Thetis became all manner of creatures, but Peleus clung to his betrothed with grim determination.[59]
The wedding was celebrated on Mount Pelion, and the guest list was incredible. All the gods and goddesses deigned to descend from Olympus to attend, at least partly in relief that Thetis was not marrying one of them. Everyone was happy with the way things were. The Muses came too, and the Fates and the Graces. Nereus was there, of course, as the bride’s father, and Cheiron, the savior of Peleus, whose gift was a sturdy staff of ash, suitable for the haft of a spear. Athena herself planed the wood to perfection, Hephaestus made and fitted the long head of iron, and the rest of the gods contributed a magnificent suit of armor. But Dionysus gave a magical jar of wine that would never empty.
Into the middle of the celebrations hall limped an uninvited guest, in a foul mood at being overlooked. The goddess Strife, her frowning face lined with the weariness of her unceasing labors, stayed no more than a few minutes, but she sowed an evil that would yield countless deaths. She stood scowling in the middle of the hall where the gods and goddesses were feasting, and let fall a golden apple, wheedled from the Hesperides.
The apple was inscribed “For the Fairest” and, as Strife had intended, Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite immediately fell to quarreling, each claiming to be the most fair, and the rightful possessor of the beautiful bauble. The argument became so heated that Zeus had to step in and command them to be silent. He promised to find a way to resolve the matter equably, and ordered them in the meantime not to mar the wedding. The party had been spoiled, however—and a heavy doom set in motion.
As calm as the lull before a storm, the happy couple lived in Phthia, where Peleus succeeded to the throne after the death of Acastus, and ruled wisely and well. His land flourished, the rain and the winds were moderate, and no wolf terrorized his people’s flocks. Each man spoke kind words to his neighbor, for peace and law ruled the land under Peleus’ guidance. In time Thetis bore her husband a son, and they called the boy Achilles.
But silver-footed Thetis still resented her sojourn in the world of mortals, and longed to spend time with others of her kind, gamboling in the underwater realm, or feasting with the gods on high Olympus. If she had to be married to a mortal husband, she would at least use her powers to ensure that their son was invulnerable. And so at night she took hold of the infant and dipped him in her magic cauldron, seeking to purge all traces of mortality from him in the seething broth.
Six nights she dipped the baby thus, and on the seventh the work would have been complete. But Peleus spied Thetis at her task and his mortal eyes could see only that Thetis was dipping their child in a cauldron of boiling water. He cried out in alarm, and Thetis stopped what she was doing and flung the child away from her onto the floor. With a disdainful glare at Peleus, she stormed out of the room, and out of her husband’s life, returning to her watery home. But Achilles was not quite invulnerable: Thetis had been holding on to her child by his ankle, pinching the tiny tendon of the heel between her fingers. This last, little bit of his body had not been dipped for the seventh time into the cauldron.
The Judgment of Paris
The birth pangs were beginning, the contractions still far apart. The baby would not be born for many hours yet, and Hecuba, queen of Troy, allowed herself to doze in the spaces between pain.
Suddenly, in the dark of the night, she awoke with a start. “What’s the matter?” asked one of her handmaids anxiously, wringing the last drops from a facecloth to cool her panting mistress’s forehead. “Nothing,” Hecuba whispered. “Only a dream.” But the dream had disturbed her. She saw herself giving birth not to a human being, but to a blazing torch, whose flames spread and consumed the whole city of Troy. She heard cries and screams and lamentation, and saw her husband, King Priam, fall from the city walls.
The baby was born at dawn. The birth was easy, and the little boy seemed perfect, but still Hecuba was unquiet. The dream had been very powerful. As was right and proper, especially given her high station, she consulted the soothsayers to find out what it might mean, though the message seemed all too obvious. And they confirmed that the boy would grow up to cause the destruction of the city. They couldn’t presume to advise her what to do, but she knew anyway.
After consulting her husband, she gave the boy—tentatively named Alexander—to trusted attendants, who took the squalling child out of the city and into the wilderness of Mount Ida, where they left him to be torn apart and consumed by wild beasts. But the first creature to be attracted by the baby’s cries was a shebear, who had lately given birth herself. She picked up the smooth-skinned infant in ungentle paws, thinking to sink her teeth into the soft flesh—and to her astonishment the baby, smelling the milk fresh on her teats, fastened his little mouth to one of them and began to suck. This she understood; the mother bear’s fierceness abated, and she let the little human fill his belly until his cries stopped.
So the boy survived. He didn’t starve to death, and the mother bear watched over him all that first night, protecting him from the cold and other animals. In the morning, she had to return to her own litter, but the child was sleeping peacefully. And shepherds came to that part of the mountain, following their goats as they meandered among the trees and shrubs. One of them took the infant back to his wife; they raised the boy and called him Paris.
Paris grew up an innocent shepherd boy, and his delight lay in wandering the glens of the mountains with his father’s flocks. He didn’t know that there was anything in the world beyond this pastoral life and, like all his fellow shepherds, felt only contempt for the city folk in nearby Troy. As far as the shepherd community of Mount Ida was concerned, the city-dwellers were good for nothing except buying their wool and cheeses.
Then one day his life changed forever. As he was watching his flocks one morning, the god Hermes suddenly appeared to him, where a moment before there had been only rocks and grass and meadow flowers. And in Hermes’ train, seeming to arise out of the ground from the flowers, there came three goddesses. There was nothing to which Paris could compare this vision. It was more vivid than any dream, and he was undoubtedly awake. And the beauty of the goddesses was … well, no mortal woman that Paris had seen or even imagined came close. He knew immediately that he was in the presence of the divine.
This was the way Zeus had found to solve the contest for the golden apple that Strife had tossed among the deities celebrating the wedding of Peleus and Thetis. He chose Paris, for his innocence and noble blood and astounding good looks, to decide the contest—to make the impossible choice and decide which of the goddesses was indeed the “fairest.” The father of gods and men gave Hermes his instructions, and sent him down to Mount Ida with the three divine contestants.
Paris leapt to his feet and paled in terror. “Fear not!” said Hermes, and his voice was as limpid as the mountain streams in which Paris bathed his limbs. “We mean you no harm, but bring you great renown. For Zeus, our common father, has chosen you for a task. Do you see this apple, inscribed ‘For the Fairest’? Each of these three goddesses thinks that she deserves it. It’s up to you to decide who gets it.”
Paris was chosen to decide whether Hera, Athena, or Aphrodite was the most fair goddess.[60]
Eventually, Paris calmed down enough to agree to do the job; he didn’t seem to have any choice in the matter. He sat down on a rock, while Hermes stood aside and watched. The first to approach was Hera, and she appeared to the country boy as a woman of queenly bearing in the glow of full womanhood. A purple-bordered gown draped her majestic figure, and her hair, shining like mahogany, was wound up in an elegant coiffure. Her wide, dark eyes glanced at her competition with a look that betrayed both envy and disdain. She turned her attention to young Paris. “If you make the apple mine,” she said, her voice ringing throughout the dell, “I shall grant you worldly power beyond your imaginings. You shall rule vast territories, and you shall rule them securely, with no rivals to your throne.”
Paris was sore
ly tempted. He was just a shepherd, and here he was being offered a throne. But, to be fair, he should hear what the other two goddesses had to say as well. Athena strode briskly forward. She appeared as a keen-eyed warrior, imbued with a contained force that was ready to be unleashed at a moment’s notice. Yet she had also the luminous skin and boyish leanness of a virgin. “Should you decide to grant me the apple,” said the favorite daughter of Zeus, fixing him with her iron-gray gaze, “I will make you invincible, not just in hand-to-hand fighting, but in all warfare. You will be the greatest general ever to lead an army. Thousands shall flock to your banner, and none shall stand against you.”
This too was a powerfully attractive offer. The decision was not going to be straightforward, and the contest was beginning to seem one of bribes, not of beauty. Paris gave Hermes an uneasy glance, as if to say “I’m not sure I can do this.” But the god cocked his head to one side and smiled back reassuringly.
Finally, Aphrodite glided up to Paris, and she appeared as sex incarnate. With each lithe step tiny bells jingled from her gilded sandals with a sound like the tide flowing in and out on the shore at sunset. She peered at the handsome young shepherd through silken lashes, and smiled as if she knew a secret. She stood tall, with slender arms and hands, and her skin was as white as the first fall of snow, but her eyes and hair were raven black and the sunlight played in her tresses. Her flimsy dress molded her ripe breasts and well-rounded buttocks, and hinted at further delights. The goddess leaned forward and breathed in his ear: “If you choose me, you will win the love of the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world.”
As her scent filled his nostrils, it suddenly seemed to Paris that this was where his happiness lay, not in the hazards of war or rule. What had he, a shepherd, to do with such things? This offer was more to his taste. “But who is this woman?” he asked. “And what does she look like?”
“She is Helen of Sparta,” replied the goddess, “and she looks just like me. For your eyes, I have made myself in her image.”
Paris forgot his lover Oenone, so certain was he of the truth of Aphrodite’s promise. His mind was swept clean: there was nothing he wanted more than the gift of Aphrodite, the weaver of snares. He indicated to Hermes that he was ready, and the three goddesses lined up expectantly. Hermes solemnly handed Paris the apple, and without a moment’s hesitation Paris held it out to Aphrodite. Gracefully she took it, and with a smile of triumph. Then the four deities slowly faded away, and Paris was left with no more than the certainty that something exciting was going to happen, although he had no idea what form it might take.
The very next day Aphrodite’s gift began to take effect. Priam, king of Troy, sent men out to search the countryside and bring back the most perfect bull they could find for the climactic sacrifice of a festival that was being celebrated in the city. The men chose a bull that was in Paris’ keeping, and out of curiosity he followed them back to Troy. He was amazed. He had heard rumors of the greatness of the city, the wealth of its merchants, the splendor of its walls and public buildings, but the reality overwhelmed him. No sooner had he set foot in the city, however, than his sister Cassandra recognized him, and began to shout out: “He’s here! The bane of the city is here! We shall burn!” But though she spoke the truth, she had been cursed by Apollo, and no one ever believed her. They thought she was just raving, and her voice was soon lost in the joyous babble of the festival.
As is usual all over the Greek world, the festival included athletic games, and Paris, with his newly acquired selfconfidence, decided to take part in a few of the events. He did extraordinarily well, beating even the local favorites, Hector and Deiphobus—his brothers, if he did but know it. Deiphobus especially was mightily displeased at being beaten by some peasant upstart; he drew his sword and Paris fled for safety to the protection of an altar. But in the tussle Deiphobus tore from Paris’ neck a talisman that he always wore, and Hecuba and Priam recognized it as the token they had wrapped in their unwanted baby’s swaddling clothes all those years ago. To his astonishment, the young shepherd Paris was acknowledged as a prince and welcomed back into the fold of his family. He could see that Aphrodite’s spell was beginning to work. In the joy of the moment, Hecuba’s dream was forgotten.
The Abduction of Helen
But who was this Helen, the gift of Aphrodite to Paris? Who was this woman, fated to be reviled down the centuries? She was indeed the most beautiful and desirable woman in the world, but Aphrodite also had a hidden motive: Helen’s father Tyndareos had omitted to sacrifice to her, and she cursed him, saying that his daughters Helen and Clytemestra would be “twice married and thrice married and yet husbandless.”
Tyndareos, the king of Sparta installed by Heracles, took as his wife Leda, the daughter of the king of Aetolia; one of her sisters was Althaea, the mother and killer of Meleager. But Leda was loved by Zeus, who came to her in the form of a swan. And in time she gave birth to four children, two by two, a pair in each egg. One egg contained the Dioscuri, Castor and Polydeuces, while the other held Helen and Clytemestra.
Helen was conceived when Zeus took the form of a swan to couple with Leda.[61]
Castor and Polydeuces were inseparable twins, but there was one critical difference between them. Polydeuces had inherited the immortality of his father, but Castor was fully mortal. They were two of the greatest heroes of the Age of Heroes. Together they joined the voyage of the Argo; took part in the Calydonian boar hunt; defeated all-comers in the funeral games of Pelias; stormed Athens to rescue their sister Helen after her abduction by Theseus.
Their greatest adventure was also their last. It began when they attended the wedding of their cousins, Idas and Lynceus, to the daughters of Leucippus, Phoebe and Hilaeira. When the Heavenly Twins arrived for the ceremony, just one look was enough for the girls to change their minds. They left their grooms dumbfounded and allowed themselves to be abducted by the handsome strangers. As if that insult wasn’t bad enough, Castor and Polydeuces rustled some of their cuckolded cousins’ cattle to pay Leucippus his bride-price!
Naturally Idas and his brother sought revenge. Suspecting a trap, Lynceus ran swiftly up to the top of the highest peak of Mount Taygetus, from where he could look out over the entire Peloponnese. And indeed with supernatural vision he spotted Castor and Polydeuces hiding in a hollow oak tree, waiting to spring an ambush on their cousins. Lynceus ran back down the mountain and joined Idas, and together they crept up to where the Dioscuri were hiding. And Idas, who matched great Heracles for strength, drove his spear right through the husk of the mighty tree and fatally wounded Castor.
Polydeuces leapt out and chased Idas and Lynceus to their father’s grave, where they made a stand. But Polydeuces’ aim was true, and his hurled spear took Lynceus in the chest. Idas tore his father’s tombstone from the ground with a grunt and prepared to hurl it at Polydeuces, to bury him under it (the only way to stop immortals)—and he would have succeeded, had not Zeus intervened on behalf of his son and blasted Idas with a thunderbolt. And so Idas and Lynceus lie beside their father.
Polydeuces returned to where his brother lay dying. Tears poured from his eyes, and he prayed to Zeus that he might be allowed to die along with his dear twin. Zeus hearkened to his son’s prayer, but there are some things that even Zeus cannot do, and he couldn’t deny Polydeuces’ immortality. Nevertheless, he found a solution, and shared Polydeuces’ immortality between the two brothers, so that on alternate days the Heavenly Twins dwell in misty Hades and on bright Olympus in the company of the blessed gods. As deities it is their pleasure to protect sailors from the dangers of the deep, and sometimes they appear as pale fire clinging to the masts and rigging of vessels.
But meanwhile, ignorant of the future, there was joy in Tyndareos’ palace, for he had found a noble husband for Helen. Her sister Clytemestra was already married to Agamemnon, the lord of Mycenae. There were, as can be imagined, a great many suitors for the hand of the most beautiful woman in the world: Odysseus of Ithac
a, Menestheus of Athens, the gray-beard Idomeneus of Crete, Ajax of Salamis, and scores of others. All were required by Tyndareos to name the bride-price they would pay for his slender daughter.
By far the best offer Tyndareos received was from Menelaus, the noble brother of Agamemnon. But Tyndareos was worried that, whoever he chose to marry his daughter, the other suitors, proud heroes all, would cause trouble. So he made them all swear not only that they would abide by his decision, without envying the successful suitor, but also that they would, if necessary, take up arms to defend the marriage. After all, Helen had been abducted once before, when she was only a child, and she had not become less desirable over the years.
The suitors gave their word—the oath that triggered the Trojan War—and Tyndareos declared that the winner was Menelaus. He was the lucky man who would wed and bed the most desirable woman in the world. Not only that, but Tyndareos also announced that, on his death, Menelaus would inherit the throne of Sparta. He knew that his sons Castor and Polydeuces were destined for higher things. And so it came to pass, for soon afterward Tyndareos died and Menelaus became king.
* * *
Not many weeks passed before Paris set sail from Asia to claim his prize. He had made no plans, beyond simply traveling to Sparta. Helen had been promised to him by a goddess. It would happen.
As everyone knows, nobles feel themselves closer to other nobles, even those from other cities and further abroad, than they do to the peasants of their own lands. Some pledge formal friendship with one another—a network in case of need. But even without such a pledge, it’s understood that if a stranger arrives at your door, he’s not to be turned away, because he’s under the protection of Zeus. And if the stranger is of the same social rank as his host, he’s to be treated well and given the run of the house. By the same token, it’s the responsibility of the guest to show his host only the greatest respect and courtesy.
The Greek Myths Page 17
