Not far off, at Methone, Argus found oak timber suitable for the ribs of the ship, selecting crooked limbs of large trees, and one tall straight oak for the keel. When he had floated these too to Pagasae, the work of building could begin. Some of his carpenters smoothed the pine timbers with adzes into planking, others with saws and axes cut the oak ribs, then dove-tailed them into the keel and bored bolt-holes for fastening them with olive-wood pegs to the stout oaken bulwark. Soon the skeleton of the ship took shape, and by the time that the prow and stern-post were fitted, the planking was ready to be nailed to the ribs with copper nails; but first each plank was made pliant by steaming it over cauldrons filled with boiling sea-water. The ship measured sixty paces in length, at the water-line, with a beam of five paces; some seamen of experience thought that a wider beam would be needed for a passage of the Black Sea, which had the reputation of throwing up huge waves from every quarter at the same time; but Argus obstinately maintained that speed was a more important consideration than the comfort of the crew.
The mast was stowed away in a crutch, but was easily pulled out and stepped into its socket with the aid of massive oaken wedges. The sail was a square of coarse white linen, brought from Egypt, and the hawsers were of plaited horse-hair wound about with hemp. The ash oars, each twice the length of a man, had narrow blades; but the blades of the two oar-rudders, one fixed to port and the other to starboard of the helmsman’s seat, were broad. The benches were of oak, with well-fitting lockers under them, and the oar-holes were lined with bull’s leather on the under part.
The prow, into which the sacred oak branch from Dodona was firmly fitted, curved up gracefully like the neck of a swan, but ended in a carved ram’s head; the stem curved up similarly, so that the helmsman from his raised seat would have a clear view over the oarsmen’s heads. A stout wickerwork shield, lined outside with leather, was fixed above the bulwarks to protect the rowers against rain and boisterous waves; and, in order that the sacred tree of each of the deities who had sponsored the voyage should be used in the construction of the vessel, the uprights of this shield were made of laurel wood cut from Apollo’s grove at Delphi.
The ship was built in ninety days’ time, and before work on the stern was completed the proofing and adorning of the prow and sides had already begun. After being caulked with hot beeswax, the sides were blackened inside and out with tar distilled from the pines of Pelion; and the cheeks of the prow were painted vermilion with cinnabar bought in the summer market at Troy. On each side of this prow, high up, a great eye was painted with white and green earths, and curling black lashes were added with the tar brush. Flat anchor stones were also found, pierced to take a hawser, and chipped into a circular shape so that they could easily be trundled up a plank and heaved overboard; poles were cut for fending the ship off rocks or pushing her off a sandbank if she grounded; and two ladders were made for the convenience of embarking and disembarking. Leather thongs secured the oars to the bulwarks so that they should not slip through the oar-holes and be lost.
All who examined the ship – and hundreds of people travelled from far and near for a view of it – declared that they had never in their lives seen anything so handsome. She was named Argo in honour of Argus, and he grew so proud of her that he declared that he could not bear to be parted from his handiwork and would sail in her wherever she went.
The palace at Iolcos was filled that winter with brisk young men who had assembled in response to the heralds’ invitation. Most of them were Minyans, but not all; for it was thought that Jason would perhaps accept likely men with no Minyan blood in their veins if they consented to become Minyans by adoption. Pelias could not refuse hospitality to these visitors, but complained to Jason that they were wasting his substance like locusts, and that the sooner the voyage began the better he would be pleased; being men of distinction, they had to be fed appropriately to their rank, and most of them came accompanied by several retainers. Aeson, the father of Jason, though nominally King of Phthiotis, was living in such poverty that he could not lodge more than six men; which struck the adventurers as so odd that half of them decided after all not to make the voyage. They concluded that Pelias, not Aeson, was the real ruler of the kingdom and that it was he, not any god, who had prompted Jason to make this voyage in the hope of ridding himself of a rival. Nevertheless, they did not immediately return to their homes, since they found good sport at Iolcos in hunting, quoit-throwing, boxing, wrestling, dicing, and running races, and Pelias for the honour of his house did not stint them of food or drink.
The more energetic of them asked Argus what they should do to prepare themselves for the voyage. He answered that they had no need to ask him a question which they could themselves answer in a moment: they would be best employed in learning the art of rowing unless they were already perfect in it, which he doubted. For unless the winds were more favourable than they had any right to expect, it would be only by hard rowing that they would either stem the strong currents of the Hellespont and Bosphorus, or escape from the pursuing Colchian fleet when they had landed and carried off the Fleece. As it happened, a few of them were already practised oarsmen, who had made the Sicilian or the Italian voyage and knew almost everything that was to be known about the handling of ships; but most of them had been more concerned with horse-breeding and fighting than with seafaring and had seldom or never been aboard a ship except as passengers in calm summer weather. Then Jason borrowed from Pelias a pair of twenty-oared war-galleys which had been hauled up for the winter, and there in the sheltered waters of the gulf he and his new acquaintances rowed races for wagers, under the guidance of two well-known helmsmen, Ancaeus of Tegea and Tiphys of Thisbe. They learned to turn the oars in the oar-holes as a key turns in a lock and to keep time to the helmsman’s chant. Their hands grew hard and their shoulders muscular, and from this exercise, taken together every day, grew a bond of comradeship which restrained them from armed conflict at night over their wine-cups and dice.
One evening Jason went to Pelias and said to him privately: ‘Uncle something is weighing upon my mind, I am ashamed to tell you what.’
‘Let me hear the worst, Boy,’ said Pelias benignly.
Jason hesitated a while and then told him: ‘A lying rumour is going about the palace. Your guests are saying that you hate and fear me, and that you are sending me out on this voyage only to be rid of me; some even hint that you plan to sink our ship by some mechanical or magical device as soon as we are clear of the Pagasaean Gulf. How shamelessly the rascals talk! Nevertheless, I fear that unless you can reassure them that you are as favourably disposed to me, and to the ship Argo, as I know in my heart that you are, there will be no volunteers for the voyage, or not enough to man the ship. Then you will have been caused all this expense needlessly, and the Argo will become a by-word throughout Greece. Worse, when kings and priests chat together and say to one another, “Tell me, why did the Argo not sail after all? There had been so much boasting beforehand and such lavish preparations of all sorts” – this will be the answer: “It was known that Pelias meditated some treachery; this was the true reason why the Argo never sailed, not the evil omens that they pretended to find when they sacrificed.” And consider, Uncle, whether the Gods will be pleased when the same rumour reaches high Olympus.’
Pelias was disturbed. He called all the adventurers together and told them: ‘My lords, some madman has been tarnishing my good name. May Father Zeus blast him with a thunderbolt from a clear sky and the Harpies carry off the writhing remnants! Which of you, my honoured guests, will dare to repeat to my face the base lies that he whispers behind my back? I tamper with the hull of the Argo or plot against the life of her crew? How can you think that I have so little respect for the Gods and for my fellow-men? Oh, some rascals will believe anything. But now let me give you proof of my honest intentions towards you. There sits my only son, the Prince Acastus, whom I love dearly. Although I have need of him here to lead my men in war – for I myself am past the age of f
ighting, even from a chariot – I herewith cheerfully devote him to the sacred quest of the Fleece. He shall go with you, he shall be your comrade, and any trouble or disaster that may strike the Argo shall strike my son Acastus at the same time, and myself because of him.’
He spoke deceitfully, intending at the last moment to detain Acastus on some pretext or other but the speech reassured many of the doubtful ones. Acastus, who had just been drunkenly complaining that his father was unkind to forbid him an adventure from which no Minyan prince could decently abstain, uttered a yell of delight. He staggered across the hall to embrace the knees of Pelias and ask his blessing. Pelias was obliged to grant the blessing and conceal his displeasure.
Now, among the chieftains of Phthiotis was a young nobleman of Corinthian stock who had fled to Iolcos from his island of Aegina after killing a stepbrother with a quoit; but it was not clear whether this was murder or manslaughter. He had then married the daughter of a cousin to Pelias, the leader of the Myrmidon clan, and at Phthia was given a thorough ritual purification to cheat the stepbrother’s ghost. After the ceremony he changed his name to Peleus – his original name is now forgotten – and was initiated into the Ant fraternity. Peleus then went with his father-in-law to Arcadia to take part in the famous hunt of the Calydonian boar. When the boar suddenly broke cover, Peleus threw his javelin at it; but it glanced off the boar’s shoulders and transfixed the father-in-law. He went to Iolcos for a further purification, which was performed by Acastus, but retained the name of Peleus; and then returned to Phthia to take over his father-in-law’s lands, and the leadership of the Myrmidon clan. While he was still at Iolcos, the wife of Acastus fell in love with him, or so he afterwards said, and made advances to him. When he rejected them she secretly accused him to Acastus of having made advances to her which she had rejected. Acastus was friendly with Peleus, but the Achaeans set so much store on the chastity of their wives that he felt bound to avenge his honour. However, he shrank from killing Peleus outright, because the ceremony of purification was, he knew, a troublesome one and not always effective. Instead he took Peleus hunting on Mount Pelion in a part of the forest reserved by treaty for the Centaurs, and presently put him to sleep by giving him several draughts of beer on an empty stomach. Then he took away his sword and left him, hoping that either wild beasts or Centaurs would kill him.
The Centaurs were the first to discover Peleus, but fortunately old Cheiron happened to come up in time to call off his hot-headed tribesmen, reminding them that if they killed one Achaean twenty Centaur lives would be exacted in vengeance. Peleus guessed who had taken his sword and why, and persuaded Cheiron to send down a report to Iolcos that his body had been found mangled by wild beasts. The wife of Acastus then publicly boasted that her husband had avenged her honour; and Acastus, growing alarmed, shut himself in his room and would not eat, and daubed his face with filth and tore all his garments to make himself unrecognizable to the vengeful ghost of his friend. When Peleus returned safe and sound a few days later and gave his own version of the story everyone laughed at Acastus; but Acastus could at least laugh at his wife. He and Peleus became blood-brothers and swore eternal friendship. So it was that when Acastus was given leave to sail in the Argo, Peleus decided to come too.
The spring equinox was approaching, which was the earliest time at which it was considered safe to begin the voyage, and at last Jason, who had sent to the shrine of Zeus the Ram on Mount Laphystios to enquire a favourable day for sailing, was able to announce that their adventure would begin on the fourth day after the next new moon.
At this a great cheer was raised in the hall, but it was noticed that several of those who had been foremost in feasting and quoit-playing and racing were silent: and presently they began to make excuses why they could not sail. Some pretended to have injured their arms in rowing, others took to their beds in what seemed to be high fever, others went off in the night without any goodbye or polite excuse. It seemed unlikely that a sufficient ship’s company would, after all, be found, and Jason went about with a gloomy look on his face, which had a dampening effect on the spirits of his comrades.
Chapter Eight
The Arrival of Hercules
On the evening of the new moon a messenger came hurrying into the palace and told King Pelias: ‘An ancient enemy of the Minyans is marching along the road from Halos. Who he is you may easily guess when I tell you of the brass-bound club of olive wood he carries over his shoulder, the enormous bow slung at his back, the lion-skin tunic and the long unkempt mane, like a lion’s. However, he has informed travellers on the road that he comes on a peaceful errand, and it is seldom that he troubles to tell a lie.’
There was a stir in the hall, and Erginus of Miletos, formerly of Orchomenos, put his hand to his sword and would have run out to do battle, but his comrades restrained him. The gloomy-featured Melampus, Poseidon’s son from Pylos, said: ‘Erginus, we know that you have had cause to curse the name of Hercules of Tiryns since he fought against you at Thebes, after first cutting off the ears and noses of your tribute-gatherers from Orchomenos. Yes, the tribute was no unjust one: we all know that it was exacted by you in compensation for your father’s death at the hands of the Thebans. Yet if, as I suppose, Hercules has heard of our proposed expedition and wishes to take part in it, will you not have cause at last to bless his name? There is no bolder or more experienced fighter in the world than Hercules. Let us Minyans hurry out of this hall, not with swords to oppose his coming, but with garlands and cups of wine to greet him. Many years ago by his defence of Thebes he checked our attempt to subjugate Boeotia; but this old injury should be forgotten, now that the Achaeans have made themselves the overlords of all Greece and Hercules himself is become a bond-servant to King Eurystheus of Mycenae. You have all heard the saying “Nothing without Hercules”, and it is true that he has been absent from no great military exploit of the last thirty years. I regard his coming as a most fortunate sign. Let us heal the old feud by inviting him to join us as our leader.’
These words were applauded by everyone present except Jason, who, despite his complete ignorance of seamanship and navigation, had counted on the glory of commanding the expedition. Only he and Argus, who had lamed himself with an axe, stayed behind in the hall when the other adventurers ran out to welcome Hercules.
Pelias, observing this, asked Jason with a sneer: ‘Why do you sit brooding there in your leopard-skin, nephew? Do you not know that the Lion is the King of Beasts?’ When Jason made no reply, he added: ‘I advise you to run hurriedly after your companions and overtake them and be the first to welcome Hercules. If you do not, they will be vexed and sail without you, and then you will be the laughing-stock of Greece.’
Pelias hoped that Hercules would consent to command the expedition: for Jason would thereby lose his glory. Besides, Hercules, who was subject to fits of madness, had the reputation of being as terrible to his friends as to his enemies. He was capable of suddenly snatching up his massive brass-bound club, because of some imagined insult or injury, and knocking five or six of his companions stone dead; and then he would bellow remorsefully and beat his great head against a wall.
Jason took his uncle’s advice and hurried out. When he had gone, Pelias could not refrain from saying to Argus: ‘I doubt whether your ship, well bolted though she may be, will long sustain the weight of a champion as massive as Hercules.’
Jason, who was very swift of foot, soon outstripped the other Minyans. He came panting and alone an hour later to Pagasae, where he found Hercules with Hylas, his young squire, in a hut not far from the shining Argo, drinking with the ship’s carpenters and painters. ‘Most noble Prince Hercules,’ he gasped, ‘I am Jason of Iolcos, where the glad news has already come of your arrival in these parts. I have run ahead of all my companions to be the first to greet you. It is with the greatest readiness that I resign the leadership of our enterprise into your famous hands.’
Hercules, a pig-eyed, bull-necked man of extraordinary muscula
rity and height – he was nearly seven foot tall – sat gnawing at a shoulder of mutton. He grunted in answer, stripped off a little more of the roasted meat with a wrench of his huge, dirty hands and crammed it into his mouth. Then suddenly he flung the blade-bone through the open doorway, where Jason stood, at a diving-duck which was bobbing about in the water a few paces from the shore. The bone whistled by Jason’s ear, flew the full breadth of the beach and, striking the bird on the head, killed it instantly. ‘I hit her every time,’ Hercules chuckled to himself. He wiped his greasy fingers in his grizzled, stubbly hair, belched resonantly and presently asked: ‘Huh! what enterprise is this, my fine boy? You speak as though everyone in the world knew the gossip of your small corner of Thessaly. Have the wolves of Mount Haemon been stealing your bony sheep? Or have the Centaurs of Pelion broken out again and begun kissing your bony women?’
This was his usual banter; he knew well enough what enterprise Jason meant. He had just completed the sixth of the famous Twelve Labours imposed on him by King Eurystheus of Mycenae (the son and successor of King Sthenelus), which was to capture alive the wild-boar that had been terrorizing the slopes of Mount Erymanthos. The news of Jason’s projected voyage reached him in the market-place of Mycenae just as he was hauling down the boar, securely fettered, from the handcart in which he had wheeled it all the way from the bleak and cypress-shadowed valley of Arcadian Psophis. The citizens were shouting for wonder at the beast’s terrific tusks, almost like an African elephant’s, and at its glaring, bloodshot eyes. Young Hylas told the citizens: ‘My master Hercules made short work of the creature: he chased it into a deep snowdrift and then caught it in a hempen net as it floundered.’ Then, as it happened, one of Jason’s heralds came into the market-place and began making his speech about the twigs and the wool and the axe to a group of Minyans whom he found there. Hercules cried out: ‘Good people, take this boar to King Eurystheus with my compliments and tell him that I will return for further orders when I have been to Colchis and settled this little matter of the lost Fleece. Come, Hylas my child, reach me down my wallet from the cart, and off we go again on our travels.
The Golden Fleece Page 10