“Please, Hera, give my sons the greatest gift a mortal can receive. I don’t know what that gift might be. I leave it to you to reward them suitably.”
The next morning, the plowman who worked for them led the oxen to the temple. He apologized for losing track of the time the day before and hitched the oxen to the wagon. After Kydippe had been helped aboard, she sent the plowman to wake her sons. They must be tired and sore, their feet cut and bruised. They would ride, too; the strong beasts wouldn’t notice their weight.
But when the plowman ran back from the temple, his face was as white as Kydippe’s had been during the ceremony. “Your s-s-sons,” he stammered. “Your sons, my lady—they won’t wake up!”
And they never did. The goddess had granted their mother’s wish as only an immortal being who doesn’t understand death could grant it: Kleobis and Biton had died when they were young and beautiful and admired by all. They never had to know shame or illness or old age.
Did Kydippe thank the goddess? Or did she curse her and refuse to worship her again? Herodotus, who was the first to write down this story, doesn’t say.
There’s No Accounting for Taste
In ancient Greece, a unibrow was thought to make a woman look both intelligent and beautiful, and dark makeup was often used to connect her eyebrows.
Argos Loves Hera
The worship of Hera was particularly important in Argos. One of the names by which the queen of the gods was known was Ἥρα Ἀργεία (Argive Hera, or Hera of Argos), and the goddess once said, “The three cities I love best are Argos, Sparta, and Mycenae of the broad streets.” Her great temple, the Heraion, which stood in Argos, held an enormous gold-and-ivory statue of the goddess. This spot was so important that it was where King Agamemnon was named the leader of the men of Argos in the run-up to the Trojan War.
DEATH IS FOREVER—OR IS IT?
Why are you getting up? Was that one too sad or something? Sorry about that, but life in ancient Greece was pretty tough. You’re lucky that not many people die young these days, the way Kleobis and Biton did. I know, I know—some still do, and it’s terribly sad, but your doctors can fix a lot of things that killed people in my time. They can’t fix everything, though. Many mysteries remain, and who knows—maybe someday, a scientist will find a medicine like the magic herb in the story I’m about to tell you, something that will save as many lives as your antibiotics and vaccines do. Interested? Great.
You know, I’ve seen some scary-looking snakes in these woods. Sometimes they even go slithering over me, which would make me shiver if I could still shiver, and on hot days, they like to warm themselves in the sun on me. I’m not bothered by snakes, especially now that they can’t bite me, but I don’t like to feel them sliding around on my face.
Greece has only one kind of venomous snake: the adder, like the one that bit my poor Eurydice. So I think this story originally came from someplace other than Greece, maybe from Maionia, which is in the western part of what you people call Turkey. There are lots of snakes in Turkey, including one that has a hood like a cobra’s and that sounds kind of like the monster in this story, about Tylos and the dragon.
Tylos was a young man who lived in Maionia with his sister, a tree nymph, or dryad, named Moria. In Maionia, there also lived a drakon—a hideous snake, or perhaps a dragon (the word δράκων can mean either one). This reptile, whatever it was, lived in a wild area, where it lay in wait for prey. Passersby, cows, even whole flocks of sheep would disappear down its huge throat. When it finished eating, it would blow out a great blast of air, and sometimes the blast would terrify someone nearby long enough for the snake to grab this victim, too.
One day, as Tylos strolled near a river with his sister, he accidentally brushed against the drakon, which instantly spread its hood and attacked him. Moria shrieked at the sight of this reptile with rows of teeth in its gaping jaw and a long, muscular body. The drakon didn’t just bite the young man; it wrapped its tail around his neck and torso, and with its fangs, it ripped at his face, spitting poison all the while. Not surprisingly, Tylos fell dead from this lethal combination of poison, face ripping, and strangulation.
The drakon stayed on the youth’s body, mauling Tylos even as he lay lifeless. The dryad must have been immune to the creature’s attack, for she managed to pull the terrifying beast off her brother without being injured. The drakon hissed and spit at Moria as she saved her brother from being devoured.
Tylos’s mutilated face and body were a horrible sight, and Moria wailed so loudly that a giant named Damasen heard her cries. Damasen was no ordinary giant, if you can call any giant ordinary. His mother was none other than Gaia, the earth, and he was born fully bearded and armed like a soldier, even holding a spear.
He approached Moria and asked, “Why are you crying?” but she was so distraught, she couldn’t speak. She pointed wordlessly at the writhing reptile and at the corpse of her brother, lying in the dust.
Damasen didn’t hesitate for a moment. He tore a tree from the ground and, wielding it like a club, ran toward the drakon.
The creature hissed a challenge and flung itself at the giant. The drakon was so huge, this caused the ground to tremble as though in an earthquake. It wrapped its long body around the giant’s feet and spiraled up his body. Rolling its eyes and breathing its foul breath into his face, it opened its mouth and spat yellow, foamy poison into Damasen’s eyes. Then it reared up over his head, looking for a spot unprotected by his armor, where it could sink its fangs.
But the monster was used to dealing with mere humans and sheep and cows, not with someone as large and strong and battle-proven as the son of the Earth, and it had met its match. Damasen shook the serpent off his arms and legs and whirled the tree in the air—once, twice, three times—and then smashed it down on the drakon, right where its head joined its long neck.
All was still. Moria was stunned into silence, and Damasen stood panting near the two dead bodies, Tylos’s and the drakon’s, wiping the stinking drakon spit off his face and recovering from the fight.
Then a slithery sound reached the ears of the girl and the giant, and out of the shrubs poked a narrow head. It looked around as if wondering what all the commotion was about. Then it spied the reptile’s broken body, and the rest of the creature emerged.
It was another drakon—technically a drakaina, for it was a female. She coiled herself out of the dust, her long tail dragging behind her like the train of a gown, and headed straight for the drakon’s body.
“What do you think she wants?” Moria whispered to Damasen. He could only shake his head.
Moria was terrified. Would the creature realize that Damasen had killed her mate and attack the giant, too? Would she tear at Moria the way the drakon had torn at Tylos?
But neither the girl nor the giant could have imagined the strange thing the drakaina did next. After nosing the drakon’s corpse and realizing her mate was dead, she turned and wound with great haste through the rocks that lay around them, toward a hill covered with flowers and herbs. Moria and Damasen watched in amazement as the creature yanked a plant known as the flower of Zeus from the ground and, clutching it in her teeth, came slithering back. She coiled herself next to the drakon and carefully dropped the plant against one of its nostrils.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the drakon’s body gave a great shudder, and bit by bit, as life returned first to one part of the monster and then to another, the creature moved. His tail was the last to revive. Finally, cold breath hissed out of his many-toothed mouth.
Moria clutched at Damasen, afraid that the two creatures would come at them. But the drakon had learned his lesson, and with his mate, he went slithering back into his den rather than daring to approach the giant again.
Moria wasted no time. She picked up the flower of Zeus and laid it against her Tylos’s nostril. Then she waited.
At first, she thought the flower must work only on monsters, because her brother lay as pale and motionless as befor
e. Just as she was about to give up and begin preparations for Tylos’s funeral, she thought she saw a faint color come to his torn cheek. Then one foot twitched, and he raised his head and blinked. Slowly and shakily, he stood. He looked around, bewildered, and then he raised his hands to the gods in thanks as the blood flowed back through him.
Tylos lived for a long time after that, but on his face and body, he always carried the deep scars that the drakon had inflicted on him.
Dragons
The noun δράκων comes from the verb δέρκεσθαι (derkesthai), meaning “to see clearly.” Many snakes have poor eyesight, though.
A Tough Baby
The Cretan goddess of childbirth gave Damasen a shield on his first day of life, and the goddess of strife and discord was his nanny. His name means “the subduer.”
YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE
I’m running out of ideas! Let’s see…the last story was about coming back to life. How about something similar for number eleven—about a guy who was born twice. Does that sound too strange?
I have to admit that once you really look at them, some of the stories my people told don’t make a lot of sense. Sometimes that’s because the Greeks were great travelers; they went to a lot of different lands, and when they got home, they’d tell the stories they’d heard. If they didn’t really understand what was going on, they’d make up something to explain whatever it was they didn’t get.
Once in a while, a tale they brought home had something in common with a story already known in Greece, and the two got mixed together. That’s why you’ll read a myth that says someone’s mother is a particular goddess, and in another version, the mother is someone else. Or someone will die in one myth, but in another one, that person is still alive a long time later. These contradictions didn’t seem to bother anyone in my day, and I don’t see why they should bother anyone now.
That kind of confusion looks like what happened with the tale of Zagreus, which might have come from Turkey. It got mixed up with a myth about Dionysos, the Greek god of wine. Sometimes you hear that Zagreus and Dionysos are the same god with two different names; other times, they’re two separate gods. You can believe whichever version you want. Or neither one.
Anyway, Zagreus, according to the blended myth, was the son of Zeus, king of the gods. His mother was Persephone, the goddess of the underworld. Given this parentage, you’d think Zagreus would be no ordinary baby, and you’d be right. He was born with horns on his head, and when he was just a few hours old, he climbed onto a tiny throne and grasped miniature thunderbolts, a gift from his proud father, in his pudgy hand.
Zeus declared that this son would be his heir, although it’s hard to imagine what he would need with an heir. Zeus is immortal—what’s the point of being his heir if he’s never going to die? See what I mean about the myths not always making sense?
Sorry, back to the story. In any event, it’s an honor to be declared someone’s heir, and Zeus’s wife, Hera, became enraged at this insult to Ares, her own son with Zeus.
“I’ve just about had it with my husband!” Hera declared. “It’s bad enough that he sneaks around chasing one girl after another, but when he puts their children above mine, well, that’s going too far.”
She made up her mind to get rid of the baby. Zeus was well aware of his wife’s jealousy, so he summoned a gang of spirits of the wilderness, the Kouretes, to guard the child. These wild spirits performed ferocious dances around Zagreus’s throne, brandishing their weapons to scare off anyone who might try to harm him. Whenever he cried, they clashed their shields and spears together so that no one, especially Hera, would hear him.
To keep his son content to stay put and not go wandering into danger, Zeus gave him lovely toys: a spinning top, a ball that returned on its own to the hand that had thrown it, dolls with moving legs and arms so cunningly crafted that the little god thought he was playing with living beings. Nymphs brought him golden apples, and many others gave presents to the little god who was supposed to rule them one day.
Hera soon figured out where the baby was. She knew that the Kouretes would never allow her to get close to the infant, but, determined to cause him harm, she summoned a group of Titans. These gigantic sons of the earth goddess, Gaia, had once ruled over the world and even the other immortals. Years earlier, Zeus had sent some of the Titans to dwell in the deepest pit of the underworld so that he could take over as ruler. Understandably, the whole tribe had resented him ever since. Hera knew they would be more than happy to help her out.
“I need you to do something for me,” Hera said to the four Titans who obeyed her call. They looked at one another, not knowing whether to trust the wife of their greatest enemy. Most of the Titans were not terribly intelligent, but they knew enough to be wary. “My husband has a new son, and he dotes on the child. I want you to get rid of him. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.” These words set their dull minds at ease, since the Titans were eager to make Zeus pay for taking their power away from them.
Hera departed, leaving them to make a plan. Despite the dim wits of these four, Titans in general were clever craftsmen. After all, the Titan Prometheus had created humans, as well as many of the powerful spirits called daimones, and his brother Epimetheus had made all the marvelous variety of animals. Working together, the Titans came up with a wonderful new toy for Zagreus—so marvelous, they figured it would distract even the guardian Kouretes, and the Titans would have their chance to do what the queen of the gods had ordered.
Now, how to get close enough to the baby to give him their gift? Luckily for the Titans, the Kouretes weren’t any brighter than they were. All the Titans had to do to disguise themselves was to rub chalk over their hands and faces. When they walked in carrying something wrapped in brightly colored cloth, the unsuspecting Kouretes put down their spears and bows and shields to see the gift these huge, strangely white men were bringing to the child in their care.
Little Zagreus eagerly tore the wrapping off his present. He held it up, and at first he was disappointed. It was only a circle of highly polished bronze with a handle—a simple mirror. He pouted as he looked at his own chubby face, at his dark eyes, at the small horns poking out from among his curls—and then he started. Instead of a round, dimpled face, what stared back at him from the mirror was a face with a long, hairy muzzle, eyes with square pupils, and a waggling beard. It looked like he had turned into a goat! His free hand flew to his cheek. To his astonishment, he felt his own face, while in the mirror, he still saw the goat’s face, now with a cloven hoof caressing it. He was still the same; the only thing that had changed was his reflection.
As Zagreus watched, the goat face dissolved and his own reappeared, only to change again, this time into the golden, furry features of a lion cub. The baby pulled back his lips, and instead of toothless gums, long fangs glistened at him from the polished bronze. He laughed in delight, and the Kouretes gathered around to see and marvel. One of them snatched the mirror away, and they all clamored for a turn. None of them paid the least attention to the baby god, who was crying and reaching for his new toy.
The Titans didn’t wait. Their leader picked up Zagreus, while the others drew out the knives they had concealed in their robes. From afar, Zeus saw what was happening and hurled a thunderbolt to stop the Titans, but it was too late. The giants quickly hacked Zagreus to bits. The Kouretes fled, terrified of what Zeus would do to them for failing to protect his son.
And the rage of the king of the gods was indeed terrifying. He went on a rampage, throwing so much lightning from Mount Olympos that the whole world—which was Gaia, the Titans’ mother, remember—burst into flame. Mountains ran with snowmelt. Forests were destroyed, rivers boiled, cities fell. Still the king of the gods showed no mercy, and he continued to attack the earth.
Zeus didn’t stop his ferocious assault until his daughter Athena appeared before him, holding something out to him. He paused in his furious attack long enough to take a look, and on her outstretched
palm, he saw a small red heart, beating.
The heart had to belong to someone or something immortal, for no mortal heart can continue to beat outside its body. The king of the gods looked at Athena with sudden hope, and she nodded. “It’s your son’s heart,” she said softly. “His mother snatched it from the flames and gave it to me to bring to you.”
Zeus laid down his quiver and carefully carried his son’s tiny heart to a princess with whom he had recently fallen in love. (He had already forgotten Zagreus’s mother.) He inserted Zagreus’s still-beating heart in her chest, and in a few months, the princess gave birth to the same baby boy, only this time, they named him Dionysos.
Games Ancient Greeks Played
Babies and children in ancient Greece played with many toys that are familiar today: dolls (some with jointed arms and legs), clay or wooden animals on wheels that could be pulled with a string, yo-yos, dice, balls (the balls didn’t really bounce, so the Greeks mostly played catch and similar games with them), tops, hobbyhorses (a stick with a carved animal’s head at one end), puppets, and wagons. They played games similar to tag, kick the can, rock-paper-scissors, jacks, capture the flag, spud, and basketball.
III.
GODS AND HUMANS
FROM MORTAL TO GODDESS
So according to the story I just told you, the god of wine, Dionysos, was born from the heart of a burned-up god named Zagreus. Zagreus’s father was Zeus, king of the gods, and his mother was Persephone, queen of the dead.
In the myth that’s coming up, Zagreus’s father was still Zeus, but his mother was a human princess. According to this version, Dionysos wasn’t born from the heart of Zagreus that was implanted in the chest of a princess, but from his own self implanted in his father’s thigh. Clear? I didn’t think so.
The Song of Orpheus Page 6
