telling stories of the gods.

  When Maia finally put Hermes into his cradle again and lounged upon her own bed, he waited for her to fall asleep—just as his father Zeus had waited for Hera to fall asleep the night he visited Maia. Then the babe crept from the cave. He followed the path of the waning sun to the shadowy mountains of Pieria, where he saw a herd of cattle, large and low-bellowing. These were Apollo’s, the boy somehow knew. It pleased him to rob from such a stuck-up god.