The Invasion
Minos sailed against Corinth with seven hundred war vessels, each carrying thirty men-at-arms in addition to its crew. So he was able to disembark an army of twenty thousand men after an unopposed landing on the beaches of Corinth.
Everything went easily at first. He was able to secure his beachheads and move several miles inland before nightfall. Only one thing marred his satisfaction. He had seen no sign of any Corinthian. He would have preferred to have been marching over corpses; the advance would have had more reality for him—but the fishing villages were totally deserted and the few farmhouses were empty, and their fire-pits cold.
Then things changed. It was a sweltering night. Clouds hid the moon and stars, and the men had fallen into a heavy sleep. Then, suddenly, the wet darkness fledged strangers with blades—swift-moving warriors who overwhelmed the sentries, attacked the sleeping Cretans, spearing them before they could awake, killing perhaps a hundred in a very few minutes … and then melting into the blackness.
In the morning, Minos restored discipline by executing a few officers whom he accused of not posting enough sentries. Thereupon, he ordered an immediate advance, and the spearmen and the archers and the war chariots rolled onward in a metal wave.
But things did not go well. The invaders advanced during the day, but the night belonged to the Corinthians, whose sneak attacks continued, always with small groups of men. They continued to slip past the sentries no matter how thickly they were posted, and each time killed a certain number of Cretans. The losses were never so great as upon the first night; nevertheless, it was a steady bleeding, and Minos knew it couldn’t be permitted to continue.
The Cretan king considered himself a great tactician, and indeed could boast of an unbroken string of victories. But now he felt himself thwarted. These Corinthians simply did not fight fairly. They refused to mass troops and meet him on the open field where he could use his war chariots. And he was particularly eager to use these chariots, for Daedalus had invented a new weapon—hub-knives that whirled as the wheels turned, mowing down the enemy like a line of farmers scything wheat. But without massed troops to move against, the chariots were just useless vehicles, and their horses a burden to feed.
And if the Cretans could advance across the open spaces, the Corinthians owned the forests. They knew every tree, every bush. It was death to follow them into the woods. The Cretans were sure to be ambushed. They fell into pits concealed under branches and strewn leaves; the pit bottoms were lined with sharpened stakes whose points were smeared with poison. Those who fell in died horribly. Innocent-looking trees could prove deadly too. Some of them were bent, tied down by vines, and when the vines were disturbed the tree would whip up with murderous force, squashing the armored men like beetles.
The war dragged on. The defenders took losses too, for the Cretans were brave, skillful fighters when they could manage to get within weapons’ reach. Twice Minos sent his ships back to Crete for reinforcements—another forty thousand men. Finally, by sheer weight of numbers, the Corinthians were driven to the northeastern corner of the isthmus, to the city of Pagae, which Nisus had fortified.
Pagae backed upon the sea, and walls encircled it on three sides, walls of massive stone. Minos ranged his forces in an arc about the city walls, and a siege began.
One night, in the third month of the siege, Minos stood at the portal of his tent staring at the night sky, trying to read the next day’s weather. The moon was out, and the stars, but there was a hazy ring about the moon, which sometimes meant rain.
He heard a rush of wings. Two enormous creatures coasted down and came to earth, one on each side of him, dwarfing him. In the bright moonlight he could see that their wings were membranous, like bat wings. One had the head of a cobra, the other of a cat. They were a frightful spectacle, but Minos had a fund of icy courage and the kind of pride that forbade him from showing fear even when he felt it. So he stopped his hand from darting to his dagger, and managed to speak calmly.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’ve been studying the sky to see whether tomorrow will be fair or foul. What do you think?”
“Thick clouds but no rain,” said the cat-headed one. Cobra-head said: “You are reputed to be a great military leader. To what do you attribute your present lack of success?”
Minos was not used to being questioned, and this question was exceedingly unpleasant. Nevertheless, as he looked at the enormous winged cobra looming above him and blotting the moonlight, he knew that he would have to answer whatever she asked.
“I asked you a question,” she said. “Why are you doing so poorly in Corinth?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ve encountered a string of disasters in this accursed place. It was a bloody business getting this far. But I thought that when I had finally penned the enemy behind walls, I’d be able to finish them off. But the siege has turned sour too. My catapults are the best in the world—designed by Daedalus, you know—but for some reason they keep breaking. And when they do hurl their boulders, why the great rocks seem to turn to mud in midair and splatter harmlessly against the walls. The gods have turned against me. I can’t understand it. My father is Zeus, you know.”
“He has hordes of children,” said Bast. “He has visited Corinth, and many of his descendants fight against you.”
“Nevertheless,” said Minos, “he has always favored my designs, until now.”
“Your alleged father, Zeus,” said Buto, “is prone at times to play with the idea of justice—something quite alien to our Egyptian brand of god. He never allows it to interfere with his personal affairs, of course, but in spectacular, less urgent matters, like warfare, he often prefers to present the appearance of neutrality.”
“True,” said Minos.
“That is why your prayers for victory have met with silence.”
“I don’t only ask Zeus for victory,” said Minos. “I pray also to my half brother, Ares, God of War.”
“He can’t hear you,” said Bast. “He’s in Persia now, a spot he favors, for truces there are as bloody as wars.”
“You seem to know a lot about the affairs of the pantheon,” said Minos.
“Yes,” said Buto. “We gods keep track of each other, even when we operate in different territories.”
“You are gods?” asked Minos.
“Goddesses. I am Buto, Cobra-goddess of the Lower Nile. My cat-faced colleague is Bast, who rules the upper stretch of the river.”
“I am honored by your visit,” said Minos, bowing.
“And want to know its purpose, no doubt,” said Bast.
“Well … yes.”
“We are keenly interested in your campaign, Minos. For your enemy is our enemy.”
“Do you mean Nisus? I had heard that he was an Egyptian.”
“A verminous specimen,” hissed Buto. “And the human being we most abhor. We wish to deliver him into your hands, oh King.”
“Do so, Goddess, and I shall be eternally grateful.”
“Listen carefully, then. Your father, Zeus, has chosen to ignore your prayers for victory. But, perhaps, he will be moved to do you a more modest favor.”
“Such as?”
“You must ask him to turn you into a wolf—just temporarily.”
“A wolf? Me? Why?”
“So that you may woo your enemy’s wife,” said Buto. “A beautiful girl, incidentally, named Scylla.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Pay close attention, and you will.”
Whereupon Buto told him a tale that made him very thoughtful.
After the goddesses had finished their tale, and given him detailed instructions, and answered his questions, they flew away. Minos gazed after them, then spoke to the sky:
“Oh Father Zeus who put on the shape of a bull to woo my mother, Europa, please, I pray, grant me the form of a wolf for my courtship.”
Lightning hooked out of the sky and touched Minos with sizzling blue flame. He disappeared. Where he had sto
od was a clot of darkness and two pits of light. The little king had become a huge black wolf with amber eyes. He knew he had become a wolf—but with his own intelligence and the power of speech.
“Thank you, Zeus,” he cried, and loped toward the city.
He circled the walls looking for a way in. Finally, he saw a Corinthian patrol filing out of a side portal. He raced toward the wall and slid through the gate before it closed. He prowled the streets, trying to decide where Nisus dwelt. He spotted a graceful stone building inside a large garden, and leaped a low fence into the garden.
He was assailed by smells, somewhat bewildered, but delighted to discover a new sense in himself. He smelled parsley, mint, and wild asparagus; rabbit in the tall grass and an owl in a lemon tree. He lifted his muzzle and howled softly.
He waited, tasting the wind. He howled again, still softly. He smelled someone coming—a young woman. Her odor was a condensation of the garden scents, lemons, and mown grass. She came straight to him. He reared up on his hind legs and put his forepaws on her shoulders. She embraced him.
“I don’t know you, Brother. Of what pack are you?”
“I suppose you would call me a lone wolf.”
“You speak like a man! How is that?”
“Well, lovely girl, in another incarnation I am Minos, king of Crete. But I have fallen in love with you, Scylla, with the kind of love that makes all things possible. And I have put on this form to please you.”
“Oh, you do. You please me very much,” murmured Scylla. “But—”
The wolf raised its paw. “I know what you’re about to say—that we cannot truly belong to each other unless you become a wolf too. Well, I can manage that.”
Can you?” cried Scylla. “Will you? It’s my dearest wish. And if you do, I shall adore your very shadow. Can you do me now? I want to be mist-gray with black markings.”
“Mist-gray,” said Minos, “with black markings. It shall be done.”
“Now? Right now?”
“Not quite yet. First I must have a pledge of your love.”
“What kind of pledge?”
“A perilous one. A bloody one.”
“I’ll do anything, anything.… Tell me what you want.”
10
Transformations
Rush torches burned in their sconces on the stone wall, making shadows dance. For Nisus never slept in darkness; he slept fully clothed, ready to spring out of bed and take command should the enemy launch a night attack.
But he was sleeping deeply now, and Scylla stood over him, studying his face. His hair was uniformly black now; the magic tress did not glow. “I’ll have to cut off a lot of hair to make sure I get the right clump,” she said to herself. “And he’s bound to wake up. But Minos says that without that magic tress Nisus will lose his power and be easily vanquished. But he’ll wake up; I know he will. It would be easier to use an axe and chop off his whole head. Yes, I’ll take it to Minos and say, ‘Behold my love pledge’—the head of your enemy, hair and all! And he’ll be very pleased and take me to Crete. And I’ll be queen and sit on a throne sometimes. But mostly we’ll be wolves, as he promised, and live in a den, and run beneath the moon.”
The wall was hung with weapons—swords, spears, battle-axes. She took down an axe and approached the bed. She raised the axe and held it poised. She was trying to remember the exact look of the wolves’ heads stuck on the lances, trying to travel backward in time to that loathsome bloody meadow so that hatred might empower her to do this deed.
Now, axe poised, she gaped in amazement. For one lock of her husband’s hair glowed golden-hot. She called on all the strength of her shoulders and arms to swing the axe and chop off his head in a single scything blow. The axe did not budge. She could not force it down. It was as if an invisible vise had clamped about it. The heavy weapon pulled itself from her hands, cleaved the air and hung itself back on the wall.
She stared after it; when she turned back, Nisus was standing before her. He spoke gently: “You don’t need an axe. Your intention is enough.”
She gaped at him; she couldn’t speak.
“Your hatred has killed my love,” he said. “And must alter me forever. You may tell Minos that your mission has succeeded. You have widowed yourself, and he can reclaim his golden cattle. But tell him also that he must not massacre the Corinthians, nor ravage the land, nor take slaves, or my vengeful ghost will torment him forever. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Farewell, Scylla.”
As she watched, he turned into a hawk—not a human with hawk-head and wings, but an entire hawk, a magnificent peregrine, and among the black feathers of its head sprang one gold plume.
The hawk spread its wings and flew out of the room.
Kings are not a grateful breed, and Minos was even less so. He was born to be served, he believed; others were born to serve. It was the natural order of things, and anyone in a position to do him a special service should be considered immensely privileged, and needing no further reward.
So he had no intention whatsoever of keeping his promise to Scylla. Why, he had already done much for the girl. Had changed his shape for her, spent an entire hour with her, actually vowed affection. A girl so honored should live happily the rest of her life on the rich memory.
“Besides,” he said to himself, “I don’t want to take her to Crete. She approached a domestic problem by trying to cut off her husband’s head. And that sort of thing can be habit-forming. I know. I have a heavy decapitation habit myself. Is not my royal insignia the executioner’s double axe? … So I’ll rid myself of her before she gets any ideas about my own valuable head.”
Whereupon he instructed the men of his guard to admit no one to his presence but members of his military staff; all strangers were to be kept away. “Especially,” he said, “a big gray-eyed wench. Don’t let her anywhere near.”
Thus it was that after ridding herself of her husband, the young widow was truly bereaved by being denied the sight of her lover. Befuddled by passion, however, she blamed everyone but him. Blamed the Royal Guard for being overzealous in their duty. “If he knew I was out here trying to get in, he’d tell them to let me through,” she said to herself. “But there’s no way to get word to him. Besides, he’s busy with the truce, and withdrawing his army, and preparing the fleet. He’s king and has to make all the decisions himself. No wonder he can’t think of other things. But when all this damned business is wound up why then he’ll come to me. He will. Because he loves me. I know he does. He told me so himself.”
Nevertheless, when the Cretan ships departed, Scylla found herself on the beach gazing after them. In the very center of the fleet was a somewhat larger vessel with purple sails and a polished brass ram—the king’s own galley. Scylla heard herself whining like an abandoned dog. She couldn’t stand the sound of her voice. She dashed into the surf …
As it happened, the fleet was sailing before a slack wind. As Scylla began to cut through the water she saw sailors scurrying about the decks. Sails dropped, oars poked out of the row-holes. The maneuver slowed the fleet so that Scylla was able to thread among the vessels, catch up to the king’s galley, and grasp its stern.
“Minos!” she screamed. “Oh Minos, my king, my wolf, my love!”
The king, standing in the bow, heard her voice. He kept his face expressionless, and did not turn his head, but barked a command. Two rowers leapt from their bench, rushed to the stern and swung their heavy oars, pounding Scylla’s hands until they were bloody pulp and she could hold on no longer.
The ship sped away. She was alone in the sea, many miles from shore, and so grief stricken that she didn’t even try to swim. She sank then, and would have drowned.
But Poseidon, God of the Sea, who had been watching this interesting spectacle, was so moved by Scylla’s strength and beauty that he immediately made long-range plans for her, and began by changing her to a sea nymph—who could not drown. Long practice, however, had ma
de his wife, Amphitrite, very skillful at dealing with rivals. Without hesitation, she worked a second transformation on the new Nereid, changing her into a sea monster—a beautiful powerful nymph from the waist up, but six ravening wolves below the waist.
No sooner did Scylla become a monster than all memory of her past was blotted from her mind. She lost all ability to feel or think, and knew only hunger, a raging unappeasable hunger—for human flesh.
Obeying blind instinct, she swam westward from the waters of Corinth to a much-trafficked sea-lane, the Strait of Messina, off the coast of Sicily. There she sank to the bottom and waited for a ship to pass.
11
Charybdis
Demeter, Goddess of Growing Things, was furious with her nephew, Ares, Lord of Battles. Many times she had pleaded with him to refrain from fomenting his wars until the harvest was in. Often, he had agreed. But this year, a prime growing year with a rainy spring and a gentle summer, when Demeter was exulting in rich crops, Ares suddenly decided he couldn’t wait an hour longer before launching a series of bloody battles.
Evenly matched armies attacked and counterattacked across the ploughed fields, trampling everything green and leaving the earth littered with corpses. So Demeter was in a foul mood as she overflew the fields in her winged chariot, observing the devastation.
She spotted something moving, and flew lower. A richly clad young woman was striding across the field, followed by two gnarled men carrying spades. Demeter kept watching them because they were headed for a certain orchard sacred to herself, which no mortal was permitted to enter.
Demeter hovered invisibly, still watching, as the young woman, whom she recognized as Charybdis, princess of Thessaly, marched into the orchard and straight up to Demeter’s most cherished tree—one that grew the world’s sweetest figs. But their chief virtue was that every fig would replace itself as soon as it was picked.
Charybdis spoke to her gardeners. “Start digging,” she said. “Uproot this tree. Take it to the palace orchard and plant it there. Right outside my window, please—so that I may be able to reach out and pick the figs and eat them in bed.”
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two Page 34
