Gods and Heroes of Ancient Greece

by Gustav Schwab

  “Listen,” she said. “I know how to subdue this monster. All you need do is to keep the ship out of throwing distance.” Then she held high the folds of her crimson gown and walked along the ship, Jason guiding her. In a low voice she pronounced a weird spell, calling three times upon the Fates who cut the thread of life, and the swift hounds of the underworld that race through air and hunt the living. With her charms she caused the lids of Talos to close and sent black dreams to haunt his soul. Dazed with sleep, he bent to pick up a stone for the defence of the harbor, but he hit his vulnerable ankle against a pointed crag, and the blood welled from the wound, thick as molten lead. Like a pine, half-hewn by the woodcutter, which the first gust of wind tumbles crashing to the ground, so Talos swayed on his feet and then plunged into the sea with a roar like thunder.

  Now the Argonauts could safely land, and they rested on that beautiful island until morning. Hardly had they left Crete, however, when a new and fearful adventure confronted them. Moonless night fell, and not a single star lit the sky. The air was black as though all the darkness in the world had gathered there, and they did not know whether they were sailing the sea or the tides of Tartarus. With lifted hands, Jason implored Phoebus Apollo to set them free from this spectral darkness. Tears of terror coursed down his cheeks, and he promised the god to dedicate priceless offerings to him. And the sun-god heard. He descended from Olympus, leaped upon a cliff, and taking his golden bow in his hand, shot silver arrows over that region. In the sudden light they saw a small island toward which they steered. There they cast anchor and waited for the dawn. When they were riding the high seas in the broad light of the sun, Euphemus remembered a dream he had had that night. The clod of earth which Triton had given him and which he carried against his breast, seemed to suck itself full of milk, stir with life, and grow into a lovely maiden who said: “I am the daughter of Triton and of Libya. Give me to the daughter of Nereus, so that I may live in the sea close to Anaphe. Thereafter I shall again come out into the sun, for I am destined to provide for your grandsons.”

  Euphemus recalled all this because the name of the island where they had waited for morning had been Anaphe. Jason, to whom he told his dream, at once knew what it signified. He advised his friend to cast the clod he carried in his bosom into the waves. And when this was done, lo! before the eyes of the heroes a fertile island sweet with flowers and fruits rose up out of the sea. They called it Calliste, which means the fairest of all, and in after years Euphemus peopled it with his children.

  This was the last adventure of the Argonauts. They soon reached the island of Aegina and from there steered toward their native land and ran into the harbor of Iolcus. In the strait of Corinth, Jason consecrated the ship to Poseidon. When it had crumbled to dust, the gods set it in the heavens, and it glittered in the southern firmament as a shining constellation.

  JASON’S END

  Jason did not succeed to the throne of Iolcus, for whose sake he had gone on his dangerous quest, taken Medea from her father, and wickedly murdered her brother Absyrtus. He had to leave the realm to Acastus, the son of Pelias, and flee to Corinth with his young wife. Here he lived with her for ten years, during which time she bore him three sons. The two eldest were twins, and their names were Thessalus and Alcimenes; the third, Tisander, was much younger. During these years, Jason had loved and honored Medea, not only for her beauty but for her quick wits and resourceful mind as well. But later, when time lessened the charms of her person, he fell deeply in love with a beautiful young girl, Glauce, the daughter of Creon, king of Corinth. He wooed her without his wife’s knowledge, and only after her father had agreed to the union and appointed a day for the wedding did Jason tell Medea and urge her to consent to dissolve their marriage. Not that he had wearied of her, he protested, but it would be of advantage to their children if he were kin to the ruling house. Medea received his demand with bitter resentment and angrily called the gods to testify to the oaths he had sworn her. But Jason ignored her fury and insisted on wedding the king’s daughter.

  In despair Medea wandered through her husband’s palace. “Woe is me,” she cried. “Would that a flash from heaven might strike me down! Why should I live any longer? If only Death would take pity upon me! O father! O country I left in disgrace! O my brother, whom I murdered, and whose blood is now coming upon me! But it was not Jason, my husband, who should have punished me! It was for him that I sinned! O goddess of justice, I call upon you to destroy him and his young concubine!”

  Creon, Jason’s father-in-law, came upon her in the palace as she raged through room and court. “You with your scowling eyes,” he said, “you who are smoldering with fury at your husband, take your sons by the hand and leave my country this very instant. I shall not return home until I have driven you from my borders.”

  Medea suppressed her anger and answered him composedly. “Why fear evil from me, Creon? You have done me no wrong; you owed me nothing. You gave your daughter to a man who met with your approval. How did I concern you? I hate only my husband, who owed me everything! But what is done is done. Let them live together as man and wife. Oh, let me continue to dwell in your country, for though I have been greatly wronged, I shall be silent and submit to those mightier than I.”

  But Creon saw the rage in her eyes and did not trust her, even when she clasped his knees and implored him by the name of his own daughter Glauce, her hated rival. “Go,” he said, “and free me of care.” But when she begged him to put off her exile for one short day, so that she might find a refuge for her sons, he replied: “I am not harsh of spirit. Many times I have foolishly yielded, beguiled by misplaced pity. Now too I feel that I am not acting wisely. Nonetheless—have your way in this.”

  As soon as Medea had gained the respite she desired, madness came over her, and she prepared to carry out a deed she had vaguely planned, yet never really considered doing. First, however, she made one last attempt to convince her husband of his disloyalty and injustice. “You have betrayed me,” she cried. “You took another wife, notwithstanding the fact that I have given you sons. If you were childless, I could forgive you; you would have an excuse. As it is, you have none at all. Do you think the gods who ruled the world when you swore faith to me are no more, or that men are living by new laws, that you dare break your word? Tell me—I shall ask you as though you were my friend—where do you advise me to go? Will you send me back to my father, whom I deceived, whose son I killed for love of you? Or what other refuge would you suggest for me? It will, indeed, add glory to the new-wed pair if your first wife and your own sons roam through the world as beggars!”

  But Jason was deaf to her reproaches. He promised to supply her and the children with gold and send messages to friends who might offer her hospitality, but she rejected such help. “Go, marry,” she said. “You will celebrate a bridal which will end in sorrow.”

  When Jason had left her, she regretted these last words, not because her purpose had changed, but because she feared he might keep watch on her and prevent her from putting her evil plan into execution. And so she sent for him again, put on a more gentle manner, and chose wistful words. “Jason, forgive me for what I said. I was blinded with rage. Now I see very well that all you have done is for the best. We came here as poor fugitives. By this new marriage of yours, you expect to provide for yourself, for your children, and even for me. When they have been away from you for a little, you will recall your sons and let them share in the fortune of their sisters and brothers. Come, my children, and cast out your bitterness against your father, just as I have cast out mine.”

  Jason really believed that she had put from her the grudge she had borne him. He rejoiced at this and made many promises to her and the children. And Medea set out to make him still more certain of her good faith. She begged him to keep the children and let her go alone. To gain consent for this from Glauce and her father, she had precious robes of gold fetched from her stores and gave them to Jason for the king’s daughter. At first he hesitated, bu
t finally she convinced him, and he had a servant take the gifts to the bride. But those beautiful robes were made of stuffs which had been drenched with poison. When Medea had bidden her husband a falsely sweet farewell, she waited from hour to hour for the messenger who was to report to her how her presents had been received. At last he came and called from afar: “Board your ship, Medea, and flee! Your foe and her father are both dead. When your sons entered the palace at their father’s side, we servants rejoiced that the feud was healed. The young princess received your husband with smiling lips, but when she saw the children, she veiled her eyes and turned away her face as if she loathed their presence. Jason tried to placate her, spoke kindly words in their behalf, and spread out the gifts before her. The sight of the magnificent robes gladdened her heart. She softened and promised the bridegroom to agree to everything he wished. When your husband and sons had left her, she reached eagerly for the marvellous raiment, cast the golden mantle about her shoulders, twined the gold wreath in her hair, and joyfully looked at the image shining out at her from the clear mirror. Then she trailed through her apartments, childishly proud of her new apparel. But soon her feelings changed. She paled, her limbs shook. Her feet faltered, and before she could reach a seat, she fell. The color ebbed from her face, she turned up her eyes so that only the whites showed, and foam gathered on her lips. The palace rang with cries. Some of the servants hurried to her father, others to her husband. In the meantime the magic wreath on her head had burst into flame. Poison and fire contended for her flesh, and when her father rushed in to her with loud lament, he found only the dead disfigured body of his daughter. In his despair, he threw himself upon her, and the poison in the murderous robe worked on him also, so that he too lost his life. I know nothing of Jason.”

  Instead of cooling Medea’s rage, the recital of these horrors only served to fan it to hotter flame. Like an avenging Fury she ran out to deal the fatal blow to her husband and herself. Night had fallen, and she hurried to the room where her sons lay asleep. “Steel yourself, my heart,” she muttered on the way. “Why do you shudder from doing the awful, the needful deed? Forget that these are your children, that you have borne them. Forget it for this one hour only, and then mourn them all your days. You are doing them a welcome service. If you do not kill them, they will die at the hands of their foes.”

  When Jason hastened toward his house to find the murderess of his young bride and take vengeance on her, he heard the screams of his children. Running through the open door of their chamber he found them bleeding from deadly wounds, slain like victims at the altar. Medea was nowhere to be seen. When he left his house, he heard a rushing sound overhead. Looking up, he beheld her in a dragon-drawn chariot, which her magic art had conjured, riding the wind away from the scene of her revenge. Jason had no hope of punishing her for her crime. Despair engulfed him. His soul remembered the murder of Absyrtus. He rushed upon his sword and died on the threshold of his house.

  MELEAGER AND THE BOAR

  OENEUS, king of Calydon, brought the first fruits of a lavish harvest season as an offering to the gods: grain to Demeter, wine to Dionysus, oil to Athene, and so to each deity the proper gift. Only Artemis was forgotten, and no fumes of incense rose at her altar. This angered the goddess, and she resolved to take revenge on him who had neglected her. She set a great boar on the king’s domains. His red eyes darted fire, his neck bristled. Lightning seemed to dart from his foaming jaws, and his tusks were like those of an elephant. This huge beast trampled the meadows and fields, so that barns and lofts gaped empty of the promised crops. He devoured the grapevines, clusters, and leaves, and ate the branches along with the olives. Neither shepherds nor their dogs were able to defend the flocks against the monster, nor the most savage bulls their herds.

  At last the king’s son, fair Meleager, assembled hunters and hounds to slay the wild boar. The most famous heroes of all Greece were invited to join in the chase, and with them Atalanta of Arcadia, the warlike daughter of Iasus. She had been abandoned in a forest and suckled by a bear. Later, huntsmen had found her and reared her. She had grown into a beautiful maiden, but she despised men and spent her days hunting in the forest. Not only had she rejected all men who approached her, but she even shot two centaurs who persisted in their suit. Now it was love of the chase that lured her into the company of these heroes. Her hair was caught in a simple knot, her ivory quiver slung across her shoulder, and in her left hand she carried her bow. Her face looked girlish for a boy, and boyish for a girl. When Meleager saw how fair she was, he said to himself: “Happy the man she will consider worthy to be her husband!” But he had not time to pursue this train of thought, for the dangerous hunt allowed no delay.

  The group of hunters walked toward a wood of ancient trees, which covered the level countryside and the slope of the mountain. When they arrived, some went about setting snares, while others unleashed the hounds and still others followed the tracks of the quarry. Presently they came to a steep and narrow valley, carved out by swollen streams. This gorge, thick with reeds, swamp grass, and osiers, was the boar’s hiding place. Now that the hounds had roused him, he broke through the wood like lightning speeding from a cloud and charged into the very midst of his foes. The youths cried aloud and pointed their spears, but the boar evaded them and crashed through the pack. Missile after missile flew at him, only to graze his hide and increase his fury. With flashing eyes and heaving breast he turned, made for the right flank of the hunters like a stone shot from the sling, and bore three of them to the ground, killing them instantly. A fourth—Nestor, destined to become a great hero in times to come—saved himself by climbing into the branches of an oak tree, on whose trunk the boar sharpened his terrible tusks. And here the twin brothers, Castor and Polydeuces, charging on snow-white horses, would have pierced him with their spears, had he not fled into impenetrable thickets. Then Atalanta fitted an arrow to her string and shot at the monster through the bushes. It struck him under the ear, and now at last his bristles were stained with blood. Meleager was the first to see the wound, and jubilantly he pointed it out to his comrades. “Atalanta,” he cried, “it is you who deserve the prize of valor!” At this the men felt ashamed to think that a woman was cheating them of victory, and all threw their spears at once. But the very shower of their missiles prevented a single one from reaching the animal.

  Now Ancaeus, the Arcadian, proudly raised his two-edged battle-axe in both hands and made ready to deal the blow. But before it fell, the boar drove his tusks into the hero’s side and laid bare his entrails, so that he died in a pool of blood. Then Jason cast his spear, but it missed the mark and glanced sidewise and into the body of Celadon. Finally Meleager hurled two spears, one after the other. The first fell to the ground, but the second pierced the boar in the middle of the back. The beast began to rage and run in circles. Blood and foam spurted from his mouth. Meleager dealt him a fresh blow on the neck, and now lances struck him from all sides. The dying boar lay stretched on the earth and writhed in the blood pouring from his wounds. Meleager pressed his foot against his head, and with his sword ripped the rough hide from the beast and presented it to brave Atalanta along with the head and the gleaming tusks. “Take these trophies,” he said. “They are mine by right, but you shall share in my glory.”

  But the hunters were angry that such honor should be accorded a woman, and a murmur ran through their ranks. The brothers of Meleager’s mother, the sons of Thestius, clenched their fists, shook them at Atalanta, and threatened her with loud words. “Put down those trophies at once, woman,” they cried. “Do not think you can trick us of what is ours. Your beauty will aid you just as little as Meleager, that love-sick waster of these gifts!” With that they took the head and hide from her, disputing Meleager’s right to dispose of them. At this he was overcome with rage, ground his teeth, and roared: “You who would rob the deserts of another, let me teach you how threat differs from deed!” And before his uncles knew what he was about, he had plunged his sword firs
t into one and then the other.

  Althaea, Meleager’s mother, was on her way to the temple of the gods to offer thanks for her son’s victory when the bodies of her brothers were carried by. She beat her breast in anguish, hastened back to the palace, changed her golden robes of rejoicing for the black of mourning, and filled the city with lament. But when she heard that the murderer was her own son Meleager, she dried her tears. Her sorrow changed to the lust to kill, and she suddenly remembered something she had long since forgotten.

  When Meleager had been but a few days old, the Fates had appeared at his mother’s bedside. “Your son will become a brave hero,” the first foretold. “Your son will be a great man,” prophesied the second. “Your son,” concluded the third, “will live until that brand on the hearth is consumed by fire.” Hardly had the Fates vanished when Althaea took the brand from the hearth, quenched it in water, and, full of solicitude for the life of her son, hid it in a secret chamber.

  Now, in her vengeful anger, she thought of the brand and hurried to the place where she had locked it away. She had kindling and wood brought, and when the flames leapt high, seized the brand she had taken from its hiding-place. But in her heart, the mother struggled with the sister. Her face grew pale and then flushed. Four times she reached forward to place the brand in the fire, and four times she drew back her hand. In the end her sisterly love overcame her.