Treasury of Greek Mythology Read online

  THE GIVING Grape

  Dionysus is the god of wine. Wine originated in the Caucasus and Iran. It appeared in Greece around 4500 B.C. Greece is rocky, so olive trees grow easily. Though there is little soil soft enough to be plowed, Greece’s climate helps. For many months it’s dry and sunny, then it’s humid and cool (typically mild, but it can snow in the mountains). Greeks quickly learned to grow grapes on sunny terraces and make wine. They taught these arts to the rest of Europe.

  Clusters of grapes hanging from a vine

  One day pirates saw the young god on shore. They judged him a prince from his clothing, so they dragged him aboard for ransom. They went to tie him to the mast, but the ropes fell away. The helmsman guessed he was a god. But the crew didn’t listen. With one breath from Dionysus, the sails filled, and perfumed wine streamed across the ship deck. The crew finally understood, but before they could put Dionysus back on land, he changed into a lion and charged. They jumped overboard and became dolphins forever after.

  Dionysus was changeable—from calm and sweet to wild and hateful. Here his rage at being disrespected transformed him into a lion. The frightened crew dove overboard and became dolphins.

  Such were the two sides of Dionysus: graceful and jarring, clear and filthy, bliss-bearing and tormenting. He brought men some of the most carefree moments of their lives, and he brought men to despondency.

  But it was women he most affected. He excited them to frenzy. Some abandoned their children to follow him. Pentheus, King of Thebes, didn’t believe Dionysus was a god. He put him in prison. But Dionysus broke out and crazed the women of Thebes so they came with him. When Pentheus followed, Dionysus robbed the women of their senses completely, so that they attacked him—his mother among them. They ripped Pentheus limb from limb. Then Dionysus freed them from their insanity, and they saw what they had done. Wicked tragedy.

  Dionysus traveled in a chariot bearing the most delicious harvest of his vines, but pulled by panthers. The message was clear: Beware, beware.

  The wife of Acrisius, king of the city of Argos, gave birth to a beautiful daughter, Danaë, but what the king wanted was a son. So he traveled to the temple at Delphi, where the priestess told reliable prophecies—she was the most revered oracle of all Greece. The oracle said not only would Acrisius never father a son, but that the son of his daughter would kill him.

  Acrisius wouldn’t harm the girl for fear of retribution from the gods. So he promptly had a bronze home built for her underground, with an opening to the sky for air and light. Hour after hour, day after day, year after year, the poor prisoner sat on the ground of that opening with her face turned to the heavens. She became a lover of sunlight and moonlight, of wind and rain.

  Zeus spied the sweetheart face and instantly sensed what would delight her most and so came to her as a golden downpour. Soon Danaë had a son, Perseus. Acrisius again moved promptly. He put daughter and babe into a wooden box and set them to sea.

  Danaë wrapped her beloved son in her cloak and bade him sleep, sleep. She cooed, her mouth to his ear, as the wild waters rocked them, and her wild heart cried. Please, let no hideous watery creature slither up from underneath and snatch them, or open wide its gigantic jaws and swallow them.

  CONSTELLATION Perseus

  Among the largest northern sky constellations is Perseus, visible in winter, especially December. It contains “double stars.” Some are simply lined up to appear close to each other but really are far apart. Others are “binary,” so close they are caught in each other’s gravity, in mutual orbit. It also contains “variable stars.” For some, brightness varies because they swell and shrink. For others, brightness varies because of an orbiting star that eclipses them.

  An illustration of the constellation Perseus

  The box washed ashore on the island Seriphos, where a fisherman took care of them and raised the boy. Perseus grew strong, but he never lost his sense of wariness. His mother and he had survived his grandfather’s perfidy, but the world was dangerous. He trod forth, courageous, yes, but with eyes darting, on the lookout.

  Over the years the king of the island, Polydectes, fell in love with Danaë, but she refused him. Perseus, adult now, sensed something dishonorable in the man. So he protected his mother from the king’s advances.

  Polydectes felt affronted. What? Perseus dared to thwart a king? In the selfish tradition so common of kings, he chose to simply get rid of the youth, just as King Acrisius had.

  He threw a party to which guests were supposed to bring horses as gifts, so that he could, he said, use them as a proper marriage offer in his quest for the hand of another young woman who tamed horses. Perseus was delighted that Polydectes would marry and thus leave his mother alone. He promised Polydectes any gift he wanted, even the head of the Gorgon Medusa, wife of the sea god Poseidon. The rash words came out of nowhere, but there they were, glittering in the air, and Polydectes grabbed them with triumph.

  Medusa had serpents for hair, and anyone who looked upon her instantly turned to stone. As far as Polydectes was concerned, Perseus was history.

  But Perseus was Zeus’ son, and two of his siblings came to his rescue. First was the goddess Athena; she told Perseus that three nymphs, the Hesperides, had the weapons to kill Medusa. But to find out where the Hesperides were, Perseus had to ask the three Graeae. The Graeae were sisters of Medusa. They had been born as old women, with but a single eye and a single tooth to share among them. Perseus hid and watched them huddling like three huge gray birds. As one woman passed the eye and tooth to another, he snatched both and demanded they lead him to the garden of the Hesperides. It was a terrible ransom; their sister would die if they answered, they would deprive themselves of sight and food if they didn’t. The Graeae led him there, and Perseus gave back the eye and tooth.

  The three Graeae shared one eye and one tooth. Perseus ransomed that eye and that tooth for knowledge that allowed him to kill the Graeae’s sister. Clever, no? But heartless

  The Hesperides lent Perseus three things: winged sandals like those of the god Hermes so that he could fly, the helmet of invisibility that had belonged to the god Poseidon, and a wallet that could contain anything without getting larger. To these Athena added a bronze shield so bright it reflected like a mirror. And now the god Hermes finally joined the quest; he gave Perseus an adamantine sickle.

  Perseus, newly invisible and armed, flew to the cave where Medusa slept with her two sisters. He stood over them in their sleep and held the polished shield up by his shoulder so he could look into it to see their reflection. Never had he imagined such ugliness. Their serpent hair coiled around them, making their whole bodies seem scaly. Long sharp porcine tusks protruded from their lower jaws. Gold wings sprouted from their backs, and their hands were bronze. The god Poseidon called Medusa his jewel, yet how he could bear being near her was beyond Perseus.

  Perseus used his shield as a mirror to see Medusa’s head so he could slay her without danger to himself. Clever again, heartless again. Medusa had done him no wrong.

  With one powerful slice, the youth cut off Medusa’s head. From her neck sprang full grown the children that Poseidon had fathered. One was Pegasus, a winged horse, who eventually made his way to Olympus. The other was Chrysaor, a huge warrior with a gold sword, who became the king of all Iberia. Perseus allowed the two to flee, as he put Medusa’s head into the wallet, then flew away. The two Gorgon sisters of Medusa cried out. They wanted to give chase, but Perseus was invisible.

  He flew over water along the north coast of Africa, heading home, when he saw a maiden tied to a rock jutting out of the sea. Perseus flew to her and she told him her story.

  Andromeda was the daughter of King Cepheus and his bride Cassiopeia, both of whom loved to walk along the shore and show off how handsome they were. But Cassiopeia lacked sense. She boasted that her beauty surpassed that of the sea nymphs, the Nereids. Gods and goddesses took challenges even less well than human royalty did. The Nereids complained to the sea god Pose
idon, who sent a tsunami and a monstrous hungry whale to ravage the land. But King Cepheus had heard the prophecy that calamity could be avoided if he sacrificed his daughter to the whale. So there she was—Andromeda, quaking on the boulder. Her eyes burned as they scanned the horizon for her coming death.

  The winds whipped the girl’s hair so that it seemed to fly around her. Her bottom lip trembled. Her fingers curled around each other, bluish in fear. Her heart thumped so hard, Perseus heard it, and his heart beat even harder. Saving this pretty pretty maid from being eaten would be even better than saving his mother from the nasty king.

  And here came the whale. But it wasn’t a whale at all, it was a giant scaly serpent, rising on a tide taller than the tallest tree. The monster seemed borne of the nightmares of the babe Perseus had seen in that wooden box at the mercy of the terrifying sea. But he could do this. Perseus told King Cepheus he would kill the sea monster if the king would give his daughter to him in marriage. The king agreed, of course, and Perseus slew the dragon, whose dying cry deafened the seabirds as far as one could see and whose blood turned the entire ocean red.

  Lovely Andromeda was to be sacrificed to a sea monster because of her parents’ foolish boasts. But when the monster came, Perseus attacked. Classic maiden in distress; classic hero.

  At long last, Perseus found his way home and turned to stone King Polydectes and the friends he’d gathered around him. Then he gave Medusa’s head to Athena, who attached it to the center of her shield. And he gave the winged sandals, the helmet of invisibility, and the now empty wallet to Hermes to return to the Hesperides as promised.

  Eventually Perseus, Andromeda, and Perseus’ mother Danaë decided to go to Argos to see Danaë’s parents. But when Danaë’s father Acrisius heard they were coming, he snuck away to the land of the Pelasgians. As luck would have it, the king there was hosting an athletic contest, and he invited Perseus to take part. In the competitions, Perseus threw his discus, and it hit Acrisius in the foot, killing him instantly. Pure accident. Ill-fated Perseus had unwittingly fulfilled the oracle’s prediction.

  The sea god Poseidon and the Gorgon Medusa wrapped each other in tenderness. Each was the precious stone at the center of the other’s being. Looking at him with his fearsome trident and her with those thrashing snakes coming out of her head, it wasn’t the sort of thing anyone could have guessed, but there it was. Love.

  Then the youth Perseus appeared out of nowhere and for no reason cut off Medusa’s head, as one might slaughter a monster. If Perseus hadn’t been the son of Zeus, Poseidon might have sought revenge. What a sad event. The only good thing was that Poseidon and Medusa’s two unborn children escaped: the huge warrior Chrysaor and the winged horse Pegasus.

  In his grief, Poseidon fell into the arms of Medusa’s sister, the Gorgon Euryale. From their mingling came a son, Orion. Poseidon was overjoyed to have a child, not a giant or a horse. He spoiled the boy rotten, and when Orion became a man, Poseidon gave him a gift: the ability to walk on water.

  It was too much, really, walking on water; it fed the youth’s arrogance. Orion grew into an insufferably pompous nitwit. His wife Side was equally pompous and dimwitted, for she claimed to rival the goddess Hera in beauty. Hera grabbed the girl and cast her into Tartarus; that was the end of Orion’s first marriage.

  Undaunted, Orion went to the island of Chios to seek the hand of Merope, daughter to King Oenopion, known for her delicate face. Merope liked Orion. He was handsome and so good an archer he cleared the island of wild beasts at her behest. But the king took an immediate dislike to this swaggering braggart and called upon Dionysus, the god of wine, to help get rid of Orion.

  Dionysus came and put on a party with dancing women—the Maenads—and enchanting music, savory foods, generous wine. Orion thoroughly enjoyed himself, so much so that he woke up in the morning on the seashore. How did he get there? And he was blinded! And now, yes, he remembered the king yelling at him, but for what? Had he offended someone? But this was a terrible thing for a king to do to his guest, no matter what the offense. Now Orion’s outrage flamed; he would have revenge!

  He stumbled to the forge of Hephaestus and lifted one of the smithy god’s helpers onto his shoulders. He told him to guide his path to the island of Lemnos, where the sun rose.

  Orion stood there, still as a stone. Eos, the rosy goddess of the dawn, looked down and interpreted the determination in the man’s stance as hope. Sympathy made her dip her face from the heavens and kiss his eyelids. Orion’s sight was restored. Eos now shivered with love.

  Orion pulled back from Eos’ embrace. He wanted only to punish King Oenopion. The king heard Orion was coming and fled. Merope held no interest for him anymore, so Orion wandered, while poor Eos pined for him.

  It was on Delos that Orion met the goddess Artemis and became her hunting companion. Artemis had never known anyone with archery skill that rivaled her own. They challenged each other, picking targets farther and farther away. The goddess was drawn to the muscular man in ways that confused her. She had never longed for a husband, but now she felt the stirrings of that strange thing—love.

  Elusive Artemis, the greatest archer, found a match in the human Orion. Nothing could have been more seductive. This was her only romance. Alas that it ended in bitter tragedy.

  Apollo, her brother, watched the developing romance with distaste. He liked his sister just the way she was—a maiden interested in the world of nature. If she changed, who knew how meddlesome she might become?

  So Apollo tricked Artemis. He knew that Orion went by two names, the other being Candaon. And he knew that Artemis was unaware of Orion’s other name. Now it just happened that there was another man named Candaon, who was a nasty fellow by anyone’s reckoning. That other Candaon was hated by Artemis because he had been brutal to one of her followers. One day when Orion was swimming, Apollo pointed at him and told Artemis that there, far out in the sea, was the wicked Candaon. In anger, Artemis aimed her arrow at the distant figure. Then she swam out and fetched the body.

  Woe! Hideous and hateful brother, who had made her kill the only man she’d ever loved. Wretched trick, wretched goddess, wretched world. Artemis and her mother Leto appealed to her father, the god Zeus, who placed Orion in the heavens as a constellation.

  HUNTER in the Sky

  The belt of sky that circles the Earth above the Equator is the celestial Equator. The constellation Orion sits there, and it can be viewed from anywhere in the world, in any season. Three bright stars form a slanted line that is the hunter’s belt. Four bright stars seem to mark the corners of a tall box, and they are the outer edges of the hunter’s body. These seven stars make Orion one of the most noticeable and easily recognized constellations in the night sky.

  An illustration of the constellation Orion

  Orion went through life almost haphazardly, showing little care for others. In his eternal spot in the skies, he stayed true to that nature. Artemis, still enamored, waved to him often. Orion enjoyed the admiration his fixed pose drew, but he never waved back.

  Greek gods and goddesses also have Roman names. Greek heroes, however, have only one name. The exception is Heracles, better known by his Roman name Hercules.

  Amphitryon, king of Troezen, was a fierce general. He brought his wife Alcmena with him while he engaged in battle. Zeus, the king of gods, noticed her beauty. That she was already married was a pesky problem, however. So Zeus disguised himself as Amphitryon. Nine months later she gave birth to two boys: Iphicles, son of Amphitryon, and Heracles, son of Zeus. Alcmena had no idea the boys were anything but natural twins.

  As soon as Hera, Zeus’ queen wife, found out about this new wife, she flew into her usual fury. She decided to torment Zeus and Alcmena’s child. Even before Heracles was born, Hera began her campaign against him. At the time, the woman Nicippe was also with child—she was to bear Eurystheus. The two unborn babes, Heracles and Eurystheus, were cousins since they shared Perseus as their grandfather. Whichever boy was born
first would become the local king. So Hera delayed Heracles’ birth by tying Alcmena’s legs in knots, until his cousin Eurystheus could be born.

  But that wasn’t enough to placate her for long. She watched the baby Heracles and her heart grew ever more bitter. So she attacked. When Heracles and his half brother Iphicles were eight months old, asleep in their crib, two gigantic snakes slithered into their room and flicked their forked tongues across the boys’ cheeks. Iphicles screamed. But Heracles grabbed each snake around the throat. Alcmena and Amphitryon came rushing to find Iphicles in tears but Heracles laughing with the limp snakes hanging from his fists. Hera bit her own fists in frustration.

  The parents bowed in astonishment. Such a special child merited an education, so a series of tutors came. The music tutor made the mistake of striking Heracles for not playing right. The boy exploded with temper and smashed a lute over his head, killing him. It was unintended; Heracles didn’t understand his strength yet. He couldn’t have been more sorry.

  But Amphitryon, fearing that Heracles might unwittingly do more harm, sent the boy to grow up among the cattle herds. A ferocious lion made the mistake of preying in just that area. At only 18, the youth went to hunt the lion. He strangled it with his bare hands, dressed in its skin, and put its gaping mouth over his head like a helmet.

  BRAWN vs. Brain

  Heracles was the most famous hero of a particular type in ancient Greece: He was strong, confident, and courageous. But he was also either thoughtless or dense. He solved problems with brawn, not brain; he slew person after person, army after army, monster after monster. He made mistakes and felt awful about them, but he never changed his ways, he never learned from his mistakes. Yet at times he seemed almost jolly. The Greeks revered him, but they laughed at him, too.