by Stephen Fry
‘Oh, but they weren’t all killed. Antimedes, one of Laius’s servants, escaped. He ran back to Thebes to tell us what had happened.’
‘And what exactly did he say?’
‘He said it had been an ambush. There were more than a dozen of them, all armed with clubs and swords. They sprang out at a place where three roads met. They pulled Laius out of his chariot …’
Oedipus stared at her. ‘Say that again.’
‘They pulled him out of his chariot –’
‘No. Before that. “Where three roads met”?’
‘So Antimedes said.’
‘Where is this Antimedes now?’
‘He lives near Ismenos, I think.’
‘And he’s truthful?’
‘My husband trusted him above all his servants.’
‘He must be fetched.’
Oedipus was thinking furiously. An old man pulled from a chariot where three roads met. A coincidence, surely. After all, this Antimedes had described a murderous gang, bristling with weapons, not one unarmed young man. All the same, it was disturbing.
He paced the palace grounds and waited for the arrival of Antimedes. The plague continued to claim dozens of lives a day.
‘I can’t solve this without more information,’ he said to himself. ‘Without fresh facts, the brain just churns round and round, like a wheel stuck in mud.’
The next morning Oedipus was sitting with Jocasta when a page came forward.
‘A messenger, sire.’
‘News from Antimedes?’
‘No, majesty, this man is from Corinth.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘He says it is urgent, sire.’
‘Oh well, send him in.’
‘Corinth,’ said Jocasta as the page withdrew. ‘Isn’t that where you grew up?’
‘Yes. I haven’t thought about the place for years. Now, sir. What brings you here?’
A weather-beaten and sunburnt old man had entered and was bowing low. ‘Great majesty.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Oedipus, peering at him with some surprise. ‘You look exhausted.’
‘I came by foot, sire.’
‘I don’t know who chose you as a messenger, but it was unkind to send someone so past their prime of life on such a long journey. I hope you will stay with us and rest before returning.’
‘You are considerate and kind, sire,’ said the messenger. ‘As for the journey, I myself begged to be the one chosen to come to you.’
‘Oh?’
‘I wanted to look with my own eyes on the face of the famous King Oedipus.’
Oedipus, never impervious to flattery, smiled. ‘As the queen will tell you, I’m just an ordinary man,’ he said.
‘Never that, my dear,’ said Jocasta. She smiled at the messenger. ‘Your news is urgent, we are told. Rest your legs and tell us.’
‘I will stand, majesty,’ said the messenger, declining the offered stool, ‘for the news I bear is heavy. You father, sire, King Polybus …’
‘What of him?’
‘His life’s course is run.’
‘Dead?’
‘It must come to us all, sire. His life was long and filled with blessings.’
‘How did he die?’
‘In his bed, sire. Queen Merope held his hand as he breathed his last. He was well beyond his eightieth year. It was his time.’
‘Ha!’ said Oedipus, clapping his hands. ‘So much for oracles. Don’t look shocked,’ he added quickly. ‘I am filled with sorrow to hear of the death of my father. He was a fine man and a wise king.’
Jocasta pressed his hand and murmured her sympathy.
‘May I hope, majesty,’ said the messenger, ‘that you will return to Corinth with me for the funeral ceremony? And that you will take up the throne? Queen Merope yearns for it.’
‘How is my mother?’
‘Full of grief for the loss of her husband, and for the loss of her son, too. The young man who walked out one day and never returned.’
‘I have written to her many times,’ said Oedipus. ‘But there are deep and secret reasons why I may never set foot in Corinth again.’
‘The people long for you, majesty.’
‘Surely there is no reason why you cannot reign in Thebes and Corinth?’ said Jocasta. ‘Double kingdoms have been known. Look at Argolis. It would be a wonder and a glory for you to reign over two great cities.’
‘Not while my mother is alive,’ said Oedipus.
Jocasta’s look of puzzlement provoked an explanation. ‘Since we were talking earlier about oracles, you should know this. When I was young, I visited Delphi and was told that it was my destiny to kill my father and … share a bed with my mother. The part about killing my father is obviously untrue, but I cannot risk returning to Corinth and somehow fulfilling the second part of the prophecy. Can you imagine anything so vile?’
‘But you are always telling me that reason is a greater guide to action than prophecy.’
‘I know, I know, and reason tells me it’s all nonsense; but even if the probability of it coming true is unimaginably low, the crime itself is so unimaginably monstrous that it is worth doing anything to avoid it.’
‘But sire, sire!’ The messenger astonished them both by jumping up and down, clapping his hands and beaming with joy. ‘Forgive me, but I have wonderful news that will relieve your mind. You are safe, quite safe from such a crime. For Merope is not your mother!’
‘Not my mother?’ Oedipus stared. His mind rushed back to the drunken oaf whose jeers all those years ago had pricked him on his way to Delphi: ‘You’re no more a royal prince than I am … You were adopted, mate.’
‘No, sire,’ said the messenger. ‘I can explain. Who better? There’s a good reason why I wanted to be the one to bring you news of King Polybus’s death, why I wanted to look upon your features. You see, I was the one who found you.’
‘Who found me? Explain yourself.’
‘My name is Straton, sire, and in earlier times I was a herdsman. Many years ago I was visiting Phorbas, a shepherd I knew who tended flocks on Mount Cithaeron, on the border with Attica. One afternoon Phorbas happened on a terrible sight. A baby left on the mountain to die.’
Jocasta gave a moan.
‘Aye, majesty. Well you might cry out. For this poor child had been staked to the hillside. Shackled. Pierced through the ankles …’
Jocasta clutched at her husband’s arm. ‘Don’t listen to this, Oedipus. Don’t listen! Go away, sir. Leave us. This story is nothing. How dare you tell such disgusting lies?’
Oedipus pushed Jocasta away. ‘Are you mad? It’s what I’ve waited all my life to know. Go on …’
Jocasta, with a wild cry, ran from the room. Oedipus paid no attention, but grabbed Straton by his tunic. ‘This baby, what happened to it?’
‘Phorbas gave him to me to look after. When it was time for me to return to Corinth, I took him with me. King Polybus and Queen Merope heard about it and asked that they might have him. I gladly gave him … you …’
‘Me? That baby was me?’
‘None other, sire. The gods put you into my hands and guided you to Corinth. The wounds on your ankles healed and you grew up to be a fine boy, a noble prince. I was always so proud of you, so very proud.’
‘But who were my real parents?’ Oedipus’s hands twisted Straton’s tunic until the old man almost choked.
‘I never knew, sire! No one knows. They cannot have been good people, for they staked you to a mountainside and left you to die.’
‘What about this friend of yours? Could he be my father?’
‘Phorbas? No, sir. Oh no. He’s a good man. Whoever had you shackled and left to die was unworthy to be called a parent. You deserved better and the gods made sure you were given better. They led Phorbas to you and Phorbas to me. Now come back home to Corinth with me, my boy, and rule as our king.’
Oedipus let go of him. It was true that he could now safely return to Corinth. He need never have lef
t. But he had to know who he was. Who had left him to die so cruel a death? Why had he been unwanted?
Oedipus clapped his hands and summoned his page.
‘Take this fine old gentleman through to the kitchens and feed him well. Find him a chamber in which he can rest.’ He turned back to Straton. ‘I will send for you again when I have thought this thing through, sir.’
The page bowed. ‘And I was to tell you, sire, that Antimedes of Ismenos has arrived and awaits your pleasure.’
Damn. Oedipus wasn’t sure he wanted to see Antimedes now. He was far more concerned with getting to the truth of his birth and abandonment on Mount Cithaeron. Still, Antimedes might have information that would bring them all closer to discovering who killed Laius. With the plague still ravaging Thebes, he could not in all decency ignore that opportunity. Besides, he was Oedipus. He could follow ten complex lines of investigation at once, if he put his mind to it.
‘Send him in.’
Why had Jocasta run off moaning like that? The image of a baby having its ankles pierced with iron staples must have upset her. Women feel things like that. Ah well.
Ah, this must be Antimedes now, Oedipus said to himself. Shifty-looking individual. Won’t meet my eyes. He’s afraid of something.
‘Stand before me, Antimedes, and tell me the truth of what happened the day Laius was killed.’
‘I’ve told it a hundred times before,’ grumbled Antimedes, staring down at the floor. ‘There will be a report in your archives, won’t there?’
‘Any more of that sulky manner and I’ll have you flogged, for all your white hairs,’ snapped Oedipus. ‘I want to hear the story from you. Look me in the eye and tell me what happened. If you lie, I shall know. And the deaths of hundreds of Thebans will be upon your conscience.’
Antimedes stared. ‘How can that be?’
‘The oracle has told us that the disease scourging our people has been sent by the gods because the killer of Laius lives amongst us and pollutes our kingdom.’
‘Well, that is indeed the truth of the matter,’ said Antimedes, gazing steadily at Oedipus. ‘The killer is here in Thebes.’
‘He is?’ Oedipus’s eyes shone with excitement.
‘The killer of Laius is in this very room.’
‘Ah!’ Oedipus became grave. ‘It is as well that you are honest. Tell me all truthfully and it may be that your only punishment will be exile. How did you come to kill your king?’
Antimedes gave a thin smile. ‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened, my lord king,’ he said, and something in the way he said the last three words struck Oedipus as offensive. ‘We were travelling, King Laius, his three bodyguards and me. Near Daulis we came to a place where three roads meet … There was some clod of a vagrant standing there, right in our way.’
‘But you were ambushed by a gang, surely?’ Oedipus’s heart felt as if it had been seized by an icy hand and his whole body began to tremble.
‘You wanted the truth, I’m now telling it. A lone traveller it was, a young man who looked as though he’d been on the road many a month. Laius ordered him out of the way. The man snatched at his whip and pulled him out of the chariot, like a fisherman landing a fish. The bodyguards, they sprang out … But why am I telling you this? You already know.’
In his agony of soul Oedipus wanted to hear it all. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘You wrenched the sword out of the hand of one of them and killed all three.’
‘And you ran away …’
Antimedes bowed his head. ‘And I ran away. But what business did you have to kill the king after that?’
‘I didn’t! That is … he was dead when he hit the ground. His neck broke. I never meant for him to die. He struck first, with his whip.’
‘If you say so,’ said Antimedes. ‘Well, I made my way to Thebes and yes, I did tell them it was a gang that set upon us. Maybe I was ashamed to have run away. Ashamed that we could all have been set upon by one unarmed man.’
Oedipus was the man who had killed Laius. Oedipus had proclaimed a curse upon the killer of Laius. A curse upon himself.
‘And then?’
‘Nothing more to say. I left Thebes. I didn’t want to serve under Creon. My loyalty was always to Laius and Jocasta. When I heard a young man had come to rule in Laius’ place – you – I thought perhaps you were his son found at last, but then I heard you married the queen and knew that couldn’t be.’
‘His son?’ said Oedipus. ‘But Laius and Jocasta had no children.’
‘Ah, she told you that did she? They had one son, but they couldn’t keep it.’
‘What are you saying?’ Oedipus shook Antimedes by the shoulder. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I might as well tell it all,’ said Antimedes. ‘I’m not long for this life and I don’t want to face the Judges of the Underworld with an unclean soul. The oracle warned Laius that any son of his would kill him; so when a boy was born to Jocasta, he gave the child to me and bid me peg him to the hillside on Mount Cithaeron and … Oh, by the gods!’ It was Antimedes’ turn to stare. ‘Never say it. No, no –’
Loud screams came from another part of the palace. The moment Straton had told his story of taking the baby Oedipus from Mount Cithaeron to Corinth, Jocasta had understood the terrible truth and taken her own life. When Oedipus followed the screams to her bedchamber, he saw her body hanging from the ceiling and his daughters weeping beneath it. He sent them from the room.
It was all clear. He was the killer of Laius who had brought the plague to Thebes. That would have been terrible enough on its own. Now he knew that the whole truth was deeper, darker and more unbearable still. Laius had been his father. He had taken his mother Jocasta to be his wife, and had four children by her. He had loudly and publicly hunted for the truth and boasted that he would find it but – as blind Tiresias had warned him – he had not been able to see. He was a pollutant. A contaminant. He was the disease.
He wanted to kill himself, but how could he? Suppose he met his mother-wife Jocasta in the underworld? And the father that he had killed? He could not face that. Not yet, at least. Not until he had been punished for his unspeakable crime.
He reached up, pulled the long gold brooch pins from Jocasta’s dress and thrust them into his own eyes.
THE AFTERMYTH
If the preceding scene sounds like something from a drama, that is because I have freely (too freely, some may think) drawn the narrative from Sophocles’ play Oedipus the King,fn15 probably the best known of all the classical Greek tragedies. As with almost every myth, there are variant storylines, but the version that has come down through Sophocles is the most often told and retold.
Creon took over the throne and blind Oedipus tapped his wayfn16 into self-banishment and exile, his faithful daughter Antigone by his side. Two more plays, Oedipus at Colonus and Antigone, constitute what is known as Sophocles’ ‘Theban Cycle’ telling the story of the further episodes in the life of Oedipus and his family. In Oedipus at Colonus, the blind king is looked after by Theseus and dies in Athens, bestowing the place of his death upon the Athenian people as a blessing which will grant them victory in any future wars with Thebes.
Sophocles’ two great rivals, Aeschylus and Euripides,fn17 found themselves equally unable to resist dramatising this beguiling and perplexing story. Aeschylus wrote his own Theban Cycle consisting of three separate trilogies: the Laius and Oedipus are lost, but the Seven Against Thebes (which chronicles the struggle between Oedipus’s sons Eteocles and Polynices for the throne of Thebes after their father’s death) is extant, if rarely performed, being generally considered dramatically underpowered and overladen with stodgy dialogue.fn18
The prodigiously profuse, prolific and productive Euripides wrote an Oedipus that is lostfn19 while his Phoenician Women treats the same episode that Aeschylus covers in the Seven against Thebes. It has been inferred that in the Oedipus of Euripides, Jocasta does not commit suicide and Oedipus is blinded not by himself, but by vengeful Thebans l
oyal to the memory of Laius.
In other versions of the myth, Oedipus marries Jocasta but has no children by her. After he discovers the truth about himself he divorces her and marries EURYGANEIA (who may have been Jocasta’s sister) and it is by her that he has his four children. In this telling Eteocles, Polynices, Antigone and Ismene are clean of the taint of incest.
However they were conceived, the main lines of the story tell us that, after Oedipus went into exile, his sons Eteocles and Polynices assume the throne of Thebes, each ruling in alternate years. Naturally, brothers being brothers, it all goes wrong. Eteocles refuses to give up the throne when it is his brother’s turn to take over. In a huff, Polynices storms off to Argos to raise an army led by seven champions, the so-called Seven against Thebes, but they perish during a botched assault on the city walls. Polynices and Eteocles kill each other in battle and Creon now takes over as king in his own right, ruling that the body of Polynices, whom he considers to have been the guiltier of the pair, be denied proper burial. Antigone, distraught at the idea of her brother’s soul being denied rest, attempts to cover the corpse but is caught in the act. Creon sentences her to death for her disobedience and has her sealed up in a cave. Although he changes his mind at the last minute and commands her to be set free, it is too late. She has hanged herself.
By the end of Sophocles’ dramatisation of this myth, Antigone and her fiancé HAEMON (Creon’s own son) have both committed suicide. At the news of this so too does Creon’s wife, EURYDICE. The curse on the Theban royal house was relentless and the Greeks seemed endlessly to be fascinated by it.
Sigmund Freud notably saw in the Oedipus myth a playing out of his theory that infant sons long for a close and exclusive relationship with their mothers, including an (unconscious) sexual one, and hate their fathers for coming between this perfect mother–son union. It is an oft-noted irony that, of all men in history, Oedipus was the one with the least claim to an Oedipus Complex. He left Corinth because the idea of sex with his mother Merope (as he thought) was so repugnant. Not only was his attraction to Jocasta adult (and the incestuous element wholly unwitting), but it came after the killing of his father Laius, which itself was accidental and entirely unconnected to any infant sexual jealousy. None of which put Freud off his stride.