The Greek Myths
Page 1
THE GREEK MYTHS
THE GREEK MYTHS
STORIES OF THE GREEK GODS AND HEROES VIVIDLY RETOLD
ROBIN WATERFIELD AND KATHRYN WATERFIELD
New York • London
© 2012 by Robin Waterfield
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For Julian, Kathy, James, and Alexis
CONTENTS
Introduction
The Ancient Greek Landscape
1 HOPE FOR HUMANKIND
The Population of the Earth
2 THE ASCENT OF THE OLYMPIAN GODS
In the Beginning
War against the Titans
War against the Giants
Zeus and His Brothers
3 THE GODS OF OLYMPUS
Zeus the King
Hera
Hestia
Demeter
Aphrodite
Ares
Hephaestus
Athena
Apollo
Artemis
Hermes
Dionysus
4 THE AGE OF HEROES
The Flood
The Line of Deucalion
The Argonauts and the Golden Fleece
The Calydonian Boar Hunt
Io and the Danaids
Perseus and the Gorgon
Bellerophon
5 THEBES IN THE AGE OF HEROES
Cadmus, Europa, and the Foundation of Thebes
Oedipus
The Seven against Thebes
6 MYCENAE IN THE AGE OF HEROES
The Curse of the House of Atreus
Atreus and Thyestes
The End of the Atreid Curse
7 ATHENS IN THE AGE OF HEROES
The First Athenian Kings
The Labors of Theseus
Theseus and the Minotaur
King Theseus
8 HERACLES
The Birth of Heracles
The Twelve Labors of Heracles
Heracles the King-Maker
Heracles Becomes a God
9 THE TROJAN WAR
The Marriage of Peleus and Thetis
The Judgment of Paris
The Abduction of Helen
The Greeks Prepare for War
The Greek Landing
Achilles Withdraws
Agamemnon’s Dream
Menelaus and Paris
Diomedes’ Day of Glory
Hector Triumphant
Envoys and Spies
The Assault on the Ships
The Deception of Zeus
The Death of Patroclus
The Return of Achilles
The Death of Hector
Two Funerals
The Death of Achilles
The Wooden Horse
The Fall of Troy
10 ODYSSEUS’ RETURN
Trouble on Ithaca
Telemachus’ Journey
Odysseus on Scheria
The Cyclops Polyphemus
Aeolus, the Laestrygonians, and Circe
The Underworld
Dangers at Sea
The Cattle of the Sun
Odysseus Reaches Ithaca
At the Swineherd’s Hut
In the Palace
Penelope Meets the Beggar
Vengeance
Reunion
11 THE END OF HOPE
Pandora
Select Bibliography
Picture References
INTRODUCTION
The book you hold in your hands contains a retelling of the traditional Greek myths and legends. You will meet all the famous and familiar stories (and hopefully some new ones), but you may also find some unfamiliar details. Retelling the Greek myths is not a simple matter, above all because very few, if any, of the myths exist in a single version. Often, in fact, there are downright contradictions between extant versions of a tale. There is no such thing, then, as the definitive version of any myth; in fact, the more famous a story became, the more versions there were of it.
This variability is essential to the Greek myths. They did not exist in single, monolithic, or “authentic” versions. Consider the work of the great tragedians of Athens in the fifth century BCE—Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. They took the traditional tales and tweaked them for their own reasons—often to make a political or ethical point relevant to their immediate audience. As long as the heart of the story remained unchanged, or was intact in the background, writers were free to add and subtract as they chose.
This is how the stories retain their vitality. By the same token, Ovid’s often fanciful retellings in the early years of the first century CE; or Ariosto’s adaptation of the Perseus myth in Orlando furioso (early sixteenth century); or the 1967 Star Trek episode “Who Mourns for Adonis”; or Wolfgang Petersen’s 2004 movie Troy; or Rick Riordan’s series of Percy Jackson books for children; or the thousands of other examples that could be given—all serve to perpetuate in their own ways and for their own purposes the vitality of the ancient Greek tales of war and adventure, magic and miracles, love, jealousy, murder, rape, and revenge.
The ancient Greeks loved stories—so much that they illustrated their walls, temples, high-end tableware, ceremonial armor, and even their furniture with artwork that was intended to tell tales. But for them the stories served additional purposes, over and above entertainment. When they told the myths to their children, they expected them to be educational as well as exciting: to teach about the nature of the gods and goddesses, and about their awesome powers; to illustrate right behavior for mortal men; to see that, though the gods are relatively omnipotent, and Fate is unavoidable, it is still a mortal’s willful activity that brings disaster down on his or her head. Other myths served more straightforwardly to give emotional power to the foundation of a community, to make a religious ritual more meaningful, or to speculate about the origin of the universe.
No myths endure unless they give a community an underlying layer of meaningfulness. Nevertheless, the ancient Greek myths and legends have proved to have the astonishing ability to transcend their origins, the particular cultural contexts in which they arose, and be relevant within our societies today, as if they tapped into some deep layer of the human mind. For us, it has been a pleasure and a privilege to enter the stream of classical myth, to allow it to flow through us and, we hope, to excite and engage further generations of readers.
ROBIN AND KATHRYN WATERFIELD
THE ANCIENT GREEK LANDSCAPE
MAP A: The World of Bronze Age Greece
MAP B: The Mediterranean Basin
MAP C: Ancient Greece
At the time when the Greek myths were being formulated, the world, as conceived by the Greeks, was very differe
nt from ours. It looked like Map A, not the modern projections of B or C. The main land masses had been identified (apart from the Americas, of course), but were of indeterminate extent, ending in mythical regions and ultimately surrounded by the river Ocean. The Greeks themselves had colonized the coastlines of the known world, like frogs around a pond, as Plato put it. They didn’t occupy countries—there was no nation state called “Greece” until the nineteenth century CE—but more or less independent cities. Most city-states were founded on the coastline for trade and travel, and controlled a certain amount of the interior farmland, often in rivalry with native tribes or neighboring Greeks.
Chapter One
HOPE FOR HUMANKIND
The Population of the Earth
The gods were bored, becalmed in the ocean of time. It’s all very well being immortal, but time does start to weigh heavily after a few dozen millennia. Each of them had his or her own provinces and powers, as Aphrodite was the embodiment of sexual attraction, but long since she had exhausted all the possibilities of fun among her fellow deities.
Boredom isn’t stillness; boredom is sameness. The gods’ lives flowed on with endless monotony; no century was really any different from any other century, and there was no prospect that the next century would be any different from the last. They needed amusement and entertainment, but it wasn’t just that: they found themselves longing even for opposition. Opposition would spark interest, create twists and knots in the smooth unwinding yarn of the years.
They decided to populate the earth. It would be the great experiment. Perhaps this would give their lives meaning; if not, they could always scrap that attempt and start again. Zeus, king of the gods, enjoined his extended family to get busy, and they fell to their task with relish. Before long, they had molded all the creatures of the earth out of clay. Once all had their shapes, the gods gave Prometheus the job of equipping each species with its powers.
Now, Prometheus was a Titan, one of the elder gods who had been overthrown by Zeus and his fellow Olympians. The Titans, led by Zeus’ father Cronus, had not given up without a struggle, but they had lost the war. Prometheus’ brothers, Menoetius and Atlas, had been severely punished—Menoetius cast down into the dungeons of Tartarus, and Atlas, the largest of the Titans, forced to carry on his shoulders the burden of the heavens for all eternity.
The Titans Atlas and Prometheus; each paid a heavy price for challenging Zeus’ authority.[1]
But Prometheus had persuaded his mother Themis, the goddess of right and order, to side with Zeus during the war, and so he and his twin brother had escaped punishment and were living in the palaces and high halls of Olympus, along with the other immortals. Prometheus was smart, his mind endlessly shimmering with ideas and schemes. His brother was quite the opposite. In fact, Epimetheus was … average. He could carry out assigned tasks well enough, but lacked creativity and moved dully. He was inclined to make mistakes if left to his own devices.
So Zeus gave the job of equipping the animal species to Prometheus. But Epimetheus was jealous: “You get all the fun jobs,” he complained. “Let me have this one.” When Prometheus hesitated, Epimetheus said: “When I’ve finished, you can inspect my work. You’ll have the last say.”
Prometheus agreed on these terms, and Epimetheus set to work. To some creatures he gave strength, but not speed; others, those he left weaker, he made fleet of foot. Small ones were protected by their ability to take off into the air, or burrow inside the earth; large ones were protected by their sheer size. Some had tusks or claws, while others had thick hides to save them from tusks and claws. Their outsides were designed in various ways to shield them from the extremes of heat and cold to which they would be exposed. Their insides were designed to cope with all the various foodstuffs of the earth, with no species in danger of exhausting its supply: some preferred roots, others leaves or grass, and yet others the blood and flesh of weaker creatures. But then the weaker creatures gained the boon of deep hiding places and many offspring, while the stronger ones produced fewer.
Epimetheus was pleased with his work. He had ensured the perpetuation of all species. His masters would be delighted. But first he had to satisfy his brother. And Prometheus was pleasantly surprised. His brother had indeed done a good job. He inspected all the animal prototypes, hearing Epimetheus’ explanations and nodding in agreement. But there, right at the end: there was the problem.
Lost in the shadows and dust of Epimetheus’ workshop, Prometheus found a neglected clay form. Naked, with no hoofs or claws, no speed or strength, no natural home for refuge, no ability to live well on raw food, no impenetrable hide—nothing. This lump of clay had nothing. But it was time. The day appointed by Zeus for the population of the earth was at hand.
“What about this one? What are your plans for it? Anyway, what is it?”
“It’s a human being,” replied Epimetheus, close to tears as he realized his foolish mistake. “And I have no plans for it. I just forgot it, and now I’ve used up all the powers we were given. There’s nothing left for it.” Prometheus thought for a little while. “All right. There’s nothing to be done now. Zeus wants the earth populated right away, with all the species, and we’ll just have to let this … human … fend for itself for a while. Meanwhile, I’ll try to think of something.” And so, out of the gods’ boredom, the earth was populated with all the animal species.
* * *
The gods were truly delighted with their new toys. Every aspect of life on the earth came into existence on that day. Goodness was henceforth defined as whether the brief part danced by a creature on the earth’s stage was pleasing in the gods’ eyes. It amused the gods to remind their creatures, in various ways, who their masters were, and to test their goodness. Just when everything was going well, they would cause a flood, or earthquake, or famine, or personal disaster. And they devised more and more complex dances for their toys.
Prometheus pondered ceaselessly the problem of what to do to ensure the survival of human beings. He felt a strange kinship with these creatures, as though he had made them himself. He felt that they had the potential to resemble himself and his brother—to reach the same heights of brilliance and depths of criminal negligence. But, as things were, their lives were little better than those of the dumb beasts around them. They soon learned to huddle together in caves, to afford themselves some kind of protection rather than going out in search of food one by one, but still it wouldn’t take long for the other creatures of the earth to eliminate these defenseless men. As a first measure, then, Prometheus simply invested them with his own essence.
It came like a bolt of lightning, illuminating the dark places. It came like the most beautiful dawn, rising up out of the sea. It came like a two-edged sword, dividing and yet forging the possibility of a higher union. It was called intelligence, and with intelligence came speech. At first, the sounds they made were meaningless and confused, but they slowly developed articulate words. By agreeing among themselves which sounds stood for which objects, they established means by which they could communicate and pass on knowledge about the world, starting with their own safety. They began to develop rules to govern their behavior, so that they could live together peaceably, without preying on one another.
But with Promethean intelligence, these first men (for there were as yet no women) also gained the ability to fear the future and felt the need to protect themselves against mere possibilities. Now, the gods were not aware that the intelligence of these human creatures had been the gift of Prometheus; they assumed that this was their special ability, just as other creatures were strong or swift or otherwise formidable. But they were quick to see its potential. Men now feared the future, and the gods had the power to make the future better or worse. So, they said, let’s make it so that men have to ask us, to beg us, to plead with us, for the better instead of the worse. And let’s make it so that they have to ask us in the right way, otherwise we shall just ignore their requests. This idea pleased all the gods. It would a
fford them endless amusement.
So the gods invented sacrifice. Men were to pray to them for what they felt they needed, and their prayers were to be wafted up to the heavens by the smoke of sacrifice. The sacrificial victim should be something valuable, a gift freely given to the gods. The richer the sacrifice, the thicker the smoke, and the better the chances that the gods on Olympus would smell the prayer. But none of this was going to happen unless men had fire.
Prometheus was not slow to understand the importance of fire to his wards. Fire could make up for his brother’s carelessness by giving humans the essential tool for their survival and development. They could cook their food to make it digestible; heat kilns to make pottery; keep warm in winter; forge metals. Fire is the key that opens all these doors and lays the foundation of human life. Without it, there is no possibility of advancement or civilization. With it, and with Promethean intelligence, who knew whether men might not become as gods themselves? At any rate, fire would be the foundation of a civilized and communal life, which would protect them from other creatures.
So the gods came down from the palaces and high halls of Olympus to earth, to see that this idea of theirs was carried out in the right way. With Prometheus himself acting as the champion of his people, the negotiations were soon over. Zeus would give men fire, and in return men were to sacrifice to the gods, giving the gods the best bits of the sacrificial victim. “And let what is done here today be final,” Zeus proclaimed, his voice like thunder, echoing from the surrounding hills. “This is the Day of Fire!”
An unblemished cow was found for the first sacrifice. Zeus left it to Prometheus to divide the beast into two halves, a portion for the gods and a lesser portion for men. Ever anxious to look after the interests of men, whom he loved, Prometheus the prankster played a trick on Zeus. He wrapped all the fine bits of meat in the cow’s stomach, so that it resembled a gigantic haggis, which should contain only offal; and he covered the cow’s skeleton with a layer of gleaming fat, and stuck the hide back on, to make it look an attractive whole. And Zeus chose the fair-seeming, but less nutritious portion. Not that he or the gods needed meat; they wanted only the smoke of a sweeter sacrifice.