by Nancy Madore
The objective of this new game was to entertain and amuse, and the tale could not be outlandish enough to please the gods. The winning narratives would become famous, being passed from city to city, where they could be even further elaborated upon by anyone with enough imagination to do so.
Of course, for the story to be truly great, it had to contain some small grain of truth. Often, this truth revealed the mortals’ innermost feelings about the gods. Though they were cautious never to cross a line that might cost them their lives, the more talented storytellers could, at times, even poke fun at the gods. But first and foremost, the stories were meant to flatter the gods—especially the patron god controlling their fate.
The authors of the winning stories were rewarded with riches and power beyond their wildest dreams—sometimes even being granted their own kingdom. The competition was fierce. This, now, became the favored portion of the games, usurping even the competitions between the gods. Everyone wanted to hear the latest installments in the never-ending drama of the gods and their amazing feats.
Naturally, the hero or heroine of the story was always the patron god of the storyteller. The most popular stories focused on whatever trait that god was best loved for—such as beauty, strength or kindness—and would ensure that god’s protection from any less favored gods appearing in the tale (because every good story needs an antagonist or two). Mortals—both faithful and unfaithful—were thrown in to add suspense, and a story was born. Often, the most faithful mortals would become martyrs for their gods, and this, too, reflected a truth. It illustrated the hopelessness the people felt with their fate resting in the hands of these impulsive gods.
The stories were told, and retold, until they had reached every corner of the kingdom surrounding the great sea—and even beyond. The gods themselves had never been as famous as their stories. In fact, many of them had never been heard of before, especially in the more distant regions. Remote cities that had never participated in the games were now voting on which gods to worship. The stories had accomplished what even the gods themselves could not do. They could now be known without ever being seen.
But this was not necessarily a good thing. While Aphrodite and Zeus were renowned for their passion, Hera—who was, perhaps, more passionate than both of them put together—became famous for her jealousy. Likewise, Poseidon became the epitome of the dark, vengeful god, and his many gifts to the mortals—which really exceeded all the gifts of the other gods put together—were practically forgotten. In the end, his rages were all the mortals remembered. To them, Poseidon was like the storms he created; tempestuous and unpredictable. The truth was that he calmed more waters than he stirred up, saving many a ship from certain death, but these events were not as memorable as his tantrums. And yet, he was a favorite with the storytellers, though they rarely cast him in a heroic light. He was, at best, respected and feared, and at worst, a villain to overcome. Still, the stories brought Poseidon more worshippers. No matter who your patron god was, you would not step foot onto any boat unless the captain had sacrificed a horse to the ‘god of the sea.’
But there was a flaw in Poseidon’s power, and that was his younger brother, Zeus. Anything that Zeus asked of him, Poseidon would do. There was often an undercurrent of resentment in Poseidon’s compliance, but it never wavered, in spite of that. The mortals saw this as a sign. Zeus’ ability to wrap even the mighty Poseidon around his little finger seemed to confirm his supremacy over them all. For this reason alone, Zeus was the most universally worshipped of all the gods—for ultimately, it was in his hands that their fates rested.
This supposed supremacy of one god over the others was a favorite theme among the storytellers. They loved to create disruption and conflict between the gods. And they also liked to imagine the gods discussing their fate as mortals. In their quest to understand what was happening to them, they created rivalries, conspiracies and all sorts of other dramas between the gods. And—for the most part—the gods found the stories as entertaining as the mortals did. In particular, the mortals enjoyed pitting Poseidon against Zeus.
Poseidon was mostly avoiding the games by this time, so the few stories he heard were told to him after the fact—usually by someone with enough common sense to either make the parts about him more flattering or to omit them altogether. But when it came to the other gods, Poseidon enjoyed the humor and satire with which they were represented. In fact, the most popular stories were the ones that gently mocked the gods—though it took a skillful storyteller to do this in a way that would not anger the gods. But the gods were cautious too. They were hesitant to take offense, lest they seem petty. Or, if they did lash out against a storyteller, the penalties were usually mild and easily fixed by the patron god who was being honored.
But most of the gods were able to laugh at themselves and to enjoy the stories for what they were. If you weren’t the patron god of the storyteller, you were fair game. It was all just in fun. And sometimes the bad publicity actually worked in that god’s favor. Hera was a perfect example of this. There were countless stories of her jealous rages, and her wrath was portrayed as a bitter wind to endure. This discouraged potential lovers from glancing twice at Zeus, for fear of angering his notorious wife.
The best stories often featured a challenge for the gods. In one such story about Poseidon, he falls madly in love with his sister, Demeter. But Demeter will only consider him if he will create an animal more beautiful than any other on earth. Accepting the challenge, Poseidon creates the horse—but upon gaining Demeter’s approval, he quickly loses interest in her. This story revealed the way people perceived Poseidon. They saw him as fiercely competitive, craving approval and love. And yet, upon achieving it, he would become distant and bored. How many cities, for example, had he won and then forgotten?
It was this, more than anything else that made the stories so popular. This element of truth in an otherwise fantastic tale was tremendously entertaining. But for the god who was being revealed, it could be painful. Upon hearing this tale about his brief affair with Demeter, Poseidon was crushed. And yet, he could not deny that he had lost interest in his beautiful sister once his pursuit of her was won. But he blamed her, for being too headstrong and foolish to hold him. And it was the same with his cities. Their approval seemed superficial and inconsistent. He wanted genuine, unceasing loyalty, and he was certain that he could offer the same in return should he ever find it.
Poseidon was often the first to admit when the storytellers captured his true nature. One of his all-time favorites was the tale of the Minotaur. This story begins when King Minos, the ruler of Crete, provokes Poseidon’s wrath by failing to keep a promise to him. In a contest for the throne, Minos prays for a beautiful white bull to ensure his success, promising to sacrifice it back to the god afterwards. But upon winning the throne, Minos sacrifices a different bull so that he can keep the white bull for himself. Instead of destroying this new king of Crete—as Poseidon could easily have done—he turns to Aphrodite, the goddess of love, for help. She casts a spell on King Minos’ wife, Pasiphae, that causes her to fall deeply in love with the white bull. Overcome with passion for the beast, Pasiphae has a wooden cow constructed for her to hide inside, so that she can safely mate with the bull. Their union results in the Minotaur, a fearsome creature, half man, half bull, that feasts on human flesh. An enormous labyrinth is created outside the palace in which to keep the Minotaur trapped forever.
The story of Poseidon and the white bull was an enormous success at the games. It presented the gods’ retributions as obstacles for the mortals to overcome. And overcome them they would. Over the years, other storytellers would add their own contributions to the tale, bringing in new gods to challenge the Minotaur until, at last, it was destroyed. But for Poseidon, the story of the Minotaur was a perfect example of the mortals’ duplicity. It showed them for the ungrateful creatures that they were. It also illustrated his incredible mercy in allowing them an opportunity to right their wrong, no matter how long
it might take.
With no one to stop them, the storytellers grew more brazen. And once a story was out in the world it could be expounded upon anonymously. As the stories grew out of proportion, so did the gods. Generally, they became even more corrupt, petty and vindictive. Hades kidnapped Persephone, the object of his desire, and trapped her in his dark underworld. On a whim, Circe transformed an entire army into swine. Athena blinded a man for daring to look upon her nakedness. Zeus chained Prometheus to a rock so his flesh would be devoured by the birds.
Because of their ability to exist in either the spirit or the flesh, the gods were known as shape shifters. Their souls inspired tales of greatness or horror, depending on the feeling their appearance aroused in the teller. Poseidon was most often portrayed as a threatening presence, with his trident poised and ready to attack. But there were worse things than this. It was said that Medusa’s soul was so horrifying to look upon that a mere glance would turn any mortal to stone.
On and on the stories went, either hailing the heroic feats of the gods or subtly mocking them. Either way, the gods would endure it. In fact, it was considered a much worse thing not to be featured in a story at all than to be revealed in an unflattering light. In a way, the closer the tales came to revealing the true nature of the god, the more appealing it was to them. To be accepted and worshipped in spite of their faults was the highest honor they could achieve. The gods did not have to be perfect; they merely had to be.
By this time, all of the cities in the northwest region of the Great Sea belonged to the gods. Though most mortals would never make it to the Funeral Games, reports of the games found their way into even the most remote villages. And they all had their favorite gods. But often, only the stories of the most notorious gods reached the more isolated areas. And here, too, some of the less popular gods saw an opportunity to shine. They began venturing out from Mount Olympus to compete for worshippers wherever they could find them.
This new method of bringing the games to the mortals was an instant sensation. Depending on the size of a city, it could draw any number of gods to participate. The traveling games were prized above anything else, and the mortals did everything they could think of—even joining their resources with other settlements and villages—to entice the gods to come to them. It would prove a profitable venture. It wasn’t just the excitement and honor the games brought. People from miles around would come pouring in to watch the event. The atmosphere was always festive, and the spectators spared no expense. A single game could bring more revenue than what most cities could earn in a year. As the cities competed to attract the gods, another period of growth occurred. The entire region burgeoned with innovations of every kind.
Potential worshipers could be found anywhere, but none were more coveted than those who lived in the cities that bordered the Great Sea. These were the most prosperous and sophisticated mortals in the kingdom of Olympia. Their proximity to the sea gave them the ability to trade with other nations along the seaboard. This was, of course, where Poseidon surpassed the other gods. As master of the sea, he controlled their very livelihoods. There wasn’t a mortal among them who would deny his importance.
But the people were not limited to one god. In general, they acknowledged all of the gods, keeping, among themselves, their favorites. These were the gods they prayed to. From these favorites, each city had a ‘patron’ god—one deity that they held above all others. It was this position of patron god that Poseidon sought whenever he competed for a city.
For the most part, Poseidon ruled supreme in the south. But no matter how many successes he would have, Poseidon was always more deeply affected by the failures—and he considered everything short of patron god a failure. He felt compelled to punish the mortals who rejected him. And why shouldn’t he? He was, after all, the god of the sea. It was his domain that they depended on for their existence. What sort of god would he be if he just sat back and allowed the mortals to mock his authority? He would not be a god at all. For this reason, he felt his time was better spent in seeking vengeance against the ‘disloyal’ cities than in rewarding his patron cities. To his mind, it was reward enough not to have his fury directed at them, and this was the best reason to choose him as their patron god. It would ensure their protection—albeit from him.
But if the mortals were truthful, they would have to admit that it was not all bad. Poseidon took pleasure in surprising his patron cities with sporadic bouts of kindness. He could be quite generous when he wanted to be, especially when it came to his favorite city, which was Attica.
The merchants of Attica were practically guaranteed safe passage at sea. But Poseidon had given them the advantage on land as well. His horses had brought about the chariot, which could boast the fastest, most reliable method of delivery in the region. The prosperity Attica enjoyed made them one of the most desirable places to live. People came from everywhere—even outside the kingdom—to see (and hopefully experience) this ‘land of opportunity.’ But it wasn’t just fortune they came seeking. It was the lifestyle. This was not merely a city to prosper in. It was a city of pleasure. Culture abounded in Attica, beginning with the arena built by Poseidon himself, which outshined even the glory of the very first arena at Mount Olympus. The featured event in Poseidon’s arena was always the chariot races, which were the first of their kind. As well, there were the regular games of strength and dominance, such as wrestling and archery, and plenty of new games involving feats of intelligence, art, agriculture—and anything else that people could find to compete at.
Under Poseidon’s patronage, Attica prospered to the point where it became necessary to separate it into smaller, more manageable cities. One of these first new cities to be developed was in the southwestern region of Attica. Since none of its borders actually touched the shoreline, this new acropolis didn’t seem all that special at first. But it was magnificently situated, with mountains in the distance, and high, rolling hills that provided spectacular views all around. No sooner were the boundary lines drawn than the city was appointed its first king, a mortal by the name of Cecrops.
The famed arena where Poseidon held his chariot races was situated high on a hill of this new city, so it seemed fitting that they should celebrate with a round of games. Since all of Attica belonged to Poseidon, he had no reason to fear that her first born child would not follow suit. He came to the games bearing gifts—and was stunned to find a contender for this position that he considered already his. Even more shocking than the challenge itself was the individual who had issued it. It was none other than Athena.
It was outrageous to think that any god would challenge Poseidon’s authority in Attica—but Athena? A mere Nephilim? What had she to offer the people in this region? What protection could she provide? The most she could do for her worshippers was to run to her father for help, who would then induce one of the real gods to step in and act on her behalf.
Poseidon knew that the mortals loved Athena (though he would never understand why), but he was confident that they would not make her their patron god. Still, her audacity in challenging him would make her his enemy for life.
There was always a period of celebration before a competition began because, depending on the outcome, the games were apt to end abruptly. Poseidon was not the only god who hated to lose—though he was, perhaps, the most famous for it. It might have been this fame that made the feasting go on so much longer than usual, or maybe it was just that there was so much good fortune to go around. It was as if the people were trying to outdo themselves with each consecutive day. There was raucous entertainment, food fit for kings and every kind of spirit to keep the mood jovial. Everyone was having a good time.
Except Poseidon. He couldn’t rest for wondering what gift Athena would offer. Would she present his new city with one of her pretty little tapestries, or did she have something more original planned this time? And how would the mortals receive her gift? Poseidon watched as she interacted with them—she really was more like a mortal tha
n a goddess—and he could see that they were charmed by her.
But surely they were not so foolish as to think her a worthy goddess to protect them in his stead?
Finally the moment of truth arrived, and with it, the overall mood grew somber. It was possible that everyone perceived the foolishness of Athena’s challenge, but, more likely, they were simply disappointed to see the festivities come to an end. But it couldn’t have come soon enough for Poseidon. Eagerly he faced his opponent. He nodded for her to proceed, but she simply smiled and bowed, insisting that he go first.
Poseidon rose up high in the air and pointed his trident in the direction of the Great Sea. He forced all other thoughts from his mind as he focused on the task ahead of him. He heard a collective gasp from the audience as they watched, but this only encouraged him.
There was a loud rumbling as the ground began to tremble faintly beneath them. The gasps became cries of alarm.
“There is nothing to fear!” Poseidon assured them, his powerful voice rising above the din. His words brought instant silence. Everyone watched, frozen to the spot. The rumbling, though slight, was terrifying from their positions in the arena. Yet to anger the god by crying out or trying to escape—no one moved a muscle.
The vibrations seemed to be growing more intense—though it was still not overly severe. But the sound was as loud as thunder. It appeared to be moving toward them, as if from a great distance. Over time, it became clear that this was the case. As Poseidon moved his trident ever so slowly and conscientiously, they could see that he was, in fact, leading it directly to them! The closer it got, the louder the rumbling became. It was accompanied by explosive pops and cracks, as if the ground was being torn apart. It slowly dawned on the crowd that Poseidon was carving out a fissure in the earth. But for what purpose?