“With me?” asked Bellerophon.
“I have to start somewhere, and I have decided to start with the youngest, who happens to be you.”
“Well … I’m honored. But …”
“In my kingdom, you see, the eldest son does not automatically inherit the throne. I intend to choose my own successor. To do it fairly I mean to test the mettle of my heirs one by one, starting, as I say, with you.”
“But sire, what kind of race could I put up? I’d be too frightened to harness those great savage beasts, let alone drive them.”
“My boy,” said Melicertes, “let me give you a little advice. The thing most to be feared in Corinth is displeasing the king. And it is my pleasure now, Bellerophon, to ask you to pick a team of horses out of my stock, and prepare to pit your chariot against mine. The race shall take place seven days hence, when the sun reaches midpoint between noon and dusk. Do you understand?”
“I understand. I shall do as you ask. But I can’t promise you an interesting race.”
“Just be there, and ready. I assure you I shall enjoy myself.”
“Thank you for the opportunity to demonstrate my mettle,” said Bellerophon.
“Thank me after the race,” said the king.
8
A Gathering Doom
Almost dusk, and the day was dying bloodily. The huge disk of the sun dipped into the sea, coloring it with drowned fires—crimson, fading to pink, turning to purple and gold. Bellerophon wandered along the beach, trying to think of a way to survive the king’s sudden attention.
“Through the years, I have become fairly familiar with the methods used by our murderous ruler,” he mused. “Now if I can only guess which one he means to use on me I may have a chance of staying alive. Let’s see, what’s the first victim I remember? The king of Arcadia, who protested being fouled in a race; why he was simply shot from ambush by one of the royal archers. That’s one way he might get rid of me. If so, though, why would Melicertes be proposing all this rigmarole of a chariot race? No, he probably won’t call on his archers. After all, for a prince of Corinth to be killed by an arrow shot from ambush might give the general public ideas about how to get rid of royalty. I should think he would want my death to appear an accident. And, of course, racing a chariot against him is a classic way for accidents to happen.
“There was the king of Thessaly, for example, whose wheel rolled off in mid-course, hurling him from his chariot and breaking his neck. If anyone suspected that Melicertes had arranged for an axle pin to be removed before the race … well, such suspicions are not voiced in Corinth. I’ll make sure to examine my wheels very carefully before the race begins.
“Perhaps he plans a simpler way, though. For the horses to turn on me when I try to harness them. For my unfortunate demise to occur before the race is even underway. Yes, he may well choose that method. For, thanks to my mother’s wise ghost, I have kept my horsemanship a secret; the king, despite all his spies, knows nothing of it.
“But no! Something tells me it would be fatal to expect him to do the obvious. He may not know about me and the horses, but he has a brute cunning that has made him the most successful, most lethal tyrant of his time. I sense that he will try some other way. But what way? I feel a doom gathering about me, and I can’t seem to think my way out.”
Bellerophon kept pacing the water’s edge, mulling things over. “Perhaps,” he said to himself, “I’m doing too much thinking. This can be fatal. Here I stroll under a kindling sky, admiring the changing colors of the sea, trying to guess which unexpected thing the king plans for me when I should be preparing some unexpected things myself. That’s always the key to victory—to surprise the enemy, to move before he does. It’s more my style, anyway.” And before he could think better of it, Bellerophon ran off to find the king.
9
Hooves of Death
He found the king in his throne room, affixing a massive ruby to the end of his ivory scepter. Melicertes looked up as the youth approached and watched him out of eyes as cold and black as a lizard’s.
“What a magnificent stone,” murmured Bellerophon.
“It’s just like the one used by Minos,” said the king. “He was an early ruler of Crete, and the monarch I most admire. The knob of his scepter was a blood-red ruby so that he might bash in the skull of whoever displeased him without staining the gem.”
“Excuse me for interrupting your statesmanlike labors, your majesty, but something has been weighing on my conscience.”
“Conscience?” said Melicertes. “That’s a luxury no king can afford. If you hope to rule, my boy, you had better get rid of yours.”
“Thank you for your good counsel,” said Bellerophon. “You are as wise as you are generous. But what has been bothering me is that in the matter of this chariot race, you are being unfair to yourself.”
“Unfair to myself? That doesn’t sound like me. What do you mean?”
“Well, you see, you are of—imposing physique. You must outweigh me by fifty pounds, sixty perhaps. That will give my horses less to pull, of course, and put you at a disadvantage in the race.”
The king studied the lad silently. Finally he spoke: “You’re a curious chap. How is it you are concerned about some weight advantage instead of worrying about being eaten by my horses? Everyone fears them; don’t you?”
Bellerophon hesitated a moment, then said: “I do fear them, but I don’t think they’ll eat me. I’m of too salty a flavor.”
“What do you mean too salty?” cried the king.
“I am sea-spawned, your majesty. My father is Poseidon.”
“Who told you that?” roared the king. “I’ve ordered that no one tell you that.”
“No one did,” said Bellerophon. “No one alive, that is. The ghost of my mother appeared to me and informed me of the circumstances of my birth.”
“She did, did she? And did she inform you of the circumstances of her death?”
“No, sir, she did not.”
“Did she tell you she knew me?”
“I believe she mentioned that you had honored her with your friendship before her departure.”
Bellerophon watched the king closely. He balanced himself on the balls of his feet. His hand, hidden by his tunic, crept toward his dagger. For envenomed recognition was humming between them now. Hatred, like love, was enabling them to read each other’s minds.
“He knows that I know he killed my mother,” thought Bellerophon. “What will he do now—strike me with that scepter or take me to the stables and turn the horses on me?”
He saw the king’s knuckles whiten as he clutched the scepter, and his own fingers found the hilt of his dagger. He breathed a silent prayer: “Poseidon, father, help me now.”
Then Bellerophon spoke aloud, very quickly, almost gabbling. “Since I am no natural son of yours, I have no claim upon the throne, and there is no reason for you to consider me a candidate for kingship—therefore no reason to test my mettle. We may as well call off the race, don’t you think?”
“No,” said the king. “That’s not what I think, not at all. Actually I’m more eager for the race than ever. In fact, we shall go to the stables right now, you and I, and you will choose your horses. It’s not too early to make their acquaintance.”
More than ever inspired by hatred, seeing even more clearly now into the foul cave of the king’s mind, Bellerophon read the scene that was gathering there—man and youth approaching the stalls where the great beasts stood, the king holding a torch, making the shadows dance, his big hand shooting out and striking the lad between the shoulders, shoving him forward so that he stumbled and fell, as the horses raged out of their stalls, eyes rolling, foam flying, teeth glistening.
“You want us to go to the horses now, at night?” he asked, trying to make his voice tremble.
“Right now,” said the king. “Immediately.”
“But won’t they be more irritable, being awakened from sleep? More likely to attack someone they don
’t know?”
“What do you care? You’re too salty, you say. They won’t eat you.”
“Well,” said Bellerophon, “they don’t have to accept me just because they find me inedible. They can still batter me to death with their hooves.”
“But I’ll be with you, my boy, introducing you to them. Recommending you to their special consideration. I assure you, they’ll know you well before you leave.”
Crossing the courtyard under a great brass gong of a moon, Bellerophon felt the king’s hand close on his upper arm with brutal force.
“Does he mean to kill me now?” thought the lad. “Bash out my brains with that scepter before we get to the stables? Can I reach my dagger before he strikes?”
But the king did not raise his scepter. He simply marched the slender lad toward the stables. There, it all became what Bellerophon had seen before, pictured in the king’s mind: the massive double doors swinging open, the huge rustling stable, the fragrance of horses, hulking man and slender youth standing silently, staring into the darkness. The only difference was that the king held no torch. Hot yellow moonlight poured through the doors, making the shadows dance.
Bellerophon knew what would happen next. He let his muscles go loose—let himself slip into a kind of alert drowse that cut off his ordinary responses and tuned him, every pore and fiber, to the pent wildness of Horse. He felt the king’s hand between his shoulder blades, felt himself being pushed violently.
He went with it, and did not stumble. But stood silently as a pair of stallions burst out of their stalls, rearing, pawing the air with their forehooves, eyes rolling, teeth gleaming.
The king smiled as the great horses obscured the boy. He waited for them to strike down with their forehooves, waited to hear Bellerophon scream.
What he heard was his own strangled voice, gasping “No!”
For the horses had come down gently. Their muzzles nudged the boy’s shoulders. They nuzzled him, whickering softly.
The king let out a piercing scream. For Bellerophon was pointing at him, and the horses had turned and were glaring with utter ferocity—with that bestial blankness as if he were some poor condemned wretch instead of himself, Melicertes, their master and master of Corinth, most feared of all kings.
The last sight the king saw was what so many of his victims had seen—huge teeth, glaring eyes, flying spittle, hooves like hatchets falling.
Melicertes, realizing how he had been tricked into devising his own death, felt his proud heart burst with vexation, saving him a few moments of final agony as the stallions trampled him to a pulp on the floor of the royal stable.
10
Anteia
After contriving the death of the king, Bellerophon found himself very weary and returned to his chambers to sleep. But he was awakened before dawn by the ghost of his mother who whispered certain instructions.
She departed, but sleep had fled. Bellerophon rushed back to the stables, saddled his favorite horse, and galloped eastward. When he reached the palace at Tiryns, he was met by a glittering official who told him coldly that the king was out hunting and the queen was in the garden, and that neither, in any case, was in the habit of receiving casual visitors.
“I’m not casual, I’m kin,” said Bellerophon. “And I suggest that you trundle your portly self out to the garden and inform the queen that her cousin, a prince of Corinth, seeks the honor of her acquaintance.”
Now, as Chief Steward, this official considered himself a particularly important personage. He drew himself up as tall as he could, swelling like a frog, preparing to summon the royal guard. But perhaps he would expel the fellow himself; he was a slender lad, and didn’t seem capable of much resistance.
As he looked into the keen young face, however, he detected a frigid gleam in those gray eyes, and felt an icy sliver of fear lodge in his gut. “After all,” he thought to himself, “if the lad is some sort of relative, perhaps I’d better show him a little courtesy.”
Aloud, he said, “Follow me, prince. I’ll lead you to her majesty.”
He strutted down a winding path, leading Bellerophon through a fringe of trees and onto another path that opened into a flower garden.
“Your majesty,” he boomed, “Bellerophon, prince of Corinth!”
He stepped back, and vanished.
Bellerophon saw no one. The massed roses distilled the light, half blinding him. A heavy fragrance enveloped him, making him half drunk. He stood in a pink mist, feeling himself fill with delight. A figure swam out of the roses and stood before him. He shook his head, dazed. The title ‘queen’ had made him picture an elderly, imposing lady. But what he saw was a wand of a girl, with petal skin and enormous green eyes.
Bellerophon tried to say something but couldn’t. He sank to one knee, took her hand, and touched his lips to the palm—and understood how a bee felt burying itself into the heart of a rose. He did not let go her hand, nor did she pull it away, but pulled him to his feet.
“You’re a cousin, you say—from Corinth?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you come as an ambassador, bearing messages from your father to my husband?”
“Melicertes will send no more messages, my lady. He got himself killed by his horses.”
“Who is king, then?” asked the girl.
“It is undecided. There’s a struggle going on for the throne. He had lots of sons, you see, and most of them are ambitious.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not in the same way. Besides, I have no claim to the crown. Melicertes wasn’t my real father; I was adopted.”
“That wouldn’t stop you from being ambitious. You have the look about you of a young man who might jump at an empty throne.”
“Do I? I guess that’s what my brothers think too. That’s why Corinth’s unhealthy for me right now, and that’s why I’m here.”
“Oh really?” said the girl. “I thought, perhaps, you were attracted to Tiryns by reports of my beauty.”
“Well, you are very beautiful, of course,” said Bellerophon, “but I didn’t hear about it there.”
The queen laughed.
“Oh, you’re just joking,” said Bellerophon. “Well, it was my mother who told me to come. I didn’t want to leave Corinth, even though several brothers were conspiring to kill me, but my mother insisted. ‘Go to Tiryns,’ she said. ‘You have cousins there.’”
“Did she not mention my name?” asked the queen.
“My mother’s dead, actually. It’s her ghost who visits me.”
“Often?”
“Just when I’m in danger of some kind. She doesn’t stay long—just appears and says ‘do this, do that.’ She wouldn’t have known about you, maybe, because you would have been only a child when she died. You look very young to be married and a queen.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place, my dear, sweet, new cousin. And the queen of Tiryns hereby officially welcomes you.”
She smiled mischievously, lightly kissed his lips, and glided back into the roses. He followed. He took the pruning knife from her hand, and bent to the flowers.
“Careful,” she murmured. “They have thorns.”
Returning from the hunt, Proetus, king of Tiryns, sent for his wife, and was informed that she was not in her chambers but in the garden, conversing with a young stranger. Instructing the captain of the royal guard to follow him at a distance, the king hurried to the garden.
Bellerophon and Anteia were standing amongst the roses, staring at each other. He was trying to think of something to say; she waited, smiling. Past the shining fall of her hair, the lad saw someone enter the garden—a man, tall and thin, with a face like a meat cleaver. He was in hunting clothes and wore no crown, but Bellerophon, raised in the court of a tyrant, knew immediately that here was another who demanded complete and instant obedience. Coming toward them in the green garments of the chase, the king looked like a weed, the kind that strangles roses. He came closer and stood over them, saying nothin
g, glaring from one face to the other.
“Greetings, my lord,” said Anteia. “May I present to you our cousin, Bellerophon, prince of Corinth.”
The king stood motionless for a moment, staring at the young man. Then he spoke in a dust-dry voice. “Are you here on official embassy, young sir? Do you bear messages from Melicertes?”
“No, your majesty, I bear no message.”
“But he brings important news!” cried Anteia. “Melicertes is dead, and there is strife in Corinth as his many sons contend for the throne.”
“That information has already reached me through other channels,” said the king. “Is that what brings you here, prince—to ask me to support your claim to the throne?”
“No, sir,” said Bellerophon. “I make no such claim.”
“Then why, may I ask, have you decided to honor us with your presence? A sudden impulse of kinship?”
“He’s just passing through, my lord,” said Anteia. “He’s on his way to Lycia.”
Now, Bellerophon, of course, had no such intention. He barely knew where Lycia was. But he realized that the girl was saying the first thing that came to her mind.
“Lycia, eh?” said Proetus. “To visit my esteemed father-in-law? He’s not doing much entertaining these days. Some undiscriminating monster seems to find the Lycians very appetizing. This lady’s father, the king of that land, is quite frantic with worry. He has been hoping, for some reason, that the gods will send a hero to slay the beast, but he’s beginning to realize that the gods are forgetful, and that monsters are more plentiful than heroes.”
Bellerophon turned to the girl. “Have you seen this creature?”
“It has a name,” said Anteia. “It’s called the Chimaera. Those who see it at close range are devoured. Those who glimpse it from afar and manage to escape are too frightened to see straight, and their descriptions vary. But we do know that it’s gigantic, it flies, it spits fire—and eats everything in sight.”
“Perhaps you’ll see for yourself when you get there,” said the king.
Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One Page 23
