THESEUS AND MINOS
The first deed Theseus performed as prince and heir to the throne of Attica was to kill the fifty sons of his uncle Pallas. These young men had always hoped to succeed to the kingship if Aegeus died childless, and they were now enraged at the thought that not only was Aegeus an adopted son of Pandion, king of Athens, but that in the future this recently arrived vagabond and adventurer would hold sway over them and the entire land. So they armed themselves and lay in ambush for him. But the herald they had with them was not native to Attica and disclosed their plan to Theseus, who fell upon them in their hiding-place and killed all fifty of them. In order not to antagonize the people by the slaughter he had been forced to commit in self-preservation, he set out on a quest for the good of all: he overcame the bull of Marathon, which had ravaged four provinces of Attica and harrassed the inhabitants, drove him through the streets of Athens as a spectacle for the crowd, and finally sacrificed him at the altar of Apollo.
At just about this time, King Minos of Crete sent messengers to call for the tribute due him every ninth year. Now the reason was this: it was said that Androgeos, the son of Minos, had been treacherously murdered in Attica. In revenge, his father had waged war against the people of that country, and the gods themselves had laid waste the land with drought and plagues. Then the oracle of Apollo proclaimed that the anger of the gods and the sufferings of the people of Athens would cease if they succeeded in placating Minos and obtaining his forgiveness. Hereupon the Athenians had pleaded with him and secured peace on condition that every nine years they send a tribute of seven youths and seven maidens to Crete. Rumor had it that Minos locked these into his famous labyrinth, where they died of hunger and thirst or were killed by the Minotaur, a terrible monster, part man and part bull. So now, when the time for the third tribute had come and those fathers who had unmarried sons and daughters again faced the possibility of having to sacrifice them to so terrible a fate, the citizens began to murmur against Aegeus. He who was the cause of this disaster, they said, was the only one who did not have to bear the burden of the consequences; having made an adventurer, a bastard son, heir to his throne, he was indifferent to their despair at having their legitimate children torn from them.
Theseus, who had come to regard the lot of his fellow citizens as his own, was pained by their grief. He rose in the assembly and declared that he himself would go, without being chosen by lot. All the people were full of admiration for his noble selflessness, and he clung to his purpose in the face of his father’s fervent entreaty not to rob him, who had only just gained a son and heir, of his new happiness. Theseus was steadfast in his resolve, but quieted his father by assuring him with proud self-confidence that he neither intended to perish nor to leave the other youths and maidens to their fate, but to overcome the Minotaur. Up to this time, the ship which took the unhappy victims to Crete had been rigged with a black sail, as a sign of their hopelessness. But now that Aegeus heard his son speak with such dauntless faith, he did, indeed, have the ship equipped in the old accustomed way, but he also gave the helmsman another sail of white stuff, which he was to hoist if Theseus returned safely. If not, he was to leave up the black sail, which would announce disaster from afar.
When the lots had been drawn, Theseus took the boys and girls on whom they had fallen to the temple of Apollo and, in their behalf, proffered the god the olive branch, twined about with white wool, the gift of those who crave protection. When the solemn prayer had been said, he and the thirteen with him went down to the seashore, accompanied by all the people, and they boarded the ship of mourning.
The oracle of Delphi had advised him to choose the goddess of love as his guide and implore her patronage. Theseus did not understand this counsel, but he made sacrifice to Aphrodite notwithstanding. Later the meaning grew plain to him. For when he landed in Crete and was brought before King Minos, his beauty as he stood there in the bloom of heroic youth attracted the gaze of the lovely princess Ariadne. Meeting him secretly, she confessed her love and handed him a ball of thread, one end of which he was to fasten to the entrance of the labyrinth and then unroll the ball as he went forward through the bewildering maze to meet the Minotaur. She also gave him a magic sword with which to kill the monster. Minos had all his victims taken to the labyrinth. But Theseus guided them to the Minotaur, slew him with the sword Ariadne had given him, and then, retracing his steps by following the thread, led them through the maze of passages. Once safely out, they fled with the help of Ariadne, who accompanied them: she was the lovely and unexpected prize Theseus had won for his feat. At her advice, he gashed the keels of the Cretan ships so that her father could not pursue them in their flight. He thought himself secure with his fair booty and stopped at the island of Dia, which later was called Naxos. There Dionysus appeared to him in a dream, declared that Ariadne was his own bride whom Fate had decreed for him, and that he would afflict Theseus with evil fortune unless he renounced his beloved. His grandfather had reared him in the fear of the gods, so now he deferred to angry Dionysus and left the sorrowing princess behind on that lonely island. But in the night, Ariadne’s true bridegroom came and spirited her away to Mount Drios. There he vanished, and soon after Ariadne too became invisible.
Theseus and his friends were so saddened at the loss of Ariadne that they forgot the ship was still riding under the black sail which had been hoisted on the coast of Attica. They did not fetch out the white, and so their vessel sped homeward under the color of mourning. Aegeus was at the shore when the ship hove into sight, for he was watching the open sea from a high lookout. When he saw the black sail, he concluded that his son must be dead. Filled with unbearable grief and weary of his life, he threw himself into the waters below. In memory of him, they called those waters the Aegean Sea.
In the meantime Theseus had landed. Before leaving the harbor, he had made the gods those offerings he had pledged at the time of his departure and dispatched a herald to bring the news of his rescue and that of his companions to the city. This messenger did not know what to make of the reception he met with. While some welcomed him full of joy and placed a wreath on his head as the bringer of good news, others were so sunk in mourning that they did not even listen to his words. He did not find an answer to the riddle until he learned of the death of King Aegeus, which gradually became known throughout the city. When he heard of it, he continued to accept the wreaths accorded him, but instead of adorning himself, he only twined them around his herald’s staff and returned to the shore. Here he found that Theseus was still busy with the sacrifice, and so he remained standing at the entrance to the temple, in order not to disturb the sacred rites by a message of grief. As soon as the ashes of the victims had been strewn on the earth, he announced the end of King Aegeus. Struck with sorrow, Theseus flung himself on the ground, and when he rose again, all hastened to the city, not jubilantly, as they had planned, but with weeping and laments for the dead.
KING THESEUS
After Theseus had buried his father with tears and mourning, he kept his promise to Apollo and dedicated to him the ship in which the Attic youths and maidens had set out on so sad a voyage and come back unharmed. It was a vessel with room for thirty oarsmen, and since the Athenians wanted it to keep alive forever the memory of this miraculous return, they preserved it by replacing those planks which rotted away. That was why it was still possible to show this venerable relic even many years after the time of Alexander the Great.
Theseus was crowned king, and soon he proved that he was not only a hero in wars and quests but an able organizer of the state and one who could make happy a nation which was at peace. In this he excelled even Heracles, after whose example he had modelled his life. For he launched upon a great and admirable enterprise. When he came to power, most of the inhabitants of Attica lived in isolated farmsteads and small settlements scattered around the acropolis and little city of Athens. It was, therefore, difficult to assemble them to discuss matters of public interest and concern, and some
times petty wars were waged about insignificant feuds between one neighbor and another. It was Theseus who united all the citizens of Attica and welded scattered communities into one common state. And he did not accomplish this great work by force, in the manner of a tyrant, but travelled from one community and one family to another, seeking to obtain their voluntary agreement to his plan. Those who were poor and of humble birth did not require much urging, for they had everything to gain from association with the wealthy. To win over the rich and the mighty, he promised that the power of the king, which up to this time had been unlimited, should be curtailed, and that he would give them a constitution which pledged liberty. “I myself,” said he, “will be your leader in wars, and at all times the protector of laws, but beyond this all my fellow citizens shall have equal rights with me.” Many of the nobles recognized the advantages this implied; others, who were less eager for change in matters of state, feared his popularity among the people, his great power, and his notorious courage, and these therefore preferred to yield to the persuasion of one who could compel them if he wished.
And so he abolished the semi-independent powers of the separate townships and concentrated those powers at Athens. He also instituted a holiday for all Attic citizens and called it the Panathenaea: the feast for all Athenians. Only now did Athens grow into a true city. Before it had been little more than a palace, called by its founder the “Palace of Cecrops,” with a few houses grouped around it. In order to enlarge his city still more, Theseus invited people from many different regions to make their home there and promised them the rights of citizens, for he wanted to make Athens a city of many peoples. Lest this mass of persons streaming into the city cause disorder in the newly founded state, he divided the inhabitants into nobles, farmers, and craftsmen, and assigned to each class its peculiar rights and duties. The nobles were valued for their rank and their service to the state, the farmers for their usefulness, and the craftsmen had the advantage of numbers. Theseus limited his own kingly powers, as he had promised, and made them dependent upon the counsel of the nobles and the assembly of the people.
THE WAR WITH THE AMAZONS
When Theseus had organized his state, he set about making it secure and permanent by nurturing the fear of the gods. To this end he introduced the worship of Athene as the patron goddess of the land, and as a mark of reverence for Poseidon, whose special charge he was and who had long been taken for his father, he initiated or at least revived the sacred contests on the isthmus of Corinth, just as Heracles had once done in the case of the Olympic games in honor of Zeus. While he was so occupied, Athens was threatened with a curious and unexpected war.
In the course of a quest which Theseus had undertaken at an earlier time, he had landed on the coast of the country of the Amazons, and these warlike women, who were not in the least afraid of men, not only did not flee from this splendid young hero but sent him the gifts a host bestows upon his guest. Theseus was pleased with the gifts but still more with the bringer, a lovely Amazon by the name of Hippolyte. He invited her to visit him on his ship and, when she came aboard, set sail and carried her off. When they reached Athens he married her. Hippolyte was not at all averse to being the wife of a hero, one who was a powerful king to boot. But the belligerent Amazons, indignant at the bold abduction, brooded on revenge long after the whole incident seemed forgotten. They availed themselves of a time when Athens was unguarded, landed with a fleet of ships, occupied the land, surrounded the city, and invaded it, rushing in like a storm. They even pitched camp in the middle of the city, and the frightened inhabitants took refuge on the acropolis. Both sides hesitated to launch the attack, but Theseus finally began, after making offerings to the goddesses of vengeance, as an oracle had bidden him. At first the men of Athens were forced to retreat before the onslaught of these women fighters, and they were pressed back to the temple of the Eumenides. But then the battle was resumed from another direction, and the right wing of the Amazons were driven back to their camp and many slain. It is said that in this conflict Queen Hippolyte, unmindful of her origin, fought on her husband’s side, but a spear struck her as she aided Theseus, and she fell dead. Later a column was reared to her memory. The war ended with a treaty of peace, which stipulated that the Amazons leave Athens and return to their own country.
THESEUS AND PIRITHOUS
Theseus was famed for extraordinary strength and courage. Pirithous, one of the most noted heroes of antiquity, a son of Ixion, was eager to put his valor to the test and to this end stole from Marathon cattle belonging to the king of Athens. Soon he heard that Theseus had armed and was coming in hot pursuit. At this he was greatly pleased and, far from taking flight, turned to meet his opponent. When the two heroes were near enough for one to measure the other, each was so moved with admiration for his adversary’s beauty and boldness, that they both threw down their weapons as though at a given signal and hastened toward each other. Pirithous stretched his right hand out to Theseus and begged him to be judge concerning the theft of the herds, saying that he would willingly submit to whatever satisfaction Theseus thought fit. “The only satisfaction I ask,” answered Theseus with shining eyes, “is that one who is my enemy and seeks to harm me, become my friend and comrade-in-arms.” And now the two heroes embraced and swore everlasting friendship.
Soon after this Pirithous courted Hippodamia, a Thessalian princess from the race of the Lapithae, and invited Theseus to the wedding. The Lapithae, in whose country the feast was held, were a well-known people of Thessaly, mountain-folk, resembling animals rather than men, the first mortals to succeed in taming horses. But the bride, who was descended from this line, had nothing in common with them. She was lovely of form, and her face had such delicate charm that the guests thought Pirithous fortunate to have won her. All the princes of Thessaly had come to the banquet, and the kinsmen of Pirithous also appeared. They were centaurs, creatures half man and half beast, who were descended from the monster borne by the cloud that Ixion, father of Pirithous, had clasped, thinking it Hera. This was why they were often called the “sons of cloud.” These and the Lapithae were enemies of long standing, but this time the fact that the centaurs were kinsmen to the bridegroom had made them forget their old grudge and lured them to the joyful ceremony. The palace of Pirithous was gaily decorated and swarming with guests and servingmen. Songs were sung for the bride, and the halls were warm and fragrant with the steam and scent of food and wines. They could not hold all who had come, so the Lapithae and centaurs mingled with one another at tables spread in the shadow of leafy groves.
For a long time the feast went on in lighthearted merriment. But an overabundance of wine had maddened the heart of Eurytion, the wildest among the centaurs, and when he looked at lovely Hippodamia, he conceived the bold plan of carrying off the bride. No one knew how it happened, no one had noticed how it began, but suddenly the guests saw Eurytion dragging Hippodamia, who resisted and screamed for help, across the floor by her long shining locks. The centaurs, heated and fuddled with wine, took this as a signal, and before the Lapithae and their guests could even rise from their places, each centaur had seized one of the Thessalian girls who served at the king’s court and clutched her as his prize. Palace and gardens resembled a conquered city. The cries of women shrilled through the wide halls. Quickly the friends and kinsmen of the bride leaped from their seats. “What folly is this, Eurytion?” cried Theseus. “Are you mad to insult Pirithous while I am alive, and thus offend two heroes by provoking one?” With these words he snatched the girl from his rough hands. Eurytion said nothing at all, for he could not defend his action, but he raised his arm and struck the king of Athens a blow in the chest. Theseus had no weapon at hand, but he reached for a bronze pitcher which happened to be standing near and dashed it in the face of his assailant so that he fell badly wounded.
“To arms!” The call rang out from the centaurs still seated at the board. First cups and jars and bowls hurtled through the air; then one impious fellow robbed the ne
arby temples and holy altars of the precious vessels dedicated to the gods, while another tore from the wall the metal rings which held the torches lighting the banquet, and yet another fought with the antlers which hung in the grotto both as adornments and votive offerings.
The Lapithae were slaughtered mercilessly. Rhoetus, second in fierceness only to Eurytion, snatched a brand from the altar and thrust it into the gaping wound of an opponent, so that the blood hissed like iron in the foundry. But Dryas, the bravest of the Lapithae, countered by casting a burning post between the shoulders and neck of Rhoetus. His fall halted the orgy of murder to which his comrades had given themselves up, and Dryas took advantage of the pause by killing five of them in succession. And now Pirithous flung his spear and pierced a giant centaur, Petraeus, who was just dragging an oak out of the earth to use as a weapon. While he was still gripping the tree, the missile pinned his heaving breast to the gnarled trunk. Dictys, another centaur, gave way before the Greek hero and in falling snapped a mighty ash. A third wanted to avenge him, but Theseus crushed him with a heavy oaken stave.
The youngest and fairest among the centaurs was Cyllarus. His long locks, the color of gold, floated about his face; his neck and shoulders, his hands and breast were as if moulded by an artist. The lower part of his body, which was that of a horse, was also flawless—broad-backed, the chest arched, black of hue save for his light-colored legs and tail. He had come to the wedding with his beloved, beautiful Hylonome, who had leaned against him tenderly while he feasted and now fought staunchly at his side. An unknown hand pierced him to the heart, and wounded unto death he sank into her arms. Hylonome clasped his dying form, kissed him, and tried in vain to keep the sweet breath in his body. When she saw he was dead, she drew the spear from his heart and threw herself upon it.
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