It’s probably easier not to worry about where Dionysos came from or whether he was one god or two, and just listen to the story. If you’ve heard part of it, just be patient. Most of it is new—I hope. I’m running out of time. I really need to tell Eurydice how bad I feel for what I did. If you’ve ever had a fight with your best friend and they moved away before you could apologize, you know what I mean.
So Zeus was having a romance with a princess named Semele. When Zeus’s wife, Hera, found out that Semele was going to have a baby, she became jealous, understandably. She convinced Semele to ask Zeus to prove that he was truly the king of the gods and ruler of the sky, as he had told her he was. Hera knew that challenging the proud lord of the immortals was risky. She hoped that Semele would be injured or killed if Zeus did what she asked, and Hera wouldn’t have to take the blame for her death.
At first, Zeus said no, he wouldn’t prove who he was—that if she really loved him, she’d take his word for it. But Semele was stubborn, and she became so insistent that he reluctantly agreed to appear to her in his true form. He tried to protect her from his immortal splendor, but even revealing himself only partially proved fatal: His glory was so brilliant that she burned to death.
Zeus saved the unborn Dionysos from his mother’s ashes and sewed the tiny body into his own thigh until his son was ready to be born. Somehow, the baby turned out healthy, but the king of the gods still had a problem: what to do with his little son? How to keep him safe from the furious Hera? Zeus’s mind turned to Semele’s favorite sister, Ino. Semele had always said that Ino was kind and willing to help people.
Ino was married to a king named Athamas. He had a son and a daughter by his first wife, and he and Ino had two sons. So the household was already pretty full when a servant told Ino one day that a man carrying a baby had appeared at the door and had asked to see her. Ino hurried to see what the stranger wanted.
Ino was the daughter of a goddess, so she immediately recognized that the man standing in the sunshine with a sleeping baby in his arms, the wings on his cap and sandals fluttering in the breeze, was no mortal. He was far taller even than her royal husband, and a strange and beautiful light shone from his face. “I know you!” she exclaimed. “You’re my cousin Hermes!”
The gods were all related to one another, though it took Ino and Hermes a little while to figure out exactly what their relationship was. Once that was established, Ino invited the messenger of the gods to have something to eat and drink. Servants brought out platters of bread and cheese and goblets of wine well diluted with water, as was the Greek custom.
“Let me hold the baby,” Ino said, reaching for the little boy. Hermes passed her the tiny newborn, who immediately lunged for her goblet. “Goodness!” said Ino.
“I know,” Hermes nodded, munching on a piece of bread. “He’s already crazy for wine.”
This was odd, but Ino forgot about it when Hermes explained the predicament that Zeus found himself in, with his furious wife wanting to kill his child. He concluded by saying, “So he wants you to raise the baby.”
Much as Ino wanted to help her dead sister’s son, she hesitated. She already had two stepchildren who were older than her own sons, which threatened any inheritance her boys might get from their father. And if they welcomed Zeus’s child into their family, what would that mean for her darling boys? On the other hand, it was hard—actually, it was impossible—to say no to the king of the gods. Besides, with his dimples and his curls, her nephew was so cute that she hated the thought of any harm coming to him. So she agreed and Hermes left, twirling his sandals on his toes as he flew off, relieved to be free of the child so hated by Hera.
When King Athamas returned home, he was astonished to see a baby in a cradle in their bedroom. Ino closed the door hurriedly and explained the situation. “We’ll pretend he’s a girl, to throw Hera off the track,” she said. “You know she has spies everywhere, and they’ll be looking for a little boy. We’ll keep him hidden indoors until he’s old enough to take care of himself. Zeus will be very grateful, I’m sure.”
Athamas reluctantly agreed to his wife’s plan, and for a while, it looked as though they had fooled the queen of the gods. But somehow she discovered that Semele’s child had not only survived but was growing up safe and sound in the luxurious palace of a king. Hera was enraged. Putting aside her hatred of Dionysos for the time being, she turned her rage on Athamas and Ino. She decided to give them the worst punishment a parent can endure.
Hera threw a spell down from Mount Olympos, turning both Athamas and Ino insane. In her madness, Ino thought her older son was attacking her, so in terror, she killed him. Horrified, Athamas commanded his own son, “Kill your stepmother!” But before the boy could act, Dionysos, grateful to his aunt for saving his life, cast a cloak of darkness around her, which hid her from both her stepson and her maddened husband.
When Ino’s mind cleared, she recognized the danger she was in. She snatched up her younger boy, Melikertes, and sped across the white plain. She ran hard and fast, white dust clinging to her feet as she fled her husband’s murderous rage. But Athamas followed close behind, and since she was carrying the heavy boy, he quickly started gaining on her.
Ino looked around desperately and saw no escape. Athamas would seize her, and in his insanity and fury, who knew what he would do?
She realized that she was heading straight for the edge of a cliff, high above a sea full of crashing waves and leaping dolphins. Without stopping to think, she clutched her son tight and threw herself into the air, calling on the gods to help her.
Still holding Melikertes, Ino plunged deep into the water. She kicked desperately, trying to rise to the surface, but it was no use. She wondered frantically how long her son would manage to hold his breath, but when she looked down at his dear little face, she saw that he was smiling at her. He even seemed to be breathing. How could that be?
At that moment, her own air ran out and she gasped, terrified at the thought of the cold water rushing into her lungs. But to her astonishment, she found that she could breathe easily. She felt better than she had in years, and Melikertes looked perfectly happy and healthy. A god had heard her plea—not Zeus, who was too afraid of his wife to save her, but Poseidon, Ino’s great-grandfather, who ruled the sea. He had turned her into a sea goddess.
From that time on, Ino was known as Leukothea, the White Goddess, since she had fallen into the ocean covered in white dust. Ever after, Leukothea came to the aid of drowning people, most famously the lost sailor Odysseus, to whom she gave a magic scarf that helped him reach shore after a disastrous shipwreck. Melikertes also had a new name: Palaimon, the Wrestler. He inherited his mother’s loving nature and desire to help others. He became the god who took care of ships as they entered a harbor, always a treacherous part of a sea voyage.
Phrixos and Helle
Ino wasn’t always kind and loving to children. In one myth, she hated her two stepchildren (Athamas’s son Phrixos and his daughter Helle). To get rid of them, she secretly roasted all the wheat that was to be used for seed the following spring. The farmers didn’t know that the seed had been ruined, so they sowed it in their fields. When the crops failed to grow, Ino bribed her servants to say that an oracle had declared that Phrixos had to be sacrificed to save the people from starvation. Phrixos and his sister escaped on the back of a magical flying ram. Helle fell off and drowned, but Phrixos made it to the land of Kolkhis. When the ram died, Phrixos gave its beautiful golden fleece to the Kolkhian king. Much later, the hero Jason stole the Golden Fleece during an adventure-filled journey with his sailors, the Argonauts.
AN OREAD SCORNED
It’s possible that you’ve heard of Paris, one of the princes of Troy. Whether or not you know who he was, I’m pretty sure this story will be new to you. I hope so, anyway. The sun is close to setting, and I still have—let me see—five stories left. I’d better get started if I want to see Eurydice again. I can’t believe how stupid I—never mind. I s
aid I wouldn’t talk about that again.
But I really was stupid.
Paris, as you may know, was one of the many sons of King Priam of Troy. He didn’t grow up in the palace, though, with the rest of the royal family. Instead, he lived as a simple shepherd, unaware of his true identity. And his parents were unaware that he was alive. In fact, his father was sure he was dead, since he had ordered his newborn son’s death. I know, there’s lots of baby-killing in these stories, right? But things usually turn out fine for the mythical babies. See if you think things turn out well here.
Paris’s father had ordered a shepherd to kill his son because not one but two prophecies had said that the royal baby would cause the fall of the kingdom of Troy. The shepherd obeyed, and left the baby on the slopes of Mount Ida. He felt terrible about what he had done, so a few days later, he went back to retrieve what he was sure would be a tiny dead body. At least, he thought, he could give the little prince a decent burial.
To his astonishment, the shepherd found the baby alive and well, since a bear had found him and was raising him along with her cubs. The shepherd was ashamed that he had obeyed the king; he had been more heartless than a ferocious bear, since she had saved the child. He took Paris home with him and raised him as his own son. He never told him about his true beginnings.
But it was only a matter of time before Fate figured out that the prince of Troy was still alive and where he was living.
One day after he had grown up, Paris was wandering near a river in the foothills of Mount Ida when he heard singing. The voice was so lovely that he crept forward, not wanting to disturb the singer, until he saw a pretty young woman sitting on a rock. She sang as she dangled her feet in the river and combed out her long, dark hair, which was wet from a swim.
The woman must have sensed that someone was staring at her, because she turned and looked at Paris. Even though he was a stranger, she didn’t seem afraid. “Are you lost, shepherd?” she called to him.
In ancient Greece, respectable women usually avoided strange men, so Paris was surprised that she didn’t flee. Approaching her cautiously, he saw that she was even more beautiful than she had appeared from a distance. “No, I’m not lost,” he said. “I’m just taking a walk.”
She recognized his discomfort and guessed its cause. “Don’t worry; it’s perfectly proper for us to talk,” she assured him. “We’re in the presence of my father.”
Paris looked around, but he didn’t see anyone. Then he jumped back as the water at the woman’s feet surged, and a tall gray-green man reared up out of it. His long hair looked like the coarse grass that grew on the riverbank, and fish wriggled out of his beard and plopped into the ripples. He glared a warning at Paris, then sank back into the water.
This was no mere woman he was talking with, Paris realized, but a mountain nymph—an oread—and the daughter of the spirit of the river. No wonder she wasn’t afraid of him.
Under her father’s watchful eye, Paris sat on a rock next to the oread, whose name was Oinone, and from that day on, he went back to the river to visit her whenever he could. Soon he and Oinone fell in love. Paris was surprised when she agreed to marry him, a mere mortal and a humble shepherd.
After they were married, Oinone revealed that she knew there was more to Paris than he or anyone else suspected. “I have the gift of prophecy,” she informed him. “I can foretell the future, and I also see things that other people don’t. One thing I know that even you are ignorant of is that you are a prince, the son of King Priam of Troy.”
“No!” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible!” But she insisted, and so he asked the shepherd, the man he had always thought was his father, about his parentage.
The shepherd confirmed what Oinone had said. When Paris told Oinone that he’d learned she was right, she didn’t seem surprised. But when he said that he was going to the palace to claim his rightful place as the prince (or at least one of them; King Priam had about a hundred sons and daughters), she begged him not to go.
“I can’t leave here. I’m an oread, a mountain nymph, remember? I can’t live in a palace. If you go to Troy and live with the king—and remember, he’s the man who ordered you to be killed!—you’ll have to leave me here alone. Besides, if the gods know you’re the prince, they’ll take notice of you. Then the fate that was foretold, that you will destroy your father’s land, will catch up with you. If you live here quietly with me, maybe you can escape it.”
Paris was so in love with Oinone that he returned to his peaceful life, tending sheep. He participated in the games that herdsmen played in those days, one of which was to see whose bull was the best fighter. Paris offered a gold crown to anyone whose beast could defeat his. Soon, men from the surrounding countryside were bringing their bulls to Mount Ida and testing them against Paris’s champion. But Paris’s bull beat all the others.
It didn’t take long for news of this powerful animal to reach the home of the gods, on Mount Olympos. Ares, the god of war, possessed an enormous bull that had never been beaten in a match. Disguising himself as a human herdsman, Ares pitted this bull against Paris’s, and for the first time, the champion was defeated.
Without hesitation, Paris strode over to Ares, still unaware that he was a god, and placed the gold crown on his head. “Behold the winner!” he cried, and ordered a banquet to celebrate his rival’s victory.
The gods had been watching the contest, and when Paris behaved so honestly and decently, they took notice. They asked one another, “Who is this guy? Where did he come from?”
If only Paris had whined that Ares had cheated, that his own bull was really the winner, he might have remained unnoticed. He and Oinone might have lived the rest of their days on sunny Mount Ida, tending their flocks, perhaps raising a houseful of children. But if there’s anything Greek myths have to tell us, it’s that no one can escape Fate.
Paris allowed himself to forget what his wife had told him, and in time, he and Oinone had a son they named Korythos. They lived happily, until Paris came home one evening and found his wife in tears.
Paris took her in his arms. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he said.
For a long time, she refused to answer, despite his coaxing. Finally, she said, “You’re going to leave me.”
“What?” He was astonished. “You know I love you more than anything else on earth!”
“Oh, I know that. And I love you. But that’s just today. I foresee a time when you’ll leave me for another woman, a queen who lives in a distant kingdom.”
Paris protested and tried to reassure his wife that this would never happen, but she wouldn’t cheer up. She said, “When you bring this foreign woman home, something terrible will happen. I can’t be sure what, but it looks like a long and bloody war.”
Paris fell silent, remembering that his father, King Priam of Troy, had tried to have him killed at birth because of the prophecies that he would someday bring ruin on his city. The first prophecy had come from his own mother: While pregnant with him, she had dreamed she gave birth to a flaming torch, which destroyed the high-walled city of Troy. The second prophecy came from Paris’s half-brother, a seer who warned that a child born on a certain day would bring doom to Troy. Paris had been born just before nightfall on that very day.
Paris realized that Oinone was looking at him, probably wondering why her husband was so quiet. He took her hand. “My darling, please don’t worry yourself over this. It will never happen.”
“I hope you’re right.” She didn’t sound very hopeful. “There’s just one thing I want you to promise me.”
“That I won’t run off with this imaginary woman?”
“No, that’s not it. I see that you’re going to be terribly wounded in the war that will follow—by an arrow, I think. And when that happens, I want you to come to me. Apollo himself, the god of healing, taught me a lot about medicine. I know I’m the only one who will be able to heal you. Please swear that when that day comes, you’ll allow me to do that.”
But it did. One day, three goddesses were debating which of them was the most beautiful, and they decided that Paris should judge the beauty contest. After all, he was known to be fair; he had declared someone else’s bull was stronger than his own, when most men would have cheated and claimed they had won. But Aphrodite, goddess of love, promised to give Paris Queen Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in the world, if he named her the winner. Paris was so excited by this offer, he forgot all about judging fairly—as well as about his wife—and chose Aphrodite.
With that action, Paris’s fate, and that of his city, was sealed. He traveled to Sparta, fell in love with Queen Helen, and took her home with him to Troy. In an effort to reclaim his wife, the king of Sparta gathered all his allies and attacked Troy. The war dragged on for years, and many men and some women and children on both sides died.
Finally, Paris was wounded, just as Oinone had foretold. The wound didn’t appear serious at first, but the arrow that had injured him was poisoned, and soon it appeared he would die. He called his soldiers to him and ordered them to carry him to his old home, on Mount Ida.
As Paris rode home on his litter, he passed many places dear to him. There was the spot where his foster father had first abandoned him and then found him alive. There was the simple shepherd’s hut in which he had grown up, and there was the river where he had met Oinone. The soldiers carried him through the pasture where he had put the winner’s crown on Ares for having the best fighting bull in the world. Next he saw the field where he had played with his little boy, Korythos. Tears ran down Paris’s face as he bitterly regretted leaving all this to run away with another man’s wife.
He still hadn’t composed himself when the litter passed through the front gates of his home. A handsome youth was practicing with his sword in the courtyard, and he stared at this pale man with wet cheeks, his face drawn in pain, his swollen ankle propped up on a cushion as he was carried into the house. This youth was Korythos. He had been only a toddler when Paris had left, and after so much time apart, they didn’t recognize each other.
The Song of Orpheus Page 7
