The Greek Myths

by Robin Waterfield

  Then Hephaestus took his leave of lofty Olympus and pretended to go to the island of Lemnos, his beloved retreat. Ares wasted no time. As soon as he saw the blacksmith god limp away, he went straight to Aphrodite and found the goddess bedecked with flowers. The lovers retired without delay to the bed chamber, anticipating joy; but when they sank down upon the cushions and turned to each other, Hephaestus’ magic net closed around them and pinned them where they lay, naked in each other’s embrace.

  Hephaestus returned on cue and found the lovers lying there, and the sight was as a sword in his heart. He cried out in his pain and bitter anger: “Father Zeus, and all you gods! Come and see how Aphrodite despises me for my lameness and incapacity, and takes as her lover Ares, just because he is a fine figure of a god. But at least I have my revenge. I shall keep the two of them trapped there, until Father Zeus has returned to me all the gifts I gave him as the bride-price of Aphrodite. He owes me: it’s because of him that I’m lame and despised.”

  While the goddesses stayed away out of modesty, all the gods ran up to see the sight, and roared with laughter at the plight of the lovers. Seeing Aphrodite lying naked there, they gazed lustfully on her, and bold Hermes declared that it would be worth the netted humiliation to spend time in bed with the beautiful goddess of love. But Poseidon begged Hephaestus to free them, and promised that he would be paid all that he felt was his due. And so Hephaestus freed the lovers, and Ares fled in shame to Thrace, while Aphrodite retired to her temple at Paphos, where the Graces attended her and restored her wounded pride.

  Hephaestus

  Hephaestus is the god of fire, an outsider, unkempt and accustomed to mockery. He works in his underground forges while the other gods are idle, as if he were of another caste. Driven to the margins by his deformity and his work, he is the blacksmith magician, encrusted with soot and dirt from his furnace, but creating objects of extraordinary beauty and utility out of dull rock. Magicians must always work on the margins, or lose their objectivity.

  Many are the marvelous and intricate devices made by the hands of Hephaestus, and all artisans, but especially metal-workers, honor him in their hearts. He is attended in his workshop by the Cyclopes, the first forgers of Zeus’ thunderbolt, but also by golden automata, made by Hephaestus himself. He made the gods’ homes, Zeus’ aegis with its hundred golden tassels, greaves for Heracles, and a full set of armor for Achilles.

  Hunched from birth, he disgusted his mother Hera, who flung him off high Olympus into the depths of the moaning sea, and the twisting of his ankle as she whirled the baby around lamed him forever. Thetis reared him in her cave on the shores of Ocean, and he made for her jewelry of surpassing fineness. But he was angry with his mother, and wanted to humiliate her as she had humiliated him. He wrought for her a beautiful golden throne, of palpable majesty, and sent it to her Olympian palace as a present, a token of peace between them. All unwitting, Hera delighted in the ornate throne—but as soon as she sat in it, it held her fast and rose high into the air.

  The drunken Hephaestus returned to Olympus astride a mule, with his ally Dionysus in attendance.[16]

  The enraged goddess, the embarrassed queen of gods and men, sent Ares to bring Hephaestus back to high Olympus and free her. Ares sped to Ocean on a chariot of fire, but Hephaestus beat him off with his torches, shouting in his pain and grief that he had no mother. But Dionysus was the friend of Hephaestus, and he went to visit him in his volcanic forge, and plied him with cup after cup of the finest wine, sufficient even for a god. The wine loosened Hephaestus’ limbs and freed his caged anger. Dionysus escorted the drunken deity back to Olympus, slumped astride a mule, and he agreed to release his mother, if his father would grant him a favor.

  Once the throne had been rendered harmless, Hephaestus begged the almighty son of Cronus to allow him to make stern Athena his bed-partner. Zeus smiled in pity and gave him permission to try, for Athena had sworn to remain inviolate. Though lame and ugly, Hephaestus approached her with brash confidence, but she spurned him, and he spilled his seed upon the ground. In later years, from the impregnated soil arose Erichthonius, earth-born king of Athens.

  But Hephaestus, having failed with Athena, asked instead, as his reward for freeing cow-eyed Hera, that Aphrodite herself might become his wife; and great Zeus the cloud-gatherer granted his wish, for she was surely not a sworn virgin. But the marriage was neither of Aphrodite’s choosing nor to her taste.

  Athena

  Sing now, Muse, of keen-eyed Athena, whom Metis bore for Zeus. But when Metis was close to her time, Zeus swallowed her, anxious lest a son be born mightier than him, who would take his place and rule over gods and men. For even the gods cannot always turn aside Fate.

  But divine Athena was compelled to her birth, and in her great need sought a channel out of her father. Every avenue she explored, until she came to his head. In the extremity of his labor Zeus cried out for relief, and the halls of Olympus trembled at the sound. Even in the din-filled depths of his forge, Hephaestus heard the cries and hobbled as fast as he could to where Zeus sat on his throne, holding his head with his hands. Without hesitation, he boldly raised his ax and split open the head of Zeus, the mighty lord of gods and men, and out sprang Athena, fully formed and fully clad in golden armor, her gray eyes flashing. Lofty Olympus shuddered in fear at the power of the goddess, and the earth shrieked. Waves billowed on the sea and then fell into a dead calm, and Helios the sun-god stopped his chariot for a timeless moment in the sky, until new-born Athena unstrapped her armor, and Fear slunk out of the room.

  Her appearance is that of a fair and stately woman in the prime of life, but she was born of her father, and her mind is wholly her father’s; her masculine mind and her martial prowess keep her apart from the other goddesses. She has a rare beauty, but it trumpets her untouchability, and no man or god dares to approach her, for she has sworn to preserve her virginity. By accident, the Theban seer Teiresias once saw her bathing, and she placed her hands over his eyes, blinding him, though he had been woman as well as man.

  Athena was the first teacher of all the household crafts that form the basis of society. She made the first ship and wagon, the first plow and loom. Perfection in craft is also hers, and so she is both the ever-near protector of the household and the owl-eyed protector of cities; if they are threatened, she will surely respond, and the snake that lies coiled at her feet will rise up hissing. She fights not with passionate rage, like Ares, but with skill and prudence; he loves danger, but she finds ways to make danger safe. She is the strategist, the leader of hosts, and Ares carries out her will. Victory and glory she holds in her hands. And Zeus honored his beloved daughter with the gift of his aegis, for it may be cast as protection over a whole city. It is a mighty weapon, as well as a shield, for the sound of the aegis, shaken over a battlefield, is so terrible that trembling seizes the limbs of all who hear it.

  There was a time when Arachne of Colophon won fame throughout Lydia for her spinning and weaving, though she was of humble birth. Even the nymphs of the mountains and winding rivers traveled far to see her handiwork, or just to see her hands at work. And when they compared her to Athena, Arachne said: “Let her compete with me if she wants.” Athena came to her in the guise of an old woman and said: “You would do well to heed my advice, girl. Seek only to surpass other mortals in your craft, but leave first place for the goddess. Pray for forgiveness for your rash words.” But Arachne’s response was full of scorn. “Woman, old age has stripped you of your wits!” she cried. “See how the goddess refuses my challenge.” “No!” cried Athena, casting off her disguise. “She is here!”

  The two set about their embroidery. The theme of Athena’s work was her own victory over Poseidon in the contest for patronage of Athens, and she embellished the border with examples of the folly of mortals who challenge the gods. But Arachne showed the gods as seducers and deceivers of mortal women, and her work was perfect. Even Athena could find no fault with it, and in her pride and anger the drea
d goddess forced the girl to suicide. But as the maiden was gasping out her last breath in the stranglehold of the noose, Athena let her live, but as a spider, so that she could hang and spin forever.

  Apollo

  All hail, blessed Leto, mother of the lord Apollo and the lady Artemis! When you were pregnant and your time was due, you traveled the known world, seeking a safe haven where you could give birth. But dread of Apollo gripped all the lands, and only the humble island of Delos was willing to accept you—and him. For the barren island had nothing to distinguish it, but as the center of the worship of the golden youth it has attained wealth and eternal fame. And before it was rootless, a wandering isle, but in gratitude you fixed it in place.

  Sacred also to Apollo is Delphi, which lies at the center of the universe, for Father Zeus released two eagles from the opposite ends of the earth and there they met. When the lord Apollo came down from Olympus to find a site for his oracle, he came to Crisa and slew the she-dragon under snow-capped Parnassus and made the place his own. Crisa came to be known as Delphi, because Apollo, in the form of a dolphin, brought Cretan sailors to land there to serve as the first priests of his oracular sanctuary. Nowadays, young maidens serve as Apollo’s Sibyls. But though Apollo speaks through the mouths of maidens elsewhere as well, he declares the law most clearly from Delphi, and the heavens there are filled with light that gleams on the precipices of the Shining Rocks and sparkles on the crystal waters of the sacred spring. For he is the source of the light of law, education, and civilization. The lyre is his, and his minstrels play sweet music that soothes the savage breast; for poetry, as we bards know well, is the sister of prophecy.

  Rich in gold is Apollo, with golden lyre and golden bow, golden locks and golden tunic. But he is vast, a god who is great enough to contain multitudes. He is the far-shooter, for he must stand apart to do his work, and as well as the lyre, he lays claim to the bow. Sweet music is his, but also the paean—Ie Paian—sung in triumph or as a war-cry. He is the god who both spreads the miasma of sickness and disperses it. He is gentle and violent, fair of face and dark of brow, healer and destroyer. Praise the god in his greatness! May he grant us only good and avert all evil in our days! Whoever knows Apollo is raised to greatness; whoever does not know him is bound to be of lowly estate.

  Now, Athena, stately goddess, invented the pipes to imitate the sweet, keening sound of the dirge the Gorgons made to mourn Medusa’s death. She delighted in the reedy tone, stepping lightly in time. But as she was playing the pipes one day, she caught sight of her reflection in a pond, and hated the way she was disfigured by the straps that bound the pipes to her face. Away she hurled the loathed instrument, and it flew to Phrygia. There it was picked up by a Satyr, Marsyas, who learned to play so sweetly that the clouds wept with sadness at the plaintive melody.

  In pride at his accomplishment, Marsyas challenged Apollo to a contest, pipes against lyre. “So be it,” agreed golden-haired Apollo, “and let the winner do whatever he likes with the loser!” Marsyas spent some time in contemplation, listening to the source of sound, and when he played it was as if he had heard the secret song of the world. Apollo himself, with his lyre, could do no better—but he was a god, and tolerated no such insult as Marsyas’ challenge. He flayed all the skin from Marsyas’ body, and the Satyr’s tears formed the river that still bears his name.

  The Satyr Marsyas was flayed alive for challenging Apollo to a music contest.[17]

  Many are the tales that are told of Apollo. Ever fair and ever young, he has loved and been loved by many a maiden and youth. He loved Daphne, fair nymph, daughter of the river Peneus. His passion for her was as none before or since, for he had sneered at the arrows of Eros, saying that his aim was more true; in response the god of love simply loosed a single barb at the golden god. Even he, the healer, had no cure for this sickness. But Daphne had sworn to remain a virgin, and repulsed his advances. She was loved also by Leucippus, the son of Oenomaus, who dressed as a woman to join her throng and be close to her. So Apollo, in his jealousy, put it into Daphne’s head to bathe in the river. Poor Leucippus! He desired to see her nudity, but not that she should see his. When he refused to undress and swim with the other girls, his deceit was revealed, and in their outrage Daphne and her friends pulled him into the river and drowned him. But Apollo was not to be put off, and he pursued her as a hunter pursues a hare, though she ran from him as a lamb flees a wolf. Away she sprinted, but the god sped close on her heels. In desperation she prayed to her father for release from her beauty, so that she should suffer wrong no more. Peneus had no quarrel with Apollo, but he honored his daughter’s vow of chastity, and in an instant her prayer was answered. Even as she was running her limbs stiffened and her toes sought the darkness of the earth. There, in her place, stood a laurel tree. But Apollo loved her still, and made the laurel his sacred tree. Even now the winners at the Pythian games of Delphi receive no material reward but a garland of berried laurel—and the blessing of the god.

  Apollo also loved Cassandra, princess of Troy, and when she agreed to give herself to him, he rewarded her with the gift of prophecy. But then she insulted the god by changing her mind. Apollo asked her for one last kiss, and when she turned her face up to him he spat a curse into her mouth. Ever thereafter she was doomed to prophesy in vain, for no one believed a word she said and all took her for a madwoman.

  Apollo loved Hyacinthus of Sparta too, and it was their pleasure to anoint themselves with olive oil and test each other’s athletic prowess. Once Apollo took into his hands the weighty discus and hurled it true and far. Hyacinthus in his joy ran after the discus, laughing, to pick it up and take his turn at the fair sport. But the Spartan prince had spurned the advances of Zephyrus, the west wind, and in his anger Zephyrus turned the discus back. It struck Hyacinthus full in the face, and he died cradled in Apollo’s arms.

  Two exalted sons were born to Apollo: the healer Asclepius, and the minstrel Orpheus. Coronis was loved by Apollo, and was pregnant with their son Asclepius; but the white raven, Apollo’s bird, saw her lying with another, and told his master. Quick-tempered Apollo seized his bow and shot her dead. But he could not bear that his son should die as well, and even as Coronis lay on the pyre, the mighty god snatched his son out of the flames and his mother’s womb, and brought him to the cave of the Centaur Cheiron, for him to raise the boy. But he changed for evermore the raven’s color from white to black, a bitter reward for the bearer of bitter tidings.

  For telling Apollo of a lover’s infidelity, the once-white raven will forever be black.[18]

  Meanwhile, Asclepius grew up to bear his father’s gifts as a healer, and even to surpass them, for the time came when the lady Artemis asked him to heal her follower Hippolytus, the son of Theseus, though he was dead. Peerless Asclepius exerted all his skill and at last the young man breathed again—but as a mortal Asclepius had breathed his last, for Zeus blasted him with a thunderbolt for violating the laws of nature. But Asclepius was taken into the heavens, and is the patron god of medicine, beloved by many for his healing power.

  Apollo, however, was furious at the killing of his son, and in revenge his swift arrows soon found the hearts of the three Cyclopes, Hephaestus’ assistants, makers of Zeus’ thunderbolt. But the will of Zeus is not to be scorned, and the son of Cronus, the cloud-gatherer, was ready to hurl Apollo down to Tartarus, to be imprisoned there forever. But kindly Leto intervened, and instead Apollo was sentenced to serve for one year under Admetus, king of Thessalian Pherae.

  Now, Admetus had but a short time to live, and Apollo took pity on his master and begged the Fates to stay his death. The Fates agreed—provided that someone could be found to take Admetus’ place. No one was willing, save only loyal Alcestis, his wife, and Admetus accepted her sacrifice. But Heracles wrestled Death himself for the life of fair Alcestis, and won, and restored her to her husband.

  Orpheus, son of the far-shooter by the Muse Calliope, was such a gifted musician that, as he sang and played on his
lyre, the breezes stopped to listen in, wild beasts followed tamely in his train, and the trees bent down their lofty crowns to hear the sweet strains. Now, Orpheus loved the beautiful oak-nymph Eurydice, and the charm of his music won her heart. But on the day of their wedding, the very day, she was being pursued by Aristaeus, the lusty god of bee-keeping and olive-growing. Deep into the woods she plunged to escape him, where she was bitten by a snake and died.

  The world has seen no grief like that of Orpheus. He dared to descend into the underworld, and sang his request to grim Hades and his veiled wife Persephone. At the sound of his song, Cerberus pricked up his ears, Tityus’ vultures raised their gory beaks, Sisyphus sat on his boulder and listened.

  Orpheus’ musical talent was unsurpassed among mortals, but even his songs failed to overcome death.[19]

  Entranced, the dark deities laid aside their habitual indifference and heard his heartfelt plea, and allowed Eurydice to return from the dead. There was only one condition: Orpheus was not to look back at her until they had left the halls of Hades. Long, dark passages they traversed, and at last they were on the threshold—and just then Orpheus glanced over his shoulder for his beloved, whose footfall behind him he could no longer hear. Immediately, Eurydice lost substance and fell back from whence she had come.

  However much he pleaded, however long he lingered on the banks of the Styx, foul river of the dead, gloomy Charon refused to ferry him across a second time. Orpheus left the banks of Styx and wandered disconsolate in Thrace, choosing wilderness to spare lives, for many would have died from sorrow on hearing his songs of mourning. Only the birds of the air and beasts of the earth suffered the shafts of his bitter strains. But Maenads too choose the wilderness when Dionysus possesses them, and a band of them found him asleep and mistook him for an enemy. They tore him to pieces, and his head and lyre, still lamenting, floated down the Hebrus to the restless sea. But he and his beloved Eurydice were never again separated.