The Golden Fleece

by Robert Graves

  When Hylas revived Hercules with a helmetful of sea-water dashed in his face, he sat up in a fury, seized his club and jumped out of the wagon, which had pulled up close to the newly built altar. The crowd scattered in all directions and the Argonauts clambered up the sides of the vessel and crouched down inside. Hercules suddenly aimed two vicious blows in quick succession on the polls of the white oxen which had been drawing the wagon. They fell down dead upon their horns. Jason, peeping over the stern from the helmsman’s seat, called out: ‘Well struck, most noble Hercules! You have caused the victims to fall in the most propitious manner possible.’

  Hercules rubbed his eyes and woke as if from a trance. Then he began to laugh. The crowd crept out from their hiding-places, the Argonauts vaulted back over the sides of the ship into the water, and all joined in the laughter, even the hired mourners. Then Jason called on Great Ancaeus and one or two others to help him unyoke the fallen oxen and drag them nearer to the altar. They were the very beasts which Aeson had promised for the sacrifice; Hylas had happened to see them being driven down the road towards Pagasae and had borrowed them as draught animals for the conveyance of Hercules.

  Standing before the altar, Jason raised his voice and cried out: ‘Sun-like Brother of the Moon-like Artemis, Delphic Apollo, Wolfish One, Belaurelled Apollo of the Embarkations, to whom I vowed this sacrifice six months ago when I visited your holy shrine and city – listen to me! At your prompting, not I but Hercules of Tiryns has felled these oxen in your honour, and unexpectedly soon, for I had not yet poured the lustral water on my hands, nor set your portion of holy barley in the hollow upon the altar. You know, Dear Lord of Mice, how prompt Hercules is in any enterprise: look with favour, I beseech your musical Majesty, on this reversal of the order of your customary ritual. Now, washing my hands free of any uncleanness, I formally dedicate these fine, unblemished beasts to you, Truth-teller, sprinkling salt on their polls as a seasoning. Guide our ship, I beg you, safe and sound back to this beach of Pagasae, after we have fulfilled our quest; and watch over all who are in her. Upon her return each of us whose life is spared will lay again on this altar bright offerings of bulls’ flesh; and other gifts of countless number and priceless value we will bring to your bee-frequented shrines of Delphi or Tempe or Ortygia. Idmon, guest of your own Delphic house, will sail with us; and so also will pious Admetus, King of Pherae, who once showed you a strange reverence when you were his menial and bound to obey his least command. Protect your own, Heavenly Archer of the Unshorn Hair, and grant us a lucky sign when we unreeve the hawsers; intercede also for us with your stern uncle Poseidon, that his sea-horses, the waves, may not rush too restlessly across the deep.’

  With that he ladled out the barley-porridge on the altar top, pleased with himself for having introduced into his speech the greater part of the God’s divine attributes.

  Idmon, as priest of Apollo, then cut the oxen’s throats with a sacrificial knife of dark green obsidian. Out gushed the blood into the trench around the altar: warm food to appease any lurking ghosts.

  Lynceus, whose eyes were of such keenness that he could distinguish seven Pleiads in the night sky where others saw only six, and was always the first to detect the secret presence of a God, ghost, or Spite, now began to smile. He observed in an undertone to Little Ancaeus: ‘How greedily they drink, those ghosts! There is one fierce-looking shepherd among them, an Aethic or Dryopian by his dress, who has shouldered away the crowd from the deeper end of the trench and is drinking far more than his fair share. He has a huge wolf-hound beside him and the two of them are lapping together, tongue to tongue, at the excellent blood before it soaks into the sand.’ Jason did not overhear these words, but Little Ancaeus stored them in his memory.

  Argus, as a Bull man, was forbidden to eat beef except on one holy day of each year. He built another altar and sacrificed a fine ewe before it to the Goddess Athena, for his own eating and hers. Lynceus nudged Little Ancaeus again and said: ‘Bats and owls! What an appetite that Aethic shepherd and his dog have! Now they are at the ewe’s blood which seems more to their taste. If they drink any more it will colour them clearly enough for even you to see them. I wonder on what errand they are come here? The shaggy red wolf-hound is baring its fangs at Jason: why, how strange, there is a shadowy bronze spearhead protruding from its back!’

  But Jason did not overhear these words, either; he was busy skinning off the white hide of one of the oxen. The noblemen who were watching despised his deftness, for skinning was a task that men of distinguished birth left to their menials. With here a cut and there a jerk and there another cut, Jason had soon drawn the whole hide free of the carcase with not a drop of blood showing on the white hair.

  As Jason was thus busied, the ghost of the shepherd came creeping up slowly towards him with murder in his eye. Lynceus, hastily fumbling in his wallet, pulled out three beans, thrust them into his mouth and spat them out again at the ghost. ‘Begone, begone, begone!’ he whispered. The ghost vanished with a soundless shriek of rage and pain.

  Slowly turned on oaken spits, the great joints of meat roasted at the altar fire, while the sacred thigh-bones, rolled in fat, burned with an appetizing stench. Idmon watched the smoke mounting up from the driftwood in dark spirals of good omen, while Jason poured out a libation of milk and honey-water to Apollo; and, as he watched, he was moved to prophesy in Apollo’s name and cried: ‘Idmon, Idmon, what do you see in the flames?’ Then he answered himself: ‘I see the small yellow aconite flower. I see death for you, Idmon, death on a flowery meadow, far from your home in lovely Delphi, while the ship sails on eastward without you, to the sound of threshing oars, and the faces of your shipmates shine bright with glory.’

  The comrades of Idmon commiserated deeply with him, though relieved that he did not see in the flames destruction for them all. They tried to dissuade him from making the voyage. But Idmon answered: ‘A dread of the future is shameful in a priest.’

  To Mopsus came two wagtails walking along the beach and stood nervously twittering to him for a few moments before they flew off. Jason took Mopsus aside and asked what they had said. Mopsus answered: ‘Wagtails are thoughtful creatures. They reminded me to take salves, vulneraries, febrifuges, and other medicaments in the ship. But I have already tied up in a linen bag all that we are likely to need.’

  The feast was ready for eating before the sun had touched the highest peak of the sky, and the last preparations for the voyage had meanwhile been made under the directions of Argus. The company now sat down in a ring about the altar and began voraciously eating the splendid roast meat, which they cut off the hissing joints with their knives, just as they felt inclined. Hylas mixed the fragrant wine for them in patterned drinking-cups of Minyan ware, and bore it around with polite words of praise to each man in turn. It was flavoured with wild mint.

  When they were well settled and at ease, Argus rose to his feet and raised his hand for silence. This is what he said: ‘My lords, according to the instructions given me by the King and Queen Archons at Athens, who had them from the cuckoo-sceptred Goddess Athena herself, I was to build a ship for Jason the Minyan, heir to the Kingdom of Phthiotis, in which he and his chosen comrades were to sail to Colchis, at the further end of the Black Sea, to fetch back the lost Golden Fleece of the Laphystian Ram. These instructions I have obeyed; for Jason approves of my work, and praises it. But my interest in the ship does not end with her completion. I propose to sail in the Argo myself, so proud have I become of her. I cannot think that any of you will grudge me a seat in her, though I was not present when the choice was made; for if ever she is dashed in wreckage upon some rocky coast, who will know so well as I how to patch and refloat her? But tell me, my lords, who of you all is the captain to whom I am to swear the customary oath of obedience? Is it Jason the Minyan, who, after having been marked down for the leadership of the expedition by the will of the Gods (as some say), sent out heralds who summoned you together? Or is it Hercules, Prince of Tiryns, whose fame
and powers immeasurably exceed those of all other men alive today? I have heard some of you say that it would be mad presumption in Jason, or in anyone else, to aspire to the leadership now that Hercules (though no Minyan even by a ceremony of rebirth) has consented to come with us. Although none of us loves to obey where he might command, yet we must agree to choose a leader who will conclude treaties for us at whatever foreign courts we happen to visit, and who will give the casting vote in our councils of war. For my part, I am ready to obey either Jason or Hercules, or whomsoever else you may choose, saying no more to sway your verdict than that it was to Jason that Father Zeus confided the sacred branch; and that King Pelias, perhaps inspired by his father Poseidon, expressed a doubt whether my ship, however strongly built, would bear for long the massive weight of Hercules.’

  Then Admetus and Peleus and Acastus shouted ‘Give us Hercules!’ and the Argonauts all took up the cry: ‘Hercules, Hercules!’ He would have been a very brave man who had shouted any other name, for it was not known whether Hercules had yet feasted well enough to restore his natural good temper after the debauch on Mount Pelion. Hercules took up the shoulder of mutton which Argus had given him to supplement the great chine of beef provided by Jason, stripped it of what meat still remained on it, crammed the meat into his mouth, wiped his greasy hands in his mane of hair, and began picking his teeth with a dagger. Then, seeing an aquatic bird of ill omen flying across the water with harsh screams, he suddenly hurled the shoulder-blade in its path, and struck it dead. ‘I always kill her,’ he growled, as a great roar of wonder went up.

  There were renewed cries of ‘Hercules, Hercules!’ But he stretched out his right hand and said: ‘No, comrades, it is useless to choose me. I am too often made insensible by drink. Besides, at any moment that accursed herald Talthybius, whom I call the Dung-man, might come creeping up to me on his soft feet and say: “The compliments of King Eurystheus, most noble Prince Hercules! You are to fetch him Poseidon’s trident, if you please.” Then I would be forced to leave you and go off on the new Labour: for whenever I disobey, the children’s voices in my head get louder and louder until they nearly split my eardrums, and unseen hands tweak my nose and pull the short hair by my temples, where the skin is most tender. Choose someone else.’

  Then after a pause one cried ‘Admetus’ and another ‘Great Ancaeus’ and another ‘Castor and Pollux together.’ But nobody cried ‘Jason’.

  Hercules after a while silenced the hubbub with a wave of his hand and said: ‘My unlucky friend Cheiron the Centaur told me last night that he trusted in Jason’s capacity to lead the expedition, should I myself refuse it. “Oh,” said I. “Can you really mean Jason the son of Aeson?” “Yes,” said he. “The Olympians have shown him unusual favour, and for my part I am grateful to him for his recent help in composing my differences with the Lapiths. Besides, Jason is a man of this sort: most men either envy or despise him, but most women fall in love with him at first sight. Since women everywhere, both among barbarians and among civilized races, hold the secret reins of power and win their own way in the end, the gift bestowed on Jason by the Nymph Goddess is no poor one. He is a better leader even than you, Hercules, whom all men admire and none envy, and at first sight of whom every woman in her senses gathers up her skirts and runs off yelling.” Cheiron’s wisdom is justly famed, though he was exaggerating the fear that women have of me; and therefore, while I refuse to lead the expedition myself, I am ready to fight all men, either singly or in a body, who wish to dispute Cheiron’s choice. But whether I despise or envy Jason, let no man impudently enquire.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The Argo Sails

  Jason rose to thank Hercules from a full heart, humbly undertaking to ask his advice immediately whenever difficulties or anxieties arose, and always to follow it.

  ‘Very well,’ said Hercules. ‘But if ever I happen to be asleep or drunken, consult Hylas. His intelligence matches, or even (if that were possible) exceeds, his beauty, and he has twice as much experience of foreign travel as any man present except myself alone.’

  Jason thanked Hercules again in the same humble tones and then spoke up briskly. ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘let us now draw lots for the benches. Be good enough, each of you, to hand me a pebble which may be recognized again. I will shake them together in my helmet, and Hylas shall draw them out at random, two at a time. Thus we shall fill all the benches in turn, beginning with the bench nearest the helmsman, and ending with the bow bench. Naturally, I except Hercules: he must take his ease while the rest of you row.’

  Soon Jason had pebbles from all of them except Hercules, Hylas, and Tiphys the helmsman. Hylas, with eyes averted, picked them out of the helmet two by two, when Jason had shaken them well together. Holding them up, he asked each time: ‘Whose pebbles are these?’ But when thirteen pairs had been called there was nothing left in the helmet, and it was clear that four men were missing. Two proved to be the Minyans from Halos; they had gone out from the palace on the evening before, with the excuse of sacrificing to Artemis on the third night of the moon, but had not been seen since. Evidently, they had thought better of the adventure and run off home, leaving all their gear behind them. The other missing pair were Acastus, son of King Pelias, and his friend Peleus the Myrmidon. They had taken part in the launching of the vessel, but shortly afterwards a message had come for Acastus from the King, which he could not disobey, ordering him to return to Iolcos and there answer a complaint from the King’s bailiff about some slave-woman whom he was accused of ill-treating. Acastus had thereupon ridden off on a mule; Peleus had followed him a little later.

  It was now debated whether the sailing should be delayed until these two returned. Hylas told the company that on his way down to Pagasae in the ox-wagon he had been stopped by a company of palace guards drawn up about a mile from the city; they had lifted the blanket from the face of Hercules and quickly put it back again when they recognized him, explaining that they had strict orders to prevent Prince Acastus from embarking on the Argo. Thus the Argonauts understood that the matter of the slave-woman and the bailiff was a pretext invented by Pelias to prevent his son from sailing.

  Idas, brother of keen-sighted Lynceus, said: ‘Acastus may well be as guilty as his father. He is a coward at heart, I believe. But I had not thought that Peleus the Myrmidon would desert us so shamefully though, indeed, he is the unhandiest javelin-man that ever I saw and as slippery in his dealings as an oiled eel.’

  Old Nauplius answered cheerfully: ‘Yet it is better perhaps to have a ship even half-full of willing oarsmen than a ship full of unwilling ones.’

  Some of his companions murmured a doubtful assent.

  The afternoon drew on. The young men began to joke together and tell the witty or obscene tales which are customary in the final stage of a banquet. But Jason continued silent, wrapped in his cloak, without contributing so much as a smile to the merriment. Idas had reached behind the back of Hylas, filled a goblet with unmixed wine, tossed it off, and twice returned for more. He now began a drunken war-dance on the beach. Striking an attitude and pointing sideways at Jason with his thumb, he began to declaim some faulty verses which ran as follows:

  Jason, son of Aeson, tell me true:

  What has suddenly come over you?

  Confess to me what you are brooding about.

  If you are afraid to whisper, why do you not shout?

  Are you ashamed perhaps of taking command

  Of the bravest champions in all this glorious land?

  But the bravest of all is Idas, son of Aphareus,

  Who owes more to his spear than he does to Zeus.

  [Here he brandished his spear dangerously.]

  Pluck up your spirits, coward, if it be cowardice

  That makes you tuck your head under your arm – like this!

  [Here he mimicked Jason’s attitude.]

  Idas is sailing with you – Idas – do you hear?

  The world’s finest exponent of the art of the spe
ar.

  Idas of Arene, who never lost a fight

  And does not care a fig for any God’s might,

  Not even for Apollo, whom you honour today.

  He once tried to steal my Marpessa away

  And make her a prostitute in his marble shrine.

  But no God may ever seize anything of mine

  I ran at his ministrants with my long spear –

  At this point Mopsus and Idmon intervened, Idmon catching at his legs and oversetting him while Mopsus twisted the spear from his grasp. Others of the company held him down while Idmon lectured him in some such words as these:

  ‘Insolent boaster, you are inviting trouble. I see by your bowl that you have been drinking unmixed wine, but even this should not have been enough to madden you into insulting the Bright God whose fellow-guest you are. Remember what happened only the other day to the two Aloeid chieftains. They refused to acknowledge Apollo’s jurisdiction over the musical Mare nymphs of Mount Helicon, alleging that these had been resident on Helicon, as servants of the Triple Muse, long before Apollo’s time. They threatened war on all the Olympians together if Apollo tried to make Helicon his own; and spoke absurdly of piling Pelion upon Ossa, if that were necessary, in order to reach the summit of Olympus and pluck Father Zeus from his seat. But I prophesied against them; and even before my father Apollo could send out his archers the two braggarts were dead. They had quarrelled over a stag which they were hunting and which each claimed to have killed: they had hacked each other to pieces with their swords.’