Many years before, his fancy had been caught by rich green Libya. He had invaded it, and made himself king by destroying everyone who stood in his path. He rapidly enlarged his kingdom, for he exulted in battle. There was nothing he relished more than the crunch of bones and the smell of blood. The shrieks of the wounded and the rattling gasps of the dying were music to his large hairy ears. And in the short intervals of peace, he amused himself by tormenting his subjects.
His entire court was composed of giants. Courtiers, counsellors, and the officers and men of the Royal Guard were gigantic. When they all reveled, which they did nightly, the mountains rumbled, the earth shook. And when their song was borne on the wind, utter choking fear took those who heard it. For this was the song:
“The stew, the stew,
the cannibal stew!
All you’ve heard is true
about what
goes in that pot …
Not pork, or mutton,
or costly beef
but eyes and nose,
fingers and toes
of rebel or thief
or those doing time
for any crime …
Into the pot,
ready or not …
with pepper and garlic
onion and thyme …
To boil and simmer
until it’s through …
the stew, the stew,
the cannibal stew!
Served from the pot,
piping hot …
The stew, the stew,
the cannibal stew!
Why feed prisoners,
who can feed you?”
Indeed, over a fire-pit dug into the courtyard, a huge iron pot seethed and bubbled. Into this pot, as the song said, were thrown those who had happened to offend the king in some way—or, simply, certain meaty-looking unfortunates who chanced to attract his notice.
And although there were many, many reasons to fear Anteus, who, in a temper, had been known to trample an entire village underfoot, this steaming iron pot became a special symbol of terror.
But the people of this unhappy land, like all folk everywhere, were unable to live without hope. And there was a prophecy abroad, which no one dared speak aloud, but was whispered from household to household. It was: “Help will come from the sea.” Just six words, very short ones, but they fed the flickering flame of hope that warmed the Libyans through years of icy despair.
But like many other a tangled tale of monster and hero, the adventure that was to give meaning to this prophecy was being brewed in high, hidden councils. The fate of this monstrous king, youngest son of Mother Earth, was sprouting far from earth, out of plots woven by the feuding gods.
You might say it began with Prometheus.
2
Sport for the Gods
When Zeus first became king of the gods, there was a Titan named Prometheus who occupied a special place in the heavens. He dwelt alone in a cloud-castle, refusing to join the court or take sides in any quarrel.
He was so wise that everyone sought his counsel. Zeus alone disliked him, but was not ready to show his feelings.
Prometheus came to him one day and said: “You have just begun your reign and I have no wish to discourage you, but I must tell you that we gods are doomed.”
“We are immortal,” said Zeus.
“We cannot die in a gross physical sense,” said the Titan. “But we can cease to be gods. And that for gods is worse than death.”
“What threatens us?”
“We are being starved.”
“What do you mean?”
“A god’s nourishment is to be worshiped. But there is nobody to do that.”
“We have each other,” said Zeus.
“And we love or hate each other, or, mostly, are indifferent. But we cannot worship each other because we are all of the same family.”
“Do you have a remedy, oh wise one, or have you come only to spread gloom?”
“I have a suggestion,” said Prometheus. “I propose that we plant a new species in this garden of earth. And these new beings, created by us, resembling us in some ways, will lack our power, of course, but will have what we lack—the capacity to worship.”
“To worship us, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“Your idea has some merit …”
“It is you, oh Zeus, they will especially worship.”
“Me?”
“You are king of the gods. Of course they will worship you most.”
“The idea gains merit even as you speak, good Titan. I shall consider it carefully.”
Zeus decided to take the Titan’s advice. After several trials, he succeeded in creating a clever two-legged race and set the first batch down on earth, dividing them into male and female so that they could begin to breed. At first, he spent hours watching them, but ceased to be amused by their antics. They seemed to be showing little impulse to worship their creator.… They did occasionally tie a bundle of straw into a kind of doll, mumbling to it and offering bits of food. But Zeus could not connect that crude figure with himself. So he lost interest.
The other gods, however, were fascinated—for a different reason. They began to believe that Zeus had planted mankind on earth as a landowner stocks a trout stream. Hunting humans became the gods’ favorite pastime. It didn’t provide the thrills of hunting a wild boar who could turn upon you with razor tusks, or a lion with claws that could rend you to shreds; man had neither horns nor tusks, nor claws, and was too slow-footed to offer the excitement of the chase. But the creature did possess that which other animals did not: self-consciousness, a sense of the future, a shuddering aversion to death and remarkable skill at evading it. Also, and most entertaining of all, these creatures were questioners; they groped for answers. Unlike other prey, they tried to understand what was happening to them. They could not comprehend the invisible arrows that struck out of nowhere, killing young and old, the strong and the feeble. And their agonized confusion amused the gods mightily. The anguished explanations humankind found for god-sport convulsed the Olympians with laughter. Manhunting became a craze. And the herds were dwindling rapidly.
Prometheus, who had appointed himself protector of humankind, came to Zeus and said: “You who made man, why do you destroy him?”
“I’m not destroying him,” said Zeus. “Oh, I bag one or two occasionally. But that’s not destroying, that’s culling. Improves the stock, you know. They breed quite rapidly.”
“Not as rapidly as they’re being killed. Look down, if you don’t believe me. You’ll see that your herds are shrinking daily.”
“Perhaps. I hadn’t really noticed.”
“Please notice,” said Prometheus.
“In regard for your age and reputed wisdom,” said Zeus, “I have overlooked a certain lack of respect in your manner toward me. But I must warn you, my patience is not inexhaustible.”
“If I have taken liberties, my lord, it is in your service. I promised you that if you created the race of man, he would nourish you with his worship. You are disappointed because he has not yet displayed that talent.”
“Yes.”
“But—and pardon me again, oh King—you have not waited long enough. The talent for worship, which is an offshoot of the capacity for wonder and the impulse toward praise, is something unique to mankind, and will develop only as he emerges from the animal state. Give him time, more time, I pray, and you will be pleased beyond measure.”
“You are eloquent on this creature’s behalf,” said Zeus.
“It is on your own behalf, my lord. Stop the slaughter. Let him develop at his own rate. He will learn to rejoice in your handiwork, and sing your praises so beautifully that you will be entranced.”
Thereupon, Zeus summoned the gods to a grand conclave. They thronged his throne room. He sat on the enormous throne made of cloud-crystal and congealed starfire, and wore his ceremonial sunset robes of purple and gold. The scepter he bore was a volt-blue zigzag shaft of
lightning.
“Oh Pantheon,” he thundered, “hear my words! Our herds are being slaughtered at a rate that approaches extermination. I have decided to be displeased by this, and hereby impose game laws. The monthly kill shall not exceed six per god. And I mean six adults, no children under twelve, no pregnant females or nursing mothers.… Severe penalties attach to transgression. Whoever exceeds his quota shall be shackled to the roots of a mountain in Tartarus and abide in suffocating darkness through eternity. I have spoken. You may go.”
The new law was not popular. Hera came raging to Zeus one day, and although he was omnipotent, she was his wife and had one unique power; she could make him miserable. So he spoke to her gently and asked why she was so angry.
“It’s that ridiculous law of yours,” she hissed.
“You don’t think the quota large enough? I didn’t realize you were so keen a huntress, my queen.”
“It’s not that!” she shouted. “But I did fill my bag early this month, and now there’s someone down there who needs killing.”
“Wait till next month,” said Zeus.
“I can’t!”
“What’s your hurry?”
“She’s offended me.”
“Something personal?”
“Very personal. I hate her. I must kill her now. Please, my lord.”
“Very well, but don’t make a habit of this sort of thing. We who make laws shouldn’t break them.”
Hera did not hear his last words. She was sliding down a sunray. And in a few minutes had cooled her wrath by murdering the unlucky girl who had offended her.… But what Zeus had feared came to pass. Other gods heard of this and came storming into the throne room, citing points of personal privilege and demanding that their quotas be raised.
Finally, Zeus became exasperated. The assembled gods saw that he was simmering with fury. He stamped his foot and the marble floor cracked. The blue lightning shaft that was his scepter went white-hot in his hand. Beyond the windows, thunder rolled. The gods shuddered. They knew that Zeus, generally good-natured, was sheer catastrophe when aroused, and that no one on heaven or earth would be safe from his wrath. They understood this because they knew the depths of their own cruelty, and he was of the same breed, but more powerful.
So they bowed their heads and did not respond when he tongue-lashed them, lowering the monthly kill-quota from six to four and laying a total ban on any complaint against the game laws. They filed out silently, submissively, and for a while were very careful about staying within their quotas.
But as time passed they worked out a way to break the law without getting punished. They used monsters.
Poseidon invented this method when a little village happened to displease him. A fishing village it was, beautifully set among hills rolling down to the sea. Only a handful of huts then, but it had been foretold that this little place was to become the most important city in the world. And since the people here drew their living out of the sea, Poseidon, master of the deep, expected them to name their village after him. But Athene, goddess of wisdom, had ideas about this village too. She meant to plant special people there and make it a place famous for wisdom.
Green robed, green bearded, Poseidon coasted in on a wave and strode toward the huts—immense, dripping, eyes full of stormy light. He spoke, and his voice was like the surf battering the cliffs.
“Good folk,” he roared softly, “I am Poseidon, earth-shaker, lord of the sea. It is I who have given you an ocean to harvest, taming the wild fathoms for your sake, stocking them with fat fish. Therefore, I ask, when you come to name this place, as soon you must, call it, please, after me, and I shall be your patron and protector forever.”
He whistled up a great wave, which curled over him and drew him from the beach to the sea.
As soon as he had vanished, Athene appeared, shining so brightly in the dust of the little street that it hurt to look at her. She was clad in blue. An owl sat on her shoulder, and she bore spear and shield.
“Good folk,” she said, and her voice was like the west wind making a harp of the trees, “I am Athene, daughter of Zeus, goddess of wisdom, and I am prepared to look upon you with great favor. Name this little village after me and you shall see it grow into the most worthy city in the world, home of sage and warrior, yes … and of a prophetess who will decipher the scroll of stars and read what is to come. These rude huts will grow into marble mansions; temples will gleam upon the hills, and thousands of years from now the very syllables of your name shall be a chime of glory.…
“And to prove my power, I give you this gift. Behold!”
She raised her spear high and stabbed it into the earth. It stood, quivering. Before the amazed eyes of the villagers, it began to sprout green branches. Fruit hung upon the boughs. Athene plucked a naked child from the street and lifted him so that he could reach into the tree. He snatched the fruit, stuffed his mouth, and gobbled happily. She kissed him and put him down.
“This tree is called the olive,” she said. “Its fruit will feed you, and what is not used for food will be turned into wealth. For you will press the fruit of the olive, and its clear oil will be coveted by the tribes of earth and they will trade for it, sending you what is most precious to them—silks and amber, copper, spice, horses, slaves. And you shall grow rich and strong. All for giving your village my name.”
The people fell on their knees and thanked the goddess, and named the village Athens. And the goddess departed.
All she had promised came true. But other things happened too.
For Poseidon was very angry. He took great pleasure in whipping up winds to sink the Athenian ships, sending great waves to wash away beaches and bury houses under tons of water, and drown the cattle in the fields.
Nor did all this satisfy him, for the Athenians were a stubborn tribe. They built their homes again, and built new boats, and launched them right into his sea to hunt for fish before the next storm hit.
So Poseidon called up a huge serpent from the depths. It was a hundred feet long and could swallow a fishing vessel in one gulp, nets and crew and all.… It appeared offshore one sunny afternoon and swallowed a whole little fleet. It devoured half the village before nightfall.
Poseidon trod the swell, capering and chortling as he watched the fleet being destroyed. The mighty jaws of the sea serpent gaped and crunched down on a vessel, crushing it between gigantic teeth. As the beast held one ship in his jaws, he smashed another with his flailing tail. And the only reason there were any Athenians left to rebuild their village was that Poseidon realized he was using up his entire stock of this particular entertainment in a single afternoon, and decided to save some for later. So he called off his serpent, who swallowed a final fisherman and sank to the bottom.
Now the other gods had observed Poseidon’s vengeance and saw that it was a good idea to use monsters in that way. It allowed them to punish those they had taken a dislike to while still remaining within the law. Even Athene, who was furious at Poseidon for tormenting her favorite villagers, nevertheless called up monsters from time to time, and sent them to devour those who had offended her.
And the custom grew.
3
Gaia’s Spell
The ancient earth-mother observed all this, and made certain plans.
“My youngest son, Anteus, is terrible in battle,” she said to herself. “And will certainly be persuaded by one vengeful god or other to embroil himself in some dangerous feud.… Now, he’s the most powerful of my offspring, the beautiful brute, and should be able to exterminate any pesky hero who dares challenge him. Nevertheless, I intend to take no chances with that precious life.… I shall concoct a spell that will assure him victory in all encounters.”
Thereupon, she descended into the deepest cavern where an outlicking of the earth’s core-fire smoldered in a natural stone basin. A spring of pure water ran through this basin and was kept at a boil.… This was Mother Earth’s own cauldron where she brewed her most potent spells.
&
nbsp; Muttering, she dropped herbs in the boiling water. As the steam wrapped her in a fragrant veil, she began to chant:
“Oh, you who decree
whatever must be,
I call to you
from my deepest core…
If my son, Anteus
is ever thrown,
let him touch earth
who gave him birth …
I shall staunch his gore,
his strength restore …
He shall rise from me,
as mighty as before …”
At this very moment, as it happened, Anteus was being threatened by an enemy more deadly than any he had ever met. They were the Amaleki, a warlike tribe of mountaineers—huge wild-bearded hot-eyed men; their women were just as big and just as fierce. This tribe had evolved a battle plan which always worked. During the short intervals of peace, they spent their time collecting the largest, roundest boulders they could find. These they lined up and balanced on a ridge at the top of the mountain. They had built this ridge strategically, laying logs in a trench to form a long mound just high enough to hold the great boulders teetering, emplaced against the mountain wind, but so balanced that a strong shove would send them thundering down the slope.
The boulders were always in place. When some were used in battle, the tribesmen would gather a fresh supply. Then, when an invading force approached, the Amaleki would send out a small patrol whose duty was not to fight, but to retreat. This force was made up of half-grown youths, boys and girls, who considered it the greatest honor to be able to risk their lives in this way. For it was dangerous duty. These youngsters were mounted on purebred racing camels, the most valued stock in all the northern rim of Africa.
The patrol would ride out to meet the enemy, allow itself to be spotted, then turn tail and pretend to flee. The invaders would immediately charge after them. The youths, expert riders all, would pretend to be racing their camels at full stride; in reality, they would be reining them in, traveling only at half-speed, allowing the enemy to catch up … almost, not quite.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 7
