Mythos (2019 Re-Issue)

by Stephen Fry

  Zeus stroked his beard, thought hard, and came up with what he believed was a masterstroke. He transformed Io into a cow, a beautiful plump young heifer with shivering flanks and large, gentle eyes.103 If he hid her in a field Hera would never spot her and he could visit her whenever he liked. Or so he imagined. When lust descends, discretion, common sense, and wisdom fly off and what may seem cunning concealment to one in the grip of passion looks like transparently clumsy idiocy to everyone else.

  It is easier to hide a hundred mountains from a jealous wife than one mistress. Hera, to whom cows were sacred, and who possessed therefore a keen, expert eye for the species, noticed the animal and suspected its true identity straightaway.

  “What a delightful heifer,” Hera remarked casually to Zeus at breakfast on Olympus one morning. “Such a perfect shape. Such long lashes and appealing eyes.”

  “What, that old thing?” said Zeus, looking down with a feigned air of boredom to where Hera was pointing.

  “That’s one of your fields, darling, so she must be one of yours.”

  “Possibly,” said Zeus, “very possibly. One has thousands of cows browsing around. Can’t be expected to keep tabs on all of them.”

  “I should very much like that particular heifer,” said Hera, “as a birthday present.”

  “Er . . . really? That one? I’m sure I could find you a much fatter and fitter animal.”

  “No,” said Hera—and those who knew her would have recognized the glint in her eye and the steel in her voice. “That is the one I should like.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” said Zeus affecting a yawn. “She’s yours. There’s a jar of ambrosia at your elbow . . . chuck it down my end, would you?”

  Hera knew her husband all too well. Once his libidinous propensities were aroused there would be no taming them. She had Io moved to a small gated paddock and sent her servant ARGUS, Inachus’s grandson, to watch over her.

  Argus, son of Mycene and Arestor, was a loyal follower of Hera’s like all the Argives at that time,104 but he also possessed a very special gift which made him a perfect guardian of his aunt Io. He had a hundred eyes. His nickname was PANOPTES, the “all-seeing.”105 Obedient as ever to Hera’s will, he stationed himself in the field, fixed fifty eyes on Io and let the other fifty range independently around and up and down, on the lookout for marauders.

  Zeus saw this and paced about in a fury. His blood was up. He crashed his fist into his palm. He would have Io. It had become a matter of principle to defeat Hera in this silent and unacknowledged war. He knew the limits of his own cunning, however, so he called upon the wiliest and most amoral rogue on Olympus to aid him.

  Hermes understood right away what needed to be done. Ever happy to oblige Zeus and sow mischief he hurried to Io’s paddock.

  “Hello, Argus. Let me keep you company for a while,” he said, unlatching the gate and slipping in. “Nice heifer you’ve got there.”

  Argus swiveled a dozen eyes toward Hermes, who sat down on the grass, took out a set of pipes, and started to play. For two hours he played and he sang. The music, the afternoon heat, the scent of poppies, lavender, and wild thyme, the soft lapping and purling of a nearby stream—slowly Argus’s eyes started to close, one by one.

  As the very hundredth eye at last winked shut Hermes lowered his pipes, stole forward, and stabbed Argus in the heart. All the gods were capable of great cruelty—Hermes could be as vicious as any of them.

  With Argus dead, Zeus opened the gate into the field and set Io free. But before he had a chance to change her back into human form, Hera, who had seen what had happened, sent down a gadfly which stung Io so painfully and persistently that she bucked and screamed and galloped away, far from Zeus’s reach.

  Sorrowing at the death of her beloved servant, Hera took Argus’s hundred bright eyes and fixed them onto the tail of a very dull, dowdy old fowl, transforming it into what we know today as the peacock—which is how the now proud, colorful, and haughty bird came forever to be associated with the goddess.106

  Io, meanwhile, charged on along the northern shore of the Aegean Sea, swimming over at the place where Europe becomes Asia, the spot we still call in her honor the cow-crossing, or in Greek, the Bosporus.107 On and on she careered, thrashing, tossing, and squealing in her agony until she reached the Caucasus. There the gadfly seemed to relent for a while, enough for her to see the figure of Prometheus, racked in pain upon the mountainside.

  “Sit down and catch your breath awhile, Io,” said the Titan. “Be of good cheer. Things will get better.”

  “They could hardly be worse,” wailed Io. “I’m a cow. I’m being attacked by the largest and most spiteful gadfly the world has ever seen. And Hera will destroy me. It’s only a question of whether I am stung to death or go mad and drown myself in the sea.”

  “I know it seems dark for you now,” said Prometheus, “but I see into the future sometimes and I do know this. You will return to human shape. You will found a great dynasty in the land where Nilus crawls. And from your line will spring the greatest of all the heroes.108 So chin up and be cheerful, eh?”

  It was hard for Io, in all her tribulation, to ignore these words from one who—even as she looked on in horror—was being ripped open and gorged upon by a pair of evil-looking vultures. What were her minor inconveniences when set against his perpetual agony?

  As things turned out, Io did return to human shape. She met up with Zeus in Egypt and bore him a son, EPAPHUS, who will play an important part of the story of Phaeton, which is just coming up. Supposedly Zeus impregnated Io just by gently laying a hand on her—Epaphus means “touch.” Io also had a daughter by Zeus, called KEROESSA, whose son BYZAS went on to found the great city of Byzantium. Whether Keroessa was conceived by touch or the more traditional method of generation we do not know.

  Io may have been a cow, but she was a very influential and important one.

  THE SEMEN-SOAKED SCARF

  A rather touching story tells of how Athena, without sacrificing her chastity, had a role in the conception and birth of one of the founders of the city-state of Athens.

  Lame Hephaestus, ever since splitting Zeus’s head and thereby helping bring Athena into the world, had developed a strong passion for the goddess. One day, unable to control his lust, he tracked her down to some corner of high Olympus and tried to force himself on her. Alas, in his excitement he succeeded only in spilling his seed on her thigh. Athena, in silent disgust, removed her headband and used it to wipe up the mess before throwing it down the mountain.

  The sodden fillet landed on the ground far below. Hephaestus’s divine semen seeped into the earth and Gaia was made pregnant. From her was born a boy, ERECHTHEUS. Looking down from heaven Athena saw this and determined that this child should be immortal. She descended from Olympus, put the baby in a wicker basket, closed it up, and placed it in the care of three mortal sisters, HERSE, AGLAUROS, and PANDROSOS. On no account, Athena told them, must the basket ever be opened. But Aglauros and Herse could not resist peeping inside. They saw a wriggling baby boy bound up in the coils of a writhing snake. All snakes were sacred to Athena and this one was a part of the enchantment which the goddess was using to endow the infant Erechtheus with immortality. The shocking sight sent the two women instantly insane and they threw themselves off the topmost point of the hill now called the Acropolis, or “high citadel.” Erechtheus grew up to be (or to father, the stories disagree) ERECHTHONIUS, the legendary founder of Athens.109

  If you visit the Acropolis in Athens today you can still see, just to the north of the Parthenon, the beautiful temple called the Erechtheum. Its famous porch of caryatid columns in the form of draped maidens is one of the great architectural treasures of the world. Shrines were erected not far away to poor Aglauros and Herse too, which is only fitting.110

  102. She gave her name to the city of Mycenae.

  103. A heifer is to a cow as a filly is to a mare.

  104. “Argive” meant “citizen of Argos,” but
in later times was often used to mean any Greek—especially as distinct from a Trojan.

  105. There are those who like to suggest that the idea of Argus having a hundred eyes arose from a fanciful way of expressing his extreme watchfulness. It might just as well have been playfully said and then seriously believed, they maintain, that he had eyes in the back of his head. We repudiate such dull, unromantic propositions with the contempt they deserve. Argus had a hundred eyes. Fact.

  106. Painters and sculptors often depicted Hera on a chariot drawn by peacocks, and there is, of course, the Sean O’Casey play Juno and the Paycock.

  107. Strange that “Oxford” and “Bosporus” mean exactly the same thing.

  108. The very hero who would one day unchain Prometheus and set him free.

  109. The name “Erechthonius” is sometimes used of both Erechtheus and various of his descendants. His chthonic birth out of Gaia can be seen in both names.

  110. As for Pandrosos, the obedient sister who resisted looking into the basket, a temple was raised to her near that of Minerva, and a festival instituted in her honor called Pandrosia.

  PHAETON

  THE SON OF THE SUN

  Erechtheus had Athena as a proxy parent, Gaia as a mother, and Hephaestus as a father. Three immortal parents could be regarded as overdoing it (and as boastfulness about their founder on the part of Athenians), but it was not uncommon for mortals to claim one such progenitor. The story of the brave but foolhardy PHAETON,111 like the myth of Persephone, explains how certain changes to the geography of the world came about, as well as offering a very literal example of a favorite finger-wagging lesson of Greek myth—how pride comes before a fall.

  Phaeton had divine parentage, but was brought up by his stepfather MEROPS, a disappointingly mortal man. Whenever Merops was away Phaeton’s mother CLYMENE, who may or may not have been immortal,112 would delight the boy with stories of his divine father, the glorious sun god Phoebus Apollo.113

  When Phaeton was old enough he went to school alongside other mortal boys, some of whom were fully human and others of whom, like him, could claim divine ancestry on one side or another. One such was Epaphus, the son of Zeus and Io. With such illustrious parents Epaphus felt entitled to lord it over his schoolmates. Phaeton, who was a proud and passionate youth, hated being bossed around by Epaphus and was constantly irritated by the other’s arrogance and air of superiority.

  Epaphus was always so maddeningly blasé about his pedigree. He would say things like: “Yes, next weekend Dad—Zeus, don’t you know—is inviting me up to Olympus for supper. He said he might let me sit on his throne, maybe take a sip or two of nectar. Had it before, of course. There’ll just be a few of us. Uncle Ares, my half sister Athena, a few nymphs perhaps to round up the numbers. Should be a laugh.”

  Phaeton would always return home in a fury after enduring this oh-so-casual name-dropping. “How come,” he would complain to his mother, “Epaphus gets to see his father every weekend when I have never even met mine?”

  Clymene would hug her son tightly and try to explain. “Apollo is so busy, darling. Every day he has to drive his chariot of the sun across the sky. And when that duty is done he has shrines at Delos and Delphi and goodness knows where else to attend. Prophecies, music, archery . . . he is quite the busiest of all the gods. But I’m sure he’ll come and visit us soon. When you were born he left this for you—I was going to wait to give it to you when you were a little older, but you might as well have it now . . .”

  Clymene went to a cupboard and took out an exquisite golden flute which she handed to him. The boy at once brought it to his mouth and blew, producing a breathy and far from musical hiss.

  “What is it supposed to do?”

  “Do? What do you mean, darling?”

  “Zeus gave Epaphus a magic leather whip which makes dogs obey his every command. What does this do?”

  “It’s a flute, my love. It makes music. Beautiful, charming music.”

  “How?”

  “Well, you learn how to shape the notes and then you . . . well, you play it.”

  “Where’s the magic in that?”

  “Have you never heard flute music? It’s the most magical sound there is. It does take rather a lot of practice though.”

  Phaeton threw the instrument down in disgust and stormed off to his bedroom, where he sulked for the rest of the day and night.

  A week or so later, on the last day of term before the long summer holidays, he found himself being approached by the exasperatingly condescending Epaphus.

  “Hi there, Phaeton,” he drawled. “Wondered if you wanted to join me at the family villa on the North African coast next week? Small enough house party. Just Dad, maybe Hermes, Demeter, and a few fauns. We sail tomorrow. Could be a laugh. What do you say?”

  “Oh, what a shame,” cried Phaeton. “My father, Phoebus Apollo you know, has invited me to . . . to drive the sun-chariot across the sky next week. Can’t let him down.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, didn’t I mention it? He’s always going on at me to help take the load off his shoulders, do a bit of the old sun-driving for him.”

  “You’re seriously telling me . . . Bullshit. Guys, you’ve got to come and listen to this!” Epaphus called the other boys over to where he and Phaeton stood facing each other. “Tell them,” he demanded.

  Phaeton was caught in the lie now. Pride, fury, and frustration drove him on. He was damned if he was going to back down and let this insufferable snob win the day.

  “It’s really nothing,” he said. “Just that my dad Apollo is insisting I learn to drive the horses of the sun. No big deal.”

  The other boys, led by a sneering Epaphus, hooted their disbelief and derision. “We all know your father is that boring old fool Merops!” one of them shouted.

  “He’s just my stepfather!” cried Phaeton. “Apollo is my real father. He is! You’ll see. Just you wait and see. It’ll take me a while to get to his palace, but one day soon—look up at the sky. I’ll wave down at you. That’ll be me driving the day along. You’ll see!”

  And off he ran home, jeers, catcalls, and the mocking laughter of his school-fellows ringing in his ears. One of the boys, his friend and lover CYGNUS,114 chased after him.

  “Oh Phaeton,” cried Cygnus, “what have you said? It can’t be true. You’ve complained to me so many times that you’ve never even met your real father. Go back and tell them you were joking.”

  “Leave me alone, Cygnus,” said Phaeton, pushing him away. “I’m going to the Palace of the Sun. It’s the only way to silence that pig Epaphus. By the time you see me again everyone will respect me at last and know me for who I really am.”

  “But I know who you are,” said the unhappy Cygnus. “You are Phaeton and I love you.”

  FATHER AND SUN

  Nor was there anything Clymene could say to make Phaeton change his mind either. She watched in an agony of distress as he gathered up his few belongings.

  “Look up and you’ll see me,” he said, kissing her farewell. “I’ll wave as I ride by.”

  The Palace of the Sun lay, of course, due east; in fact as far east as India. How Phaeton got there isn’t agreed upon. I’ve read that magical sun hawks told Apollo of the boy’s slow struggle from mainland Greece across Mesopotamia and the land we would now call Iran, and that the god instructed these splendid birds to bear him up and fly him the rest of the way.

  However Phaeton got there, he arrived at night and immediately was summoned to the throne room of the palace, where Apollo sat robed in purple in the glimmer that gleamed from the gold, silver, and jewels which decorated the chamber. The throne he sat on, that alone was studded with more than ten thousand rubies and emeralds. The youth fell to his knees, quite overpowered by the magnificence of the palace, the dazzle of the gemstones, and above all by the radiant glory of his father the god.

  “So, you are Clymene’s boy, are you? Stand up, let’s have a look at you. Yes, I can see that yo
u might be the fruit of my loins. You have the cast of countenance, the coloring. I’m told you traveled a long way to be here. Why?”

  The question was blunt and Phaeton found himself a little flustered. He managed to stammer out some words about Epaphus and “the other boys” and was painfully aware that he sounded more like a spoiled child than the proud son of an Olympian.

  “Yes, yes. Very mean, very disrespectful. And where do I come in?”

  “All my life,” said Phaeton, burning with the pride and resentment that had smoldered inside him for so very long, “all my life my mother has told me about great and glorious Apollo, the golden god, my shining perfect father. B-b-but you’ve never visited us! You’ve never invited us anywhere. You’ve never even acknowledged me.”

  “Well, yes, I’m sorry about that. Remiss of me. I’ve been a terrible father, I wish I could make it up to you.” Apollo mouthed the words that absent fathers mouth everywhere and every day, but his mind was really on horses, music, drink . . . anything but this tedious, sulky, and complaining child.

  “If you could just grant me one wish. One wish, that’s all.”

  “Of course, of course. Name it.”

  “Really? You mean it?”

  “Of course.”

  “You swear you’ll grant it?”

  “I swear,” said Apollo, amused by the boy’s extreme earnestness. “I swear by my lyre. I swear by the cold flowing waters of Styx herself. Name it, I say.”