Heroes

by Stephen Fry

  Half an hour later, Heracles’ servant Lichas came to his room carrying the shirt and helped him into it. For perhaps five or six seconds Heracles felt nothing. Then the skin on his back started to tingle and he idly scratched it. The tingling turned to fire and he leapt, twisting and bucking, as he tried to pull the shirt off. But the Hydra poison in the dried blood had been reactivated by his body heat and was already beginning to eat into his flesh and bones, burning and corroding as it went.

  No one had ever heard Heracles scream before. No one who heard him now would ever forget the sound. He lashed out in fury at Lichas, killing him instantly. His son Hyllus ran in.

  ‘Deianira … her shirt …’ yelled Heracles, tears streaming from his eyes as he stamped and threw himself around the room before staggering out into the garden and running around like a wild animal.

  Hyllus watched in horror as his father, all the while yelling in mortal pain, now started to uproot trees. Heracles’ nephew Iolaus and dozens of other friends and followers dashed outside, drawn by the appalling shrieks. They had all seen Heracles lose his temper before, they had witnessed his fits and foaming tantrums, but this was something new. Deianira too now rushed from the house and added her own screams. What had she done?

  The uprooting of the trees seemed to everyone to be a sign of madness, but even in his death agony Heracles was undertaking a labour. It became apparent that he was constructing a funeral pyre.

  He clambered on top of it and lay back. ‘Light it!’ he screamed. ‘Light it!’

  No one moved. No one wanted to be remembered by history as the one who set fire to Heracles.

  ‘I’m begging you!’

  Finally Philoctetes, trusted friend and comrade on many adventures, took a torch from its bracket on the wall of the house and stepped forward.

  ‘Do it, old friend,’ gasped Heracles.

  Philoctetes was weeping.

  ‘If you love me, do it for me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘It’s my time. I know it.’

  Philoctetes touched the flames of the torch to the pyre.

  ‘Now quickly,’ said Heracles, ‘take my bow and my arrows.’

  Philoctetes took them and bowed his head.

  ‘They are … powerful’ panted Heracles. ‘Guard them with your life.’fn76

  He arched his back as another spasm of pain went through him. The flames rose up.

  ‘The fire …’ he whispered, as they all came forward to make their farewells, ‘is not as painful as the poison … In fact … it is a blessed relief …’

  ‘Oh, my friend …’

  ‘Oh, my uncle …’

  ‘Oh, my father …’

  ‘Oh, my husband …’

  With a shudder and a sigh the soul fled from Heracles. The great hero was finally at peace, freed from his life of almost unendurable torment and toil.

  Hyllus turned on his mother with a snarl. ‘You killed him. How could you do it? How?’

  Deianira ran wailing back into the house and stabbed herself to death.

  APOTHEOSIS

  Zeus remembered his promise and drew the soul of Heracles up to Olympus.fn77 In a touching ceremony it was clothed in flesh formed from the robes of Hera – once his bitterest enemy, now his loving friend and stepmother – and reborn.

  Here, amongst gods and goddesses with whom he shared Zeus as a father, Heracles himself achieved immortality and divine status. As a mark of her deep affection, Hera bestowed the hand of her cupbearer, the goddess Hebe, on him as his final and eternal wife.fn78

  And, at the last, Zeus raised his favourite human son into the firmament as the constellation Hercules, the fifth largest in our night sky.

  Back down on earth, the sons of Heracles – the HERACLIDES – eventually raised an army that defeated the tyrannical Eurystheus, who still ruled in Tiryns; Hyllus himself hunted down the fleeing king and beheaded him. They seized control of the Argolid, before installing ATREUS, son of Pelops, on the throne of Mycenae. For a while, a time of peace and prosperity descended upon the Peloponnese.

  For most Greeks and others across the Mediterranean world, Heracles was the greatest of the heroes, the ne plus ultra, the nonpareil, the paradigm, model and pattern of what a hero should be. The Athenians would come to prefer his kinsman Theseus, who, as we shall see, exhibited not just the strength and valour expected of a great hero, but intelligence, wit, insight and wisdom too – qualities that the Athenians (much to the contempt of their neighbours) believed uniquely exemplified their character and culture.fn79

  Yet Heracles was the strongest man who ever lived. No human, and almost no immortal creature, ever subdued him physically. With uncomplaining patience he bore the trials and catastrophes that were heaped upon him in his turbulent lifetime. With his strength came, as we have seen, a clumsiness which, allied to his apocalyptic bursts of temper, could cause death or injury to anyone who got in the way. Where others were cunning and clever, he was direct and simple. Where they planned ahead he blundered in, swinging his club and roaring like a bull. Mostly these shortcomings were more endearing than alienating. He was not, as the duping of Atlas and the manipulation of Hades showed, entirely without that quality of sense, gumption and practical imagination that the Greeks called nous. He possessed saving graces that more than made up for his exasperating faults. His sympathy for others and willingness to help those in distress was bottomless, as were the sorrow and shame that overcame him when he made mistakes and people got hurt. He proved himself prepared to sacrifice his own happiness for years at a stretch in order to make amends for the (usually unintentional) harm he caused. His childishness, therefore, was offset by a childlike lack of guile or pretence as well as a quality that is often overlooked when we catalogue the virtues: fortitude – the capacity to endure without complaint. For all his life he was persecuted, plagued and tormented by a cruel, malicious and remorseless deity pursuing a vendetta which punished him for a crime for which he could be in no way held responsible – his birth. No labour was more Heraclean than the labour of being Heracles. In his uncomplaining life of pain and persistence, in his compassion and desire to do the right thing, he showed, as the American classicist and mythographer Edith Hamilton put it, ‘greatness of soul’.

  Heracles may not have possessed the pert agility and charm of Perseus and Bellerophon, the intellect of Oedipus, the talent for leadership of Jason or the wit and imagination of Theseus, but he had a feeling heart that was stronger and warmer than any of theirs.

  BELLEROPHON

  * * *

  THE WINGED ONE

  The hero Bellerophonfn1 was either the son of GLAUCUS, King of Corinth, or of Poseidon, god of the sea.fn2 It is certain that Bellerophon’s mother was EURYNOME, a special favourite of Athena who taught her wisdom, wit and all the arts over which the goddess had dominion.fn3

  The story of Bellerophon suggests that while he was fit, strong, brave, accomplished and attractive, he might perhaps have been just a tiny bit spoilt by his doting mother and by Glaucus, who – whether or not Poseidon really was the father – raised the boy as his own son and a true prince of Corinth.

  Bellerophon grew up aware of the common gossip that whispered how Poseidon had slipped into his mother’s bed and begotten him, but he set little store by it. He had never been drawn to the sea and, in his own estimation, seemed painfully lacking in divine powers. On the other hand, he had a brother, DELIADES, and the two were as unlike in character or physical appearance as it was possible to be, which certainly might suggest different paternity. And on the other other hand, Bellerophon had always had a way with horses. Horses were very much the province of the god of the sea. At school Bellerophon had been taught that in the earliest times of the gods Poseidon created the very first horse as a gift for his sister Demeter. The god had fashioned all kinds of different animals, which he had thrown away before he managed to hit on the perfect creation. The discarded animals – the failures – had been the hippopotamus, the giraffe, the cam
el, the donkey and the zebra, each one getting closer to the perfect dimensions, beauty and balance of the horse. But this, Bellerophon felt as he grew into his teenage years, was a fairy tale for children. As were all the other stories of gods, demigods, nymphs, fauns and magical beasts with which his head had been filled ever since he had been old enough to walk and talk. All he knew was that Corinth was a big, bustling city and kingdom filled with very real and very mortal men and women; and while there were plenty of priests and priestesses around, he had never witnessed a hint of anything immortal or divine. No gods had ever manifested themselves to him, none of his friends had ever been turned into flowers or blasted with thunderbolts.

  Around the time of his fourteenth birthday, stories began to circulate about a winged white horse called Pegasus that had emerged from the throat of the decapitated Medusa and flown to mainland Greece. Sightings of this marvellous creature were reported everywhere, but Bellerophon dismissed them as yet more superstitious fantasies for children. Then some Corinthian citizens began excitedly to claim that Pegasus was actually amongst them! Not in the city itself, but just outside. He had been seen by sober witnesses drinking from the fountain at Pirene (which was not an ornamental feature, but a natural spring bubbling from the ground). Some had even tried to steal up on him and climb on his back, but he was always too alert.fn4

  ‘No harm in going to Pirene and looking,’ Bellerophon said to himself. ‘I mean, it’s sure to be some wild pony of the hills, but even so it might be fun to tame it. I could even make some wings for him and ride him into town. That would stir things up a bit.’

  When he arrived at the fountain of Pirene he saw a couple of men hanging about there, but no horse, winged or otherwise.

  ‘We frightened it off,’ said one of the men. ‘Probably won’t be back for a while. Shy as anything. Skitters away at the slightest sound.’

  They left Bellerophon to himself. He hunkered down behind a laurel bush and waited. ‘It’s not that I believe there are such things as flying horses. It’s just that I’m interested in how these rumours start. There’s sure to be an explanation.’

  The sun beat down and before long Bellerophon had fallen asleep. He was awoken by a soft snorting sound. Not quite daring to hope, he raised his head and peeped over the bush.

  Standing with legs slightly splayed, neck down to the water, a white horse stood, plain as day. A winged white horse. There could be no doubt about it. The wings grew smoothly out from the animal’s sides – there was no join where a trickster might have glued or tied them. If Bellerophon could just get close enough to nuzzle him and win his confidence. He tiptoed round in a wide circle. Horses have eyes at the sides of their heads which makes it very difficult to steal up on them unawares. They have ears that twitch backwards and forwards and can pick up the slightest sound. And when they stoop down to drink, both these senses are on the highest alert. Bellerophon hadn’t moved three paces towards Pegasus before the horse raised his head, shook his mane with a startled whinny and galloped away. Bellerophon watched open-mouthed as the front hoofs pawed at the air, the wings spread out and in an instant Pegasus was flying through the air and out of sight.

  From that moment on, the winged horse became Bellerophon’s waking, sleeping and dreaming obsession. Every spare hour of the day and through many long nights he watched him from all kinds of different vantage points and hiding places. He climbed trees in the hope of dropping down on his back, but the horse always smelled him out. He left apples and carrots and hay in little heaps all around the fountain, and in a trail leading to one of his hiding places, but Pegasus was too wily for that. Bellerophon once got close enough to touch him, but he bucked and bolted into the air and was darting into the clouds before Bellerophon could leap up and fling himself on his back. All he could do was hope that the shy, nervous creature would in time become accustomed enough to his scent, voice and presence to learn to trust him. Meanwhile, he determined to stake him out night and day. He would never give up.

  Bellerophon’s mother Eurynome noticed the dark rings around his eyes, the yawning and irritability, and took it to mean that her beloved son was pining with unrequited love. She knew better than to tease or quiz a sensitive adolescent on so delicate a subject, so she sent for the priest and seer POLYIDUS and asked him to have a word, man to man.

  ‘It’s none of her business,’ snapped Bellerophon when Polyidus explained his mission. ‘She wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘No indeed,’ said Polyidus. ‘I, however, do understand.’

  ‘Of course you do. You’re a prophet so I’m sure you already know everything that’s going to happen and everything I’m thinking.’

  ‘There’s no need to be rude. Yes, I see much. Sometimes just the shape of things, their outline. I look into your eyes and I see … yes, I see something like love. It is not a girl, however. Nor a boy. No, I see a horse.’

  Bellerophon flushed. ‘Don’t be disgusting. I’m not in love with a horse.’

  ‘ “Something like love”, I said. Is it the horse everyone is talking about? The horse called Pegasus?’

  Bellerophon’s reserve broke down at the sound of the name. ‘Oh, Polyidus, if only I could tame him! I feel we’re made for each other. But he won’t let me close enough to tell him that I mean him no harm.’

  ‘Well now, if you really feel the need to ride this horse so keenly …’

  ‘I do, I do!’

  ‘Then go to the temple of Athena. Lie down full length on the floor, close your eyes and ask the goddess for help. Ha! I see the disappointment in your eyes. I know you think I’m a charlatan … Oh yes, there’s no use denying it, you do … But consider this: if I am wrong, what will you have lost by it? You will be able to tell all your friends that Polyidus is an old fraud through and through, just as you suspected. And if I am right … well …’

  Muttering to himself for being such a credulous fool Bellerophon slouched his way to the temple. He waited until late evening, when the last of the worshippers had left, before going through to the cella, which he found lit by a single flame flickering in a copper bowl and unoccupied save for the presence of an ancient, toothless but clawingly friendly priestess. He pressed silver into her palm and fell to his knees, stretching himself out on the hard stone floor just as Polyidus had instructed.

  The thick cloud of incense that the priestess sent billowing through the close confines of the temple stung his throat and nostrils; as he tried to concentrate on his prayer, he found himself choking and coughing. The priestess cackled and sang and his mind began to swirl like the smoke from the censer as strange images and sounds filled his head.

  ‘Bellerophon, Bellerophon,’ came a grave female voice. ‘Do you really dare ride the son of Poseidon?’

  ‘I thought I was the son of Poseidon,’ Bellerophon said, whether out loud or not he could not tell. Was that the shining figure of Athena shimmering before him?

  ‘You are my son,’ came a deeper voice. Now the great bearded face of Poseidon seemed to rise up, dripping with seawater. ‘And so is winged Pegasus.’

  Bellerophon, in the fog of his memory, recalled being told that Poseidon had coupled with Medusa before Athena turned her into a Gorgon. If that was true, then Pegasus would indeed be the offspring of the god.

  ‘He is shyer than any horse you have ever handled,’ said Athena. ‘Take with you the golden bridle and he will submit to you.’

  Bellerophon wanted to ask ‘What golden bridle?’ but he couldn’t form the words.

  ‘Ride him gently. After all, he is your half-brother,’ said Poseidon. The god bubbled with laughter as he dropped from sight.

  ‘And use your wits,’ said Athena. ‘You can’t expect to defeat him with strength alone.’ She laughed too, but the laughter of the gods was really just the screeching cackle of an old woman and Bellerophon felt himself being shaken roughly awake.

  ‘You were drooling, dear. Drooling and talking nonsense.’

  He rose to his feet. Unable to thin
k what else to do, he offered the priestess another silver coin.

  ‘Bless you, child. Don’t forget your bag.’

  He looked down to where she was pointing and saw a sack on the floor. ‘That’s not mine …’

  ‘Oh, I think it is, dear.’

  As he bent to pick up the sack, he saw a flash of gold inside. He opened it wider. A bridle. A golden bridle.

  Bellerophon made his way unsteadily past the smiling priestess, out of the temple and into the street. The moon was riding high in the night sky as he made his way to Pirene.

  It was true, all true! The gods existed. He, Bellerophon of Corinth, was a son of Poseidon! He would have thought the whole experience in the temple a fantastic hallucination were it not for the jangling and chinking of the golden bridle in the bag that swung by his side as he ran to the hillside.

  Perhaps the priestess had drugged him? On the orders of Polyidus perhaps. Could it all have been a trick? It was possible … Yet Bellerophon knew in his heart that this had been real – no fake show, but a genuine theophany, a real manifestation of divinity.

  And there he was, his white coat silver in the moonlight, cropping the grass. Pegasus!

  The newfound confidence that possession of the bridle gave Bellerophon seemed immediately to transmit itself to the horse. Skirting around the fountain he closed softly in, giving a low whistle. Pegasus raised his head, his sides gave a shivering twitch, he scraped the ground with a hoof, but he did not dart away.

  ‘I’m here, brother. Just me. Just me …’ breathed Bellerophon, edging closer and closer until he was able to lay a hand on Pegasus’ back. The horse stood patiently as he stroked and then gently pushed the muzzle and the rest of his head into the bridle. It fitted easily and without protest. Bellerophon stayed there a long while without moving, just caressing, patting, clicking his tongue and letting the creature get used to the feel of the bridle.