The weight-lifting contest Hercules won easily. The opposing Dolionian was struggling with two hands to lift the Argo’s new anchor-stone upon his shoulders; but while he was still panting and straining ineffectively, Hercules came behind and, seating him on the stone by force, slid one hand underneath it and heaved it above his head with the Dolionian still astride. Then when the Dolionian had leaped off and acknowledged himself beaten, Hercules tossed the stone up and down in his hand, asking whether anyone would play at catch-ball with him. There was no reply, so he heaved the stone through the air like a quoit over the heads of the spectators. Fortunately nobody was hurt. This feat won Hercules a silver cup – silver being more highly prized among the Dolionians than gold.
Castor received a golden helmet-crest for winning the two-horse chariot-race; but the contest itself was not memorable, the local horses being of a poor breed compared with those of Sparta or of Thessaly.
Pollux won a richly woven carpet by his boxing; he was a terrible opponent and played with his man as a wild cat with a mouse. The Dolionian constantly clinched, to the disgust of the Argonauts; for in Greece a clinch is poor sport. But Pollux would let him break away unpunished from each clinch, and then dart after him, planting left-handed jolts on his chin until he grew dazed and sank down miserably on one knee.
The foot-race was waived, because Atalanta had been entered for it; while the Dolionians refused to compete with a woman, Jason would not insult Atalanta by substituting another Argonaut for her.
It was considered only just to let Jason champion the Argonauts in one event at least, and he was permitted to enter for the archery contest, though Phalerus of Athens was a far better archer than he, and Hercules far better than Phalerus. A goose was taken into a field and barley put before it; and at a given signal Jason and his opponent each discharged an arrow at the goose, from a distance of sixty paces. The Dolionian’s first arrow wounded the goose in the foot, which pegged it to the ground and made it flutter its wings but Jason’s arrow nicked its breast and drew blood. In the second bout both shot wide because of a sudden gust of wind. In the third, the Dolionian’s arrow pierced the goose’s rump, but Jason’s its head. This earned Jason a crown of wild olive, for he refused all other gifts, saying that those he had received before had brought him little luck.
Lastly came the musical competition, and Phoceus, the Dolionian court bard, sang throatily to his lyre a long eulogy of Cyzicus and his dead comrades, detailing the glorious ancestry and valiant deeds of every one of them, and closing each verse with the same sad lament:
But he died in the night, alas, alas,
Pierced by the hand of a friend.
He was applauded as he deserved, and then all eyes turned to Orpheus. Orpheus did not, as Phoceus had done, roll out his voice loudly or twang at the strings with ostentatious movements of his hands and wrists, nor were the words he sang empty praise of the fallen. But, turning a troubled face towards Dindymos and plucking at the strings as if each note was pure pain to him, he made the lyre throb with sorrow, and in a clear voice sang:
Mother, pardon this foolish child, your son –
So young he scarcely yet can name your name,
Omnipotent and sober-gifted One!
For all those wrongs that he today has done,
Account him not to blame.
Break short the rudders, shatter the strong hulls
Of those who hoist their sails of injury,
And though their ghosts may scream like flocking gulls
Dance out your night of triumph on their skulls –
Yet, Mother, smile on me!
When your snake hisses, when your lion roars…
He could go no further for weeping, and all the Argonauts wept with him. Echion drew from his own right foot a gilt sandal with wings at the heel, emblem of his heraldic office. He gave it to Orpheus with: ‘Orpheus, you are a better herald than I can ever be!’
Then with one accord they rose up and went in file down the isthmus into Bear Island. They climbed Mount Dindymos by the path now called Jason’s path, bent upon placating the angry Goddess. They had no fear of the Bear men, for Atalanta came with them and, while they stopped their ears, she raised the shrill, mirthless, laughing cry that turns man’s blood cold: the cry of the maiden huntress who warns strangers from her path if they would not be metamorphosed into stags. So they came safely to the peak from which, the day being fine, they could view nearly the whole coast of the Sea of Marmora, and Proconesos seemed to lie almost within bow-shot. Lynceus, gazing to the north-west, cried: ‘Do you see that silver ribbon in the distance? It is the Bosphorus, through which our way to Colchis lies.’ But nobody else could distinguish the strait.
In a hollow, close to the peak, they found the stump of a pine, the top part of which had been taken off by lightning, but it had been so large a tree that two men could not girdle it with outstretched arms. This stump Argus began to cut about with his axe, until it assumed the shape of the Goddess squatting with head between hands and elbows resting on raised knees. When he had done, all the men wreathed their brows with ivy and prostrated themselves before the image. They cut themselves with knives until the blood flowed, and howled in supplication of her pardon, while Atalanta chapleted the image with flowers and addressed her as ‘Dear Mistress of the Shining Face’. Then each man went in search of a huge rock, the largest that he could lift or trundle, and Hercules built them into a firm altar. On the altar they set the gifts that they had brought with them – barley, sesame, acorns, pine-kernels, and a precious jar of Hymettan honey, the gift of Butes. When Atalanta had spoken the appropriate prayer, they averted their gaze and waited for a sign. Presently they heard the roar of a lion three times repeated, and knew that all was well.
They returned to the isthmus, two by two, and as they went saw clouds gathering to the south-west. Tiphys said: ‘In three days’ time we may sail.’
Jason asked: ‘Why not tonight?’
Tiphys answered: ‘We must allow the wind to run ahead of us and abate the force of the current in the strait.’
That night, which was the last before the new moon, they were plagued with dreams of the dead Dolionians: Little Ancaeus, Peleus, Phalerus, and Erginus of Miletos started up in their sleep and, seizing weapons, would have fought to the death among themselves had not Idmon fortunately been awakened by the noise. He dashed cold water in their faces to bring them to their senses.
In the morning all agreed to sail on as soon as possible, making their next stop at the mouth of the Cios river, which is sheltered from the north by the high ridge of the Arganthonian mountains. Meanwhile Idmon undertook to lay the ghosts more securely than they had been laid at the funeral.
He instructed his comrades to wash themselves three times in the sea and once in spring-water (as he did himself), and to bind their brows with grey-green olive chaplets. Then, standing on the barrow of Cyzicus, dressed in his priestly robes, he made them all pass before him and touched them with a lucky branch of bay. Next came the sacrifice of pigs, first bled upon the barrows, then roasted whole on low hearths until all was devoured by the flames. ‘Eat well, dear ghosts!’ cried Idmon in his high voice. Next he set up thirty-four oak logs in a row and planted sticks beside them like spears, and called each of the logs by the name of one of the Argonauts. Next, he led the company away on tiptoe across a brook, barefooted, so that the running water would take away their scent from the keen-nosed ghosts. Next, he came back himself and addressed the ghosts, saying: ‘Ghosts, forget your anger and be content at last with your resting-place below. Do not afflict any herds with plague, or any crops with blight. Look, before you in a row, spear in hand, stand those who unwitting killed you. Plague them if you must, but do not visit your anger on their children or other innocents!’ He named each of the logs in turn. Finally, covering his head with his cloak, he too stole away and crossed the brook.
‘To sea, to sea!’ cried the Argonauts. ‘Let none of you look back to the barrows,’
said Idmon, ‘lest the ghosts recognize you and become aware of the deception.’ But he had forgotten to put a log of his own in the row and to name it Idmon. The ghost of a Dolionian named Megabrontes, whom he had himself killed in the battle, stole after him, flew aboard the Argo and crept into the locker under the helmsman’s seat There it lurked in the hope of vengeance. Lynceus saw how it fixed its glowering eyes on Idmon, but said nothing to anyone at the time, not wishing to attract the ghost’s attention to himself.
Soon they were at sea again, with the South-West Wind in their sail and Orpheus was playing a wordless melody in honour of the Goddess of Dindymos, so sweet that the sea seemed to every man to bloom with flowers. A shining kingfisher flew from a headland of Bear Island as they rounded it, perched on the yard and began to twitter and shake its short wings.
Orpheus put down his lyre. All began to ask Mopsus: ‘What does the bird say? Is it a message from the Goddess?’
Mopsus answered: ‘Over and over again it is the same message: “Children, sin no more!”’
But the Dolionians prolonged the term of their mourning for a full month, lighting no fires and subsisting on uncooked foods.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hylas is Lost
Hercules began to grumble as he rowed: ‘King Eurystheus has, I am sure, already sent his herald Talthybius after me with orders for some new Labour. If we meet with any more delays like the last he will catch me, as sure as Fate. I shall not be surprised to find him waiting for me, perched on a rock at the mouth of the Bosphorus. He will say with his insipid smile: “Most noble Hercules, well met! My master, King Eurystheus of Mycenae, your overlord, has sent me to convey you his latest orders. You are to ascend to the Moon and fetch him down some ripe strawberries – be sure that they are ripe!” Pooh! Why should he want strawberries from the Moon? – tell me that! Has he none in his own glens? Holy Serpents, the foolish requests that the long-eared idiot makes! But the worst of the jest is that I have to perform them in all earnest.’
Jason said, to humour him: ‘Yes, Prince Hercules, we could ill afford to lose you. We had better make haste, as you say!’
Hercules answered: ‘Take an oar yourself for a change, Boy, and let Orpheus be our captain today. He seems to have more intelligence than anyone else in this ship, if I except little Hylas. Take Idmon’s oar and let Idmon relieve Tiphys, who has a sick-dog look in his eyes and ought to be lying snug in his blanket.’
Jason took the oar and Tiphys consented to let Idmon steer the ship for him. Tiphys was growing weaker daily; Hercules had been obliged to carry him down from Mount Dindymos on his shoulders.
‘Now,’ said Hercules, ‘let us make haste. I will present the silver cup that I won at the games to the man who can keep stroke with me until we beach our ship tonight. Give us music, Orpheus!’
Orpheus struck up a rowing-song with a low, swinging chant, and began to improvise words about the Sun, who every day crosses the heavens from East to West in a fiery chariot; and every night returns by the Ocean route, conveyed in a golden boat shaped like a water-lily, asleep as he sails. He also sang of Colchian Aea, where are the stables of the Sun’s white horses that champ golden corn and fleck the stable-floor with foam. Each verse was a repetition of the preceding one, with only a single new line at the head of it. This cumulative device was a charm that compelled the oarsmen to continue rowing. Hour by hour they pulled away, each boasting to himself that he would be the last to ship his oar.
Hercules sat with glazed eyes, like one who rows in his sleep, yet every now and then he would join in the chorus with a hoarse bellow. So they went on, for verse after verse, and passed the reedy mouth of the Rhyndacos river and its swamps ringing with the cries of wildfowl; and the wooded island of Besbicos, seven miles to the northward. This part of the sea teemed with all manner of fish, some of them unknown to the Greeks and strangely coloured and shaped. The day was hot, and about noon Great Ancaeus said to his neighbour Hercules, breaking the spell of the chant: ‘Dear comrade, let us quit rowing for a while and refresh ourselves with a little wine and barley-cake.’
For answer Hercules roared out the next verse of the song at the top of his voice, and neither Ancaeus nor anyone else ventured to mention refreshment again. So they rowed on, for verse after verse, and hour after hour, keeping stroke with Hercules. They passed the Phrygian settlement of Myrlea, built on a flat coast backed by well-cultivated hills; and all longed to disembark there, for they could make out long stretches of carefully tended vines on the terraced slopes behind the city; but the relentless chant kept them at their oars. Eurydamas the Dolopian and his companion, Coronus of Gyrton, were the first to give up, shamefacedly drawing in their oars through the oar-holes. Erginus of Miletos and Ascalaphus, son of Ares, followed their example. When Phalerus the Athenian noted that all four of them were true Minyans, he twitted them, saying: ‘If this voyage had been made by Minyans alone, I doubt whether we should ever have seen the coasts of Greece recede over the horizon.’
He thus stirred a spirit of contention between the true Minyans and those who were Minyans only by adoption. Among the next ten men who shipped their oars were Phalerus himself and his comrade Butes. Still the chant rose and fell croakingly as they drove onward into the Cianian Gulf; but those who had given up the contest ceased singing for weariness. Great Ancaeus fainted and fell forward on his oar, which Little Ancaeus made an excuse for shipping his own oar and reviving his namesake with sea-water dashed in his face. To port, across the gulf rose steeply the forbidding mass of the snow-capped, pine-clothed Arganthonian mountains, where bears of gigantic size are found.
When they were still at a distance of five miles from their goal, which was the mouth of the shallow but turbulent Cios river at the head of the gulf, only Castor, Pollux, Jason, and Hercules continued steadfast. As each successive oar had been shipped, the task that fell to the remaining oarsmen had grown heavier, and a strong swell added to their labours. Soon Castor and Pollux ceased rowing together, for neither wished to be preferred to the other and Castor’s strength was ebbing. Jason, with hands raw from rowing, continued grimly at his task, hating to yield the supremacy to Hercules. Half a mile more and the contest would be over. But Jason’s oar did not bite so deeply into the water as that of Hercules, and Idmon had difficulty in keeping the ship on her course.
Hercules sang more and more loudly; Jason more and more faintly. At last Jason missed a stroke and toppled over backwards. Hercules was left rowing alone. The muddy current of the Cios river pressed against the Argo; Hercules stemmed it stoutly and attempted with all his might to drive her onwards. Suddenly came a loud crack, followed by a booming sound. His oar had broken in two and with the butt he had dealt himself so huge a blow on the chest that over he went, flinging Zetes, who sat behind him, into the arms of Meleager, and Meleager into the arms of Nauplius. Hercules recovered himself, glared about him and exclaimed angrily: ‘Lions and Leopardesses! Let someone give me a real oar, not another rotten lath like this!’
Argus replied for the others: ‘No, noble Hercules! The oar was not at fault. Your wonderful strength matched against this impetuous river would snap the strongest oar in the world. Come, fellow-Minyans one last bout of rowing and we shall camp tonight on those pleasant meadows yonder, starred with white flowers!’
The weary men thrust back their oars through the oar-holes, and Hercules took Jason’s oar from his nerveless hands. The Argo shot forward again and Idmon steered her into a lagoon. There they anchored stepped ashore on grass and at once began collecting dry driftwood for their campfire, which Augeas kindled with his fire-sticks; he was the cleverest man in Greece for kindling a fire in wet or windy weather, though nobody would have guessed it from his fat hands and lazy movements.
They filled the ship’s cauldron with river-water, to boil in it the dozen large fish which Tiphys had caught that afternoon by trolling a baited hook on a float behind the ship, but so weak he was, that he had called on Hylas to haul each fish into the
boat as he hooked it. Fish chowder prepared with barley-meal and savoury herbs, would warm them well, but Hercules declared that though the mud in the river-water might not spoil the taste of the chowder, he must at least have clean water to mix with his wine. The other Argonauts were too weary to care what they drank; however, Hylas volunteered to find a clear spring and fetch Hercules what he asked. He climbed back into the Argo to fetch his pitcher, but at the same time took up the wallet containing his silver belt-clasp, gold ornaments, and provisions of meat and figs. Here was his chance of escape at last. All the Argonauts but Hercules would be too weary to pursue him, and he was confident that he could outwit Hercules.
‘Be careful, my darling,’ said Hercules. ‘Keep to the bank of the river, and if you meet with any danger start back at once and shout for help! Come, kiss me, first!’
Hylas gave Hercules a kiss of unusual fervour, hoping to distract his attention from the wallet. Hercules suspected nothing and, when Hylas disappeared around a turn of the river-path, heaved a huge sigh like the first gust of wind that announces a squall. ‘Ah, how that boy loves me,’ he cried. ‘Do you not envy me, Idas? Do you not envy me, Zetes? Lynceus, you who have the keenest sight of any man living – Argus, Nauplius, Orpheus, my brother Polyphemus, you who (after me) have travelled the furthest of any men of this company – Atalanta, who as a woman can be trusted to speak without prejudice – did any of you ever see a more beautiful, better-mannered, more graceful, or more affectionate boy in all your wanderings?’
The Golden Fleece Page 23