Mythos (2019 Re-Issue)

by Stephen Fry

  In the meantime, the white bull flew Europa farther and farther west from her home kingdom of Tyre, across the Mediterranean in the direction of the isles of Greece. Delighted and entirely unafraid, Europa laughed as first the ground flashed beneath her and then the sea. Europa was entranced. The journey was so remarkable that the whole landmass to the west of her homeland has been called Europe in her honor ever since.

  They didn’t stop until they reached the island of Crete where the bull revealed himself to be . . .

  . . . who else but Zeus?

  Whether it was his transformation of Io into a heifer that inspired him to take the shape of a bull we cannot know, but the trick seems to have worked, for Europa stayed happily on Crete for the rest of her life. She was to bear Zeus three sons, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and SARPEDON—the first two of whom went on after their deaths, you may recall, to become the Judges of the Underworld, weighing the lives of dead souls and allotting them their punishments and rewards accordingly.

  THE QUEST FOR EUROPA

  Back home in Tyre, Europa’s unhappy parents sent Cadmus and his three brothers to find their sister, with firm instructions not even to think of returning home without her.

  The Tyrians were already famous navigators and traders. Cadmus’s brother Phoenix (not to be confused with the mythical bird) would in time succeed Agenor as ruler of the kingdom, which he renamed Phoenicia after himself. The Phoenicians’ skill as merchants would bring them great wealth and prestige. They dealt in silks and spices from the far east, but it was the invention and propagation of the alphabet that gave them such an advantage over their neighbors and rivals. For the first time in human history any language could be written down according to its sound, which meant the Mediterranean coastline, including North Africa and the Middle East, was able to communicate for the first time using symbols on papyrus, parchment, wax, or pottery shards that could be spoken out loud.117 The marks on the page or screen that you are interpreting as you read now derive from that Phoenician alphabet. And it was Cadmus who would take his people’s marvelous invention to Greece in the course of his long search for Europa.

  For years they traveled in vain. For some reason, perhaps an unseen divine influence, Crete seems to have been the one place they failed to search. The island that they alighted on for the longest time was Samothrace, far in the northern Aegean.

  On Samothrace there lived a Pleiad called ELECTRA.118 The Pleiades, or Seven Sisters, were (if you recall) daughters of Atlas and the Oceanid Pleione. By Zeus, this Electra had given birth to two sons, DARDANUS119 and IASION, as well as a daughter, HARMONIA.120 Cadmus was immediately captivated by Harmonia’s beauty and sweet, placid manner and took her with him on his quest. How willing she was at first is not certain, but the pair left Samothrace and headed for mainland Greece—ostensibly in search of Europa, but really, as far as Cadmus was concerned, in search of a greater purpose.

  THE ORACLE SPEAKS

  Cadmus is often called “the First Hero.” If you care to do the arithmetic you will see that he was a fifth-generation being, of equally human and divine parentage. He could trace his line back to the very beginnings of life through his paternal grandfather Poseidon, whose father was Kronos, son of Ouranos. Through his grandmother Libya he was descended from Inachus, adding a quantity of royal human blood to course through his veins. He had the restlessness and wanderlust that marks the hero, as well as the required measures of courage, confidence, and self-belief. Poseidon was fond of his grandson, as was natural, but it was Athena who looked upon him with the greatest favor, especially now that he had allied himself to Harmonia, who was one of Athena’s most devoted followers.

  Just as Cadmus’s brother Thasos had settled a smaller nearby island, called Thasos, and Phoenix had given his name to the Phoenician kingdom, so the third of Cadmus’s brothers, Cilix, now abandoned the quest for Europa, returning east to Asia Minor to establish his own kingdom, which he called Cilicia.121

  With Harmonia by his side and a large retinue of loyal followers from Tyre in attendance upon them both, Cadmus headed for Delphi to consult the oracle. He knew in his bones, as all heroes do, that he was destined for greatness, but he did not know quite where his future lay; and he still needed guidance in the matter of his search for the lost Europa.

  You already know enough about oracles to be unsurprised by the eccentricity of the Pythia’s response.

  “Cadmus, son of Agenor, son of Poseidon,” she chanted. “Cast aside the quest for your sister and follow instead the heifer marked with the half moon. Follow the cow until it drops down exhausted. Where it falls, there must you build.”

  “Build what?”

  “Farewell, Cadmus, son of Agenor, son of Poseidon.”

  “What cow? I see no cow.”

  “Where the cow falls, there must Cadmus, son of Agenor, son of Poseidon, build.”

  “Yes, but this cow . . .”

  “The heifer with the half moon will help Harmonia and her hero, son of Agenor, son of Poseidon.”

  “Look here . . .”

  “Farewe-e-e-e-ll . . .”

  Cadmus and Harmonia looked at each other, shrugged, and quit Delphi with their retinue of loyal Tyrians. It was possible that a cow really would materialize magically before them, or perhaps some celestial messenger might appear to guide them to such an animal. In the meantime, they might as well look around.

  Now, Delphi and its oracle, stadium, and temples are situated in the area of Greece called Phocis. The King of Phocis, PELAGON, hearing that Harmonia and Cadmus—by now famous throughout the land because of his gift of the alphabet—were in the area, sent out messengers to invite them to stay as his guests of honor at the royal palace. It was an invitation the travel-strained pair and their hungry retinue were only too pleased to accept.

  THE PHOCIAN GAMES

  Three days of feasting and revelry in their honor had passed agreeably and uneventfully when Cadmus and Harmonia, taking an evening walk about the palace gardens between banquets, found their way stopped by Pelagon’s father, AMPHIDAMAS.

  “I had a dream,” said Amphidamas, coming close to the couple and breathing the fumes of honey-wine all over them, “in which you, Cadmus, ran races, hurled javelins, threw discuses, and won the greatest prize the world has ever seen. Now, my son Pelagon inaugurates the Phocian Games tomorrow. A little local meeting, but dreams are dreams and have a purpose. When does Morpheus ever lie? My advice is that you enter.” With a benevolent hiccup, he tottered away.

  “Well now,” said Cadmus, putting an arm about Harmonia’s waist and gazing wistfully up at the moon. “Why not? The man has not yet been born who can throw a discus or a javelin as far as I can. And I believe I’m pretty swift around the track too.”

  “My hero!” sighed Harmonia, burying her head on his chest. She did this not in worshipful admiration but to muffle her laughter—she found the men’s vanity when it came to physical prowess endlessly amusing.

  The competition against which Cadmus pitted himself next day consisted chiefly of puny local youths and pot bellied palace guards. When he sent the discus right out of the palace grounds with his first throw, a servant had to be sent to fetch it and the crowd cheered. By the end of the afternoon Cadmus had won every event. Harmonia glared at the women and girls who blew him kisses and threw flowers at his feet.

  Pelagon, who was not a rich monarch, sent his chamberlain in search of a suitable prize for his noble victor ludorum.

  “People of Phocis,” cried the king, placing a hastily plaited crown of olive leaves on Cadmus’s brow, “behold your champion, our honored guest Prince Cadmus of Tyre. And here comes a prize worthy of his great speed and strength and grace.”

  A loud cheer went up, which fell into a puzzled silence as the palace chamberlain came through the crowd driving ahead of him a large cow. The silence bubbled into a titter and the titter burst into outright laughter. The cow chewed its cud, lifted its tail, and sent out a liquid spatter of dung from its rear. The cr
owd hooted with derision.

  Pelagon turned scarlet. His father Amphidamas said to Cadmus with a wink, “Oh well. Morpheus can’t be right all the time, hey?”

  But Harmonia nudged Cadmus in great excitement. “Look,” she breathed, “look, Cadmus, look!”

  Cadmus saw at once what had attracted her attention. On the cow’s back was a mark in the shape of a half moon. There was no other way to describe it. A clear half moon!

  Pelagon was murmuring something unconvincing in his ear about the animal’s pedigree and high milk yield, but Cadmus interrupted him.

  “Your majesty could not have found a more marvelous and welcome prize! I am overcome with delight and gratitude.”

  “You are?” said a faintly stunned Pelagon.

  The chamberlain was so astonished to hear this that he dropped the switch of willow with which he had been slapping the beast toward the winner’s rostrum. It took perhaps thirty seconds for the heifer to become aware that the stinging smack was no longer there to force her on, so she turned and started to amble away.

  “Indeed,” said Cadmus jumping from the rostrum and helping Harmonia down after him. “It really is the perfect present. Just exactly what we wanted . . .”

  The cow made its way through the crowd. Cadmus and Harmonia, their backs to the royal party, began to follow. Over his shoulder Cadmus called back to the king, stammering out thanks and incoherent courtesies.

  “Your majesty will excuse us . . . such a wonderful stay . . . so grateful for your hospitality . . . excellent food, marvelous entertainment . . . most kind . . . er . . . farewell . . .”

  “So grateful,” repeated Harmonia. “We’ll never forget it. Never. The loveliest heifer! Goodbye.”

  “B-but! What? I mean . . . ?” said Pelagon, puzzled by this swift and sudden leave-taking. “I thought you were staying another night?”

  “No time. Come, men. With us!” cried Cadmus, summoning his retinue of Tyrian servants, men-at-arms, camp-followers, and attendants. Buckling up their armor on the run, dropping food, and kissing farewell to new acquaintances they caught up with Cadmus, Harmonia, and the cow.

  “Mad,” said Amphidamas, watching the plume of dust spiral upward in the distance as Cadmus’s ragtag army disappeared from view. “Quite mad. Said so from the first.”

  THE WATER DRAGON

  For three days and three nights Cadmus, Harmonia, and their train of loyal Tyrians followed the heifer with the half-moon markings as it lumbered up and down hills, through meadows, over fields, and across streams. They seemed to be traveling in a southeasterly direction toward the province of Boeotia.122

  Harmonia believed that the heifer might turn out to be Europa herself. After all, in ravishing her Zeus had transformed himself into a bull, so why mightn’t she have taken bovine form too? Cadmus, hypnotized by the rhythmic swaying of the cow’s broad posterior, was more inclined to think that the whole thing was a cruel hoax sent to perplex him.

  Quite suddenly, after descending a steep hill and arriving at the edge of a wide plain, the heifer sank heavily down and gave vent to an exhausted groan.

  “Good lord,” said Cadmus.

  “Just as the oracle prophesied!” cried Harmonia. “What did the Pythia say? ‘Where the cow falls, there must you build.’ So.”

  “So?” said Cadmus, irked. “What do you mean, ‘So’? Build? Build what? Build how?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Harmonia. “Let’s sacrifice the cow to Pallas Athena. The poor thing’s almost dead anyway. Athena will guide us.”

  Cadmus agreed and elected to pitch a primitive kind of camp right there. So that he could properly purify the sacrifice he sent some of his men to fetch water from a nearby spring.

  Cadmus slit the cow’s throat and was just sprinkling its blood on a makeshift altar bedecked with wildflowers and burnt sage when one of the Tyrians returned in the most pitiable state of distress, bearing awful news. A dragon, in the grotesque form of a giant water serpent, guarded the spring. It had already killed four men, constricting them in its coils and biting off their heads with its enormous jaws. What could be done?

  Heroes do not wring their hands and wonder, heroes act. Cadmus hurried to the spring, picking up a heavy boulder on the way. Hiding behind a tree he whistled to attract the dragon’s attention, and then threw the boulder at the dragon’s head, smashing its skull and killing it outright.

  “So much for water snakes,” said Cadmus, looking down at the monster’s blood and brains as they mixed with the waters of the spring.

  A voice sounded out loud and clear. “Son of Agenor, why do you stare at the snake you have slain? You too shall be a snake and endure the stares of strangers.”

  Cadmus looked around but could see no one. The voice must have sounded inside him. He shook his head and returned to the camp, delighted alike by the cheers of his supporters and the admiring kisses of Harmonia, to whom he said nothing about the voice he had heard.

  Far enough away to be able to do so without Cadmus hearing, one of his men was drawing in his breath through his teeth with the irritating relish of those who have bad news to impart. This man came from Boeotia and whispered to his companions with a wise shake of the head that Drakon Ismenios, the Ismenian Dragon, which Cadmus had just slain, was known to be sacred to Ares, the god of war. Indeed, he went on, some believed that the creature was actually a son of Ares!

  “No good will come of this deed,” he said, tutting and clicking. “You do not cross the god of battles with impunity. No, sir. Makes no difference who your grandfather is.”

  It is worth recognizing here that one of the most burdensome challenges faced by the heroes and mortals of that time concerned their relationships with the different gods. Picking your way around the jealousies and animosities of the Olympians was a delicate business. Show too much loyalty and service to one and you risked provoking the enmity of another. If Poseidon and Athena favored you, as they did Cadmus and Harmonia, for example, then the chances were that Hera, or Artemis, or Ares, or even Zeus himself would do everything possible to hinder and hamper you. And heaven help anyone foolish enough to kill one of their favorites. All the sacrifices and votive offerings in the world couldn’t mollify an affronted god, a vengeful god, a god who had lost face in front of the others.

  Cadmus, by slaying an Arean favorite, had certainly made an enemy of the most aggressive and remorseless of the gods.123 But he knew none of this, for the muttering in the ranks of his retinue had not reached his ears. He blithely lit the incense and completed his sacrifice to Athena, feeling that things were still going very much his way. This feeling was reinforced by Athena’s immediate and benign appearance. Pleased by the offering of the heifer, she glided down from the cloud of fragrant smoke that Cadmus had sent up and favored her humble worshippers with a grave smile.

  THE DRAGON’S TEETH

  “Rise, son of Agenor,” said the goddess, stepping forward and raising the supplicant Cadmus to his feet. “Your sacrifice was agreeable to us. If you follow my instructions carefully all will be well. Plow the fertile plain. Plow it well. Then sow the furrows with teeth from the dragon you have slain.”

  With these words she stepped back into the smoke and disappeared. If Cadmus had not the assurance from Harmonia and the others that they had heard just the same words from Athena too, he might have believed that he had dreamed it. But divine instructions are divine instructions, however odd. In fact the odder, Cadmus was becoming aware, the more likely to be divine.

  First he carved a plowshare from holm oak wood. Then, since no draught animals were available, he harnessed a willing team of his most loyal attendants. They would have laid down their lives for this charismatic Prince of Tyre, so pulling a plow was nothing to them.

  It was late spring and the soil of the plain was free-moving enough to be pulled into shallow but straight and well-marked furrows without too terrible an effort from the straining Tyrians.

  The field plowed, Cadmus now set to dibbling the fu
rrows an inch or two deep with the blunt end of a spear. Into each dibbled hole he dropped a dragon’s tooth. As we all know, humans have thirty-two teeth. Water dragons have rows and rows of them, like sharks, each ready to advance when the row in front has been worn down with too much grinding of men’s bones. Five hundred and twelve teeth Cadmus planted in all. When he had finished he stood back to survey the field.

  A light wind blew across the plain, catching the crests of the furrows and sending up powdery flurries of soil. Dust devils whipped and whirled around. A great hush descended.

  Harmonia was the first to see the earth in one of the furrows shift. She pointed and all eyes followed. A gasp and a muffled cry went up from the watching crowd. The tip of a spear was pushing through, then a helmet appeared, followed by shoulders, a breastplate, leathern-greaved legs . . . until a fully armed soldier rose up, wild and fierce, stamping his feet. Then another, and another, until the field was filled with fighting men, marching on the spot in furrowed lines. The clanging and banging of their armor, the clashing and bashing of their buckles, belts, and boots, the clamor and smacking of the metal and leather of their cuirasses, greaves, and shields, their rhythmic grunting and martial shouts all built into a great and horrid din that filled the onlookers with fear.

  All but Cadmus, who stepped boldly forward and raised a hand.

  “Spartoi!” he called out across the plain, giving them a name that means “sown men.” “My Spartoi! I am Prince Cadmus, your general. At ease.”

  Perhaps because they were born of dragon’s teeth pulled from the jaws of a creature sacred to the god of war, these soldiers were filled from the first with extraordinary aggression. In reply to Cadmus’s command they simply clattered and rattled their shields and spears.

  “Silence!” yelled Cadmus.