Heroes: Volume II of Mythos

A POTHEOSIS Zeus remembered his promise and drew the soul of Heracles up to Olympus.fn77 In a touching ceremony it was clothed in flesh formed from the robes of Hera – once his bitterest enemy, now his loving friend and stepmother – and reborn. Here, amongst gods and goddesses with whom he shared Zeus as a father, Heracles himself achieved immortality and divine status. As a mark of her deep affection, Hera bestowed the hand of her cupbearer, the goddess Hebe, on him as his final and eternal wife.fn78 And, at the last, Zeus raised his favourite human son into the firmament as the constellation Hercules, the fifth largest in our night sky. Back down on earth, the sons of Heracles – the HERACLIDES – eventually raised an army that defeated the tyrannical Eurystheus, who still ruled in Tiryns; Hyllus himself hunted down the fleeing king and beheaded him. They seized control of the Argolid, before installing ATREUS, son of Pelops, on the throne of Mycenae. For a while, a time of peace and prosperity descended upon the Peloponnese. For most Greeks and others across the Mediterranean world, Heracles was the greatest of the heroes, the ne plus ultra, the nonpareil, the paradigm, model and pattern of what a hero should be. The Athenians would come to prefer his kinsman Theseus, who, as we shall see, exhibited not just the strength and valour expected of a great hero, but intelligence, wit, insight and wisdom too – qualities that the Athenians (much to the contempt of their neighbours) believed uniquely exemplified their character and culture.fn79 Yet Heracles was the strongest man who ever lived. No human, and almost no immortal creature, ever subdued him physically. With uncomplaining patience he bore the trials and catastrophes that were heaped upon him in his turbulent lifetime. With his strength came, as we have seen, a clumsiness which, allied to his apocalyptic bursts of temper, could cause death or injury to anyone who got in the way. Where others were cunning and clever, he was direct and simple. Where they planned ahead he blundered in, swinging his club and roaring like a bull. Mostly these shortcomings were more endearing than alienating. He was not, as the duping of Atlas and the manipulation of Hades showed, entirely without that quality of sense, gumption and practical imagination that the Greeks called nous. He possessed saving graces that more than made up for his exasperating faults. His sympathy for others and willingness to help those in distress was bottomless, as were the sorrow and shame that overcame him when he made mistakes and people got hurt. He proved himself prepared to sacrifice his own happiness for years at a stretch in order to make amends for the (usually unintentional) harm he caused. His childishness, therefore, was offset by a childlike lack of guile or pretence as well as a quality that is often overlooked when we catalogue the virtues: fortitude – the capacity to endure without complaint. For all his life he was persecuted, plagued and tormented by a cruel, malicious and remorseless deity pursuing a vendetta which punished him for a crime for which he could be in no way held responsible – his birth. No labour was more Heraclean than the labour of being Heracles. In his uncomplaining life of pain and persistence, in his compassion and desire to do the right thing, he showed, as the American classicist and mythographer Edith Hamilton put it, ‘greatness of soul’. Heracles may not have possessed the pert agility and charm of Perseus and Bellerophon, the intellect of Oedipus, the talent for leadership of Jason or the wit and imagination of Theseus, but he had a feeling heart that was stronger and warmer than any of theirs.

BELLEROPHON

T HE W INGED O NE The hero Bellerophonfn1 was either the son of GLAUCUS, King of Corinth, or of Poseidon, god of the sea.fn2 It is certain that Bellerophon’s mother was EURYNOME, a special favourite of Athena who taught her wisdom, wit and all the arts over which the goddess had dominion.fn3 The story of Bellerophon suggests that while he was fit, strong, brave, accomplished and attractive, he might perhaps have been just a tiny bit spoilt by his doting mother and by Glaucus, who – whether or not Poseidon really was the father – raised the boy as his own son and a true prince of Corinth. Bellerophon grew up aware of the common gossip that whispered how Poseidon had slipped into his mother’s bed and begotten him, but he set little store by it. He had never been drawn to the sea and, in his own estimation, seemed painfully lacking in divine powers. On the other hand, he had a brother, DELIADES, and the two were as unlike in character or physical appearance as it was possible to be, which certainly might suggest different paternity. And on the other other hand, Bellerophon had always had a way with horses. Horses were very much the province of the god of the sea. At school Bellerophon had been taught that in the earliest times of the gods Poseidon created the very first horse as a gift for his sister Demeter. The god had fashioned all kinds of different animals, which he had thrown away before he managed to hit on the perfect creation. The discarded animals – the failures – had been the hippopotamus, the giraffe, the camel, the donkey and the zebra, each one getting closer to the perfect dimensions, beauty and balance of the horse. But this, Bellerophon felt as he grew into his teenage years, was a fairy tale for children. As were all the other stories of gods, demigods, nymphs, fauns and magical beasts with which his head had been filled ever since he had been old enough to walk and talk. All he knew was that Corinth was a big, bustling city and kingdom filled with very real and very mortal men and women; and while there were plenty of priests and priestesses around, he had never witnessed a hint of anything immortal or divine. No gods had ever manifested themselves to him, none of his friends had ever been turned into flowers or blasted with thunderbolts. Around the time of his fourteenth birthday, stories began to circulate about a winged white horse called Pegasus that had emerged from the throat of the decapitated Medusa and flown to mainland Greece. Sightings of this marvellous creature were reported everywhere, but Bellerophon dismissed them as yet more superstitious fantasies for children. Then some Corinthian citizens began excitedly to claim that Pegasus was actually amongst them! Not in the city itself, but just outside. He had been seen by sober witnesses drinking from the fountain at Pirene (which was not an ornamental feature, but a natural spring bubbling from the ground). Some had even tried to steal up on him and climb on his back, but he was always too alert.fn4 ‘No harm in going to Pirene and looking,’ Bellerophon said to himself. ‘I mean, it’s sure to be some wild pony of the hills, but even so it might be fun to tame it. I could even make some wings for him and ride him into town. That would stir things up a bit.’ When he arrived at the fountain of Pirene he saw a couple of men hanging about there, but no horse, winged or otherwise. ‘We frightened it off,’ said one of the men. ‘Probably won’t be back for a while. Shy as anything. Skitters away at the slightest sound.’ They left Bellerophon to himself. He hunkered down behind a laurel bush and waited. ‘It’s not that I believe there are such things as flying horses. It’s just that I’m interested in how these rumours start. There’s sure to be an explanation.’ The sun beat down and before long Bellerophon had fallen asleep. He was awoken by a soft snorting sound. Not quite daring to hope, he raised his head and peeped over the bush. Standing with legs slightly splayed, neck down to the water, a white horse stood, plain as day. A winged white horse. There could be no doubt about it. The wings grew smoothly out from the animal’s sides – there was no join where a trickster might have glued or tied them. If Bellerophon could just get close enough to nuzzle him and win his confidence. He tiptoed round in a wide circle. Horses have eyes at the sides of their heads which makes it very difficult to steal up on them unawares. They have ears that twitch backwards and forwards and can pick up the slightest sound. And when they stoop down to drink, both these senses are on the highest alert. Bellerophon hadn’t moved three paces towards Pegasus before the horse raised his head, shook his mane with a startled whinny and galloped away. Bellerophon watched open-mouthed as the front hoofs pawed at the air, the wings spread out and in an instant Pegasus was flying through the air and out of sight. From that moment on, the winged horse became Bellerophon’s waking, sleeping and dreaming obsession. Every spare hour of the day and through many long nights he watched him from all kinds of different vantage points and hiding places. He climbed trees in the hope of dropping down on his back, but the horse always smelled him out. He left apples and carrots and hay in little heaps all around the fountain, and in a trail leading to one of his hiding places, but Pegasus was too wily for that. Bellerophon once got close enough to touch him, but he bucked and bolted into the air and was darting into the clouds before Bellerophon could leap up and fling himself on his back. All he could do was hope that the shy, nervous creature would in time become accustomed enough to his scent, voice and presence to learn to trust him. Meanwhile, he determined to stake him out night and day. He would never give up. Bellerophon’s mother Eurynome noticed the dark rings around his eyes, the yawning and irritability, and took it to mean that her beloved son was pining with unrequited love. She knew better than to tease or quiz a sensitive adolescent on so delicate a subject, so she sent for the priest and seer POLYIDUS and asked him to have a word, man to man. ‘It’s none of her business,’ snapped Bellerophon when Polyidus explained his mission. ‘She wouldn’t understand.’ ‘No indeed,’ said Polyidus. ‘I, however, do understand.’ ‘Of course you do. You’re a prophet so I’m sure you already know everything that’s going to happen and everything I’m thinking.’ ‘There’s no need to be rude. Yes, I see much. Sometimes just the shape of things, their outline. I look into your eyes and I see … yes, I see something like love. It is not a girl, however. Nor a boy. No, I see a horse.’ Bellerophon flushed. ‘Don’t be disgusting. I’m not in love with a horse.’ ‘ “Something like love”, I said. Is it the horse everyone is talking about? The horse called Pegasus?’ Bellerophon’s reserve broke down at the sound of the name. ‘Oh, Polyidus, if only I could tame him! I feel we’re made for each other. But he won’t let me close enough to tell him that I mean him no harm.’ ‘Well now, if you really feel the need to ride this horse so keenly …’ ‘I do, I do!’ ‘Then go to the temple of Athena. Lie down full length on the floor, close your eyes and ask the goddess for help. Ha! I see the disappointment in your eyes. I know you think I’m a charlatan … Oh yes, there’s no use denying it, you do … But consider this: if I am wrong, what will you have lost by it? You will be able to tell all your friends that Polyidus is an old fraud through and through, just as you suspected. And if I am right … well …’ Muttering to himself for being such a credulous fool Bellerophon slouched his way to the temple. He waited until late evening, when the last of the worshippers had left, before going through to the cella, which he found lit by a single flame flickering in a copper bowl and unoccupied save for the presence of an ancient, toothless but clawingly friendly priestess. He pressed silver into her palm and fell to his knees, stretching himself out on the hard stone floor just as Polyidus had instructed. The thick cloud of incense that the priestess sent billowing through the close confines of the temple stung his throat and nostrils; as he tried to concentrate on his prayer, he found himself choking and coughing. The priestess cackled and sang and his mind began to swirl like the smoke from the censer as strange images and sounds filled his head. ‘Bellerophon, Bellerophon,’ came a grave female voice. ‘Do you really dare ride the son of Poseidon?’ ‘I thought I was the son of Poseidon,’ Bellerophon said, whether out loud or not he could not tell. Was that the shining figure of Athena shimmering before him? ‘You are my son,’ came a deeper voice. Now the great bearded face of Poseidon seemed to rise up, dripping with seawater. ‘And so is winged Pegasus.’ Bellerophon, in the fog of his memory, recalled being told that Poseidon had coupled with Medusa before Athena turned her into a Gorgon. If that was true, then Pegasus would indeed be the offspring of the god. ‘He is shyer than any horse you have ever handled,’ said Athena. ‘Take with you the golden bridle and he will submit to you.’ Bellerophon wanted to ask ‘What golden bridle?’ but he couldn’t form the words. ‘Ride him gently. After all, he is your half-brother,’ said Poseidon. The god bubbled with laughter as he dropped from sight. ‘And use your wits,’ said Athena. ‘You can’t expect to defeat him with strength alone.’ She laughed too, but the laughter of the gods was really just the screeching cackle of an old woman and Bellerophon felt himself being shaken roughly awake. ‘You were drooling, dear. Drooling and talking nonsense.’ He rose to his feet. Unable to think what else to do, he offered the priestess another silver coin. ‘Bless you, child. Don’t forget your bag.’ He looked down to where she was pointing and saw a sack on the floor. ‘That’s not mine …’ ‘Oh, I think it is, dear.’ As he bent to pick up the sack, he saw a flash of gold inside. He opened it wider. A bridle. A golden bridle. Bellerophon made his way unsteadily past the smiling priestess, out of the temple and into the street. The moon was riding high in the night sky as he made his way to Pirene. It was true, all true! The gods existed. He, Bellerophon of Corinth, was a son of Poseidon! He would have thought the whole experience in the temple a fantastic hallucination were it not for the jangling and chinking of the golden bridle in the bag that swung by his side as he ran to the hillside. Perhaps the priestess had drugged him? On the orders of Polyidus perhaps. Could it all have been a trick? It was possible … Yet Bellerophon knew in his heart that this had been real – no fake show, but a genuine theophany, a real manifestation of divinity. And there he was, his white coat silver in the moonlight, cropping the grass. Pegasus! The newfound confidence that possession of the bridle gave Bellerophon seemed immediately to transmit itself to the horse. Skirting around the fountain he closed softly in, giving a low whistle. Pegasus raised his head, his sides gave a shivering twitch, he scraped the ground with a hoof, but he did not dart away. ‘I’m here, brother. Just me. Just me …’ breathed Bellerophon, edging closer and closer until he was able to lay a hand on Pegasus’ back. The horse stood patiently as he stroked and then gently pushed the muzzle and the rest of his head into the bridle. It fitted easily and without protest. Bellerophon stayed there a long while without moving, just caressing, patting, clicking his tongue and letting the creature get used to the feel of the bridle. When he felt the time was right he swung himself gently onto the horse’s back and took up the reins. ‘Shall we?’ Pegasus dipped his head and broke into a trot. The trot became a gallop. Bellerophon leaned forward until he was almost lying on the mane as the great white wings opened and began to beat the air. Half an hour later they landed with a clatter of hoofs in the courtyard of the royal palace. Bellerophon calmed Pegasus, who became immediately alarmed by the shouts of the guards and then by the cries of his father Glaucus, his mother Eurynome and his brother Deliades, who all rushed out with the others to see what the fuss was about. The crowds that came every day to watch Bellerophon ride the white horse through the sky were enormous. When he wasn’t riding, Bellerophon kept the bridle with him at all times. No one else could approach Pegasus; he flinched and bolted when anyone but Bellerophon came near. People can accustom themselves to almost anything, and in time the crowds thinned. Everyone but visitors from other provinces soon became used to the sight of the boy, the youth and now the young man astride his flying horse. One day a messenger arrived from King PITTHEUS of Troezen, a small city state tucked away in the southeastern corner of the Peloponnese. Bellerophon was cordially invited to stay in the palace to meet the king’s daughter, AETHRA, with a view to betrothal. Bellerophon flew down on Pegasus and before long he and the princess had fallen in love. Their engagement delighted King Pittheus, who had long wanted to strengthen Troezen by uniting it with Corinth. It would be easy to envy Bellerophon. He was a handsome prince engaged to a beautiful princess. His parents doted on him. Women swooned at his lithe athleticism and insolent charm. He had a flying horse that he, and he alone, could ride. How much more in life could anyone want? But the Fates delight in preparing nasty surprises for those who ride on top of the world. Bellerophon was no more exempt from their malice and caprice than the rest of us.

B EARING F ALSE W ITNESS It began as a day like any other. Two weeks before the wedding in Troezen, Glaucus, Deliades and Bellerophon went hunting for wild boar in a forest outside Corinth. It was a hunt on foot, so there had been no call for Pegasus. No one quite remembered how disaster struck. Without mentioning it to his brother or father, Deliades had slipped away to relieve himself behind some bushes. Bellerophon heard what sounded to him like the unmistakable sounds of a charging boar (his brother straining at stool, it is to be supposed) and hurled his spear in the direction of the bellowing and snorting noises. A terrible cry was heard and Deliades staggered out from the bushes, transfixed and mortally wounded by the spear. He died before they could get him home. We must not tire of reminding ourselves that to the Greeks blood crime, the killing of a relative, was the most serious of all transgressions. Purification could only be performed by oracles and the priestly caste, or by an anointed king. To go without such a purification was to invite pursuit by the Furies. The first consequence of the killing of Deliades was the immediate cancellation of Bellerophon’s engagement to Aethra. Next, he was sent from Corinth to Tiryns, in the neighbouring kingdom of Mycenae, to serve out his period of penitence and purification. The ruler PROETUS was a friend of the family and by virtue of his mystical kingly powers was able to cleanse Bellerophon of his crime. Proetus had a wife called Stheneboeafn5, who was so excited by the proximity of such a desirable young man that she knocked on his bedroom door one night. He opened the door and he saw her standing there, rushlight in hand, an alluring smile on her face. She was dressed in a sheer silk nightdress that revealed more than it hid. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ she cooed. ‘I … I … no! No. It would be most improper.’ ‘But impropriety is such fun, Bellerophon,’ she said, pushing him aside and making for the bed. ‘Narrow, but plenty of room if one of us is on top of the other, don’t you think?’ She laid herself down and traced coy little circles on the counterpane. Bellerophon was in agony. ‘No! No, no, no! Madam, I am a guest in this palace. Proetus has shown me nothing but kindness. To betray him would be the act of a swine.’ ‘Ride me like you ride that horse of yours. You want to, don’t you? I can sense that you do.’ Bellerophon now made a terrible mistake. Of course he would very much have liked to lie down and do lustful things with Stheneboea. She was immensely appealing and he was a young man filled with sap and juice, but to defy the laws of hospitality while still in the process of being cleansed for a blood crime would be unthinkable. He should have said so. Instead, believing that this would solve his predicament, he said, ‘No. As a matter of fact I wouldn’t like to. I’m not in the least attracted to you and I’ll thank you to leave.’ At this Stheneboea rose with a hiss and stalked from the room, her cheeks aflame. Never had she been so affronted. Well, she would show that pious little prick. Oh yes. All night she tossed and turned in an agony of mortification and wounded pride. Proetus was in the habit of snoring terribly and the royal couple had long enjoyed separate sleeping arrangements, but it was not uncommon for Stheneboea to visit her husband in the mornings and talk through their plans for the day. This morning she came in with a bowl of warm goat’s milk stirred with honey. ‘Ah, bless you, my dear,’ said Proetus, sitting up and taking a grateful sip. ‘Fine morning by the looks of it … I thought I might go hunting with young Bellerophon later on. He’s a … good heavens! How red your eyes are!’ As well they ought to have been after being rubbed vigorously with raw onion for a full quarter of an hour. ‘It’s nothing, nothing …’ sniffed Stheneboea. ‘Darling, tell me what it is.’ ‘Oh, it’s only … No, I can’t. I know how much you like him.’ ‘Like him? Who?’ ‘Bellerophon.’ ‘Has he done something to upset you?’ And so it all came tumbling out. Last night he had hammered on her bedroom door, barged his way in and tried to force himself upon her. It was all Stheneboea could do to keep the wild beast off and push him from the room. She was so scared. Felt so ashamed, so horribly polluted.fn6 Proetus leapt from his bed and paced the room. He was in a quandary. After blood murder, perhaps the second most serious sin in the Greek world was an infraction of xenia, those laws of hospitality or guest-friendship that were especially sacred to the King of the Gods himself, Zeus Xenios, protector of guests. Naturally, the young man’s repulsive attempt to ravish Stheneboea was itself a crime against xenia, but this did not give Proetus the right to transgress in return. No, he must find another way to avenge the family honour. A few more turns about the room and he had hit upon the answer. ‘Of course!’ he cried. ‘Darling, I shall send Bellerophon to your father, with a sealed letter. That will fit the case perfectly.’ ‘What will you say?’ Stheneboea’s eyes shone with malice. ‘I shall tell him the truth,’ said Proetus. ‘Now, let me sit down and write it.’ Bellerophon awoke later that morning from an uneasy sleep. He could not be sure if it was his duty to report Stheneboea’s appalling behaviour to her husband, or whether it was best to be tactful and spare their marriage the trouble such a revelation would be certain to stir up. He had settled on the latter course when a page arrived to tell him that the king awaited his pleasure. ‘Ah, Bellerophon, come in, come in, my boy …’ Proetus was later to congratulate himself on the warmth and friendliness with which he conducted this meeting. Inwardly he was seething with rage at the vile effrontery of the monster of debauchery who dared to stand gazing at him with such round and innocent eyes. ‘It’s been a delight having you here. That unfortunate accident in which your brother died … you are, you know, almost wholly cleansed of that now. Any other crimes for which you may feel a twinge of guilt are none of my business, of course.’ He fixed Bellerophon with a skewering glance and was not surprised to see the young man’s cheeks flush red. Bellerophon for his part was writhing inside. Perhaps not telling Proetus about his wife’s infidelity was a sin. Perhaps now was the time to speak up … He cleared his throat. ‘There’s something you should know …’ ‘Tush tush. Enough talk. I sent for you to say that I have a message I need delivered to my father-in-law in Lycia. Thing is, it’s rather urgent. Family matter. Needs to be settled.’ ‘Lycia?’ ‘Yes, my father-in-law IOBATES is King of Lycia.fn7 It’s a fair way, but with that flying horse of yours you can cover the distance in no time. Besides, you’ve completed your period of piacular penance, what? Young men of noble birth should visit Ionia and Asia Minor, don’t you think? Here’s the letter. It also introduces you to Iobates and begs him to treat you with all the hospitality that you deserve.’ Proetus was pleased with that last remark. It was exactly what the letter did require of Iobates. ‘Sir, you are more than kind …’ Bellerophon felt a great surge of relief. This was for the best. Any more nights under the same roof as Stheneboea would be awkward. He could leave by chariot at once for Pirene, bridle Pegasus and be in Lycia by tomorrow. Proetus and Stheneboea waved from the doorway as Bellerophon drove away. ‘Vile pervert,’ muttered Proetus. ‘Good riddance to him.’ What a pity, thought Stheneboea to herself. A slim, golden body with a sweet and lovely face to go with it. Such a lovely, firm round behind, too. Like a peach. Oh well, can’t be helped …

I N L YCIA Bellerophon landed Pegasus in a sheltered meadow some distance from the city of Xanthus, where the royal palace of Lycia stood. ‘You must stay there until I return for you,’ he whispered, hitching him to a tree. ‘Sorry to tie you up, but it’s a long rope. There’s a stream if you’re thirsty, and plenty of grass to graze on.’ Neither of them enjoyed the clamour, excitement and hysteria that the sight of Pegasus engendered. If he got to know and trust Iobates, Bellerophon would introduce them, but long experience of boys who thought it was funny to fire at Pegasus’ rump with catapults and even bows and arrows, and thieves who tried to capture him with nets and snares, had taught him that it was best to be cautious. Bellerophon walked by himself in to Xanthus, announced himself at the palace gates and was shown to the king’s private chamber. ‘Bellerophon, eh?’ said Iobates, taking the letter. ‘My son-in-law Proetus has written to me about you before. Says you’re a fine fellow. That sad business with your brother was clearly an accident. Could have happened to anyone. You’re welcome, young man. Very welcome.’ Iobates put the unopened letter down on his desk. He summoned his palace staff, called for wine, and arranged for a feast to welcome the Corinthian prince. ‘You do my house honour,’ Iobates said, raising a cup to his guest. ‘Sir, you are most kind.’ ‘You haven’t brought that famous flying horse with you, I don’t suppose?’ Bellerophon laughed. ‘No. Never believed that story myself. The nonsense people will swallow, eh? So, tell me,’ he said with a nudge. ‘Like to ride mortal horses on solid ground do you?’ Nine days and nights passed in which Iobates and Bellerophon rode, hunted, drank and feasted. The king treated the younger man as the son he had never had. He was blessed with two daughters: aside from the fearsome Stheneboea safely married off to Proetus in Mycenae, there was a younger unmarried daughter, PHILONOË, who still lived in the palace. She very quickly developed a crush on the handsome visitor. Bellerophon’s experience with her sister made him very wary of being alone in a room with Philonoë, which Iobates took as the sign of a decent and honourable nature. It was on the tenth day that Iobates, nursing a hangover, decided he really should clear the backlog on his desk. He found the letter from Proetus and unsealed it. He read the one line, centred on the single page, with gaping disbelief. ‘The bearer of this letter tried to rape my wife, your daughter. Kill him.’fn8 Iobates stared at the words for some time. He was now in precisely the same quandary that Proetus had been in. Bellerophon was a guest: he had stayed nine nights under the king’s roof. Iobates couldn’t contemplate killing a guest. What to do? What to do? Oh, why hadn’t he opened that damned letter straight away? An hour or so later Bellerophon came into the king’s chamber, rubbing his face. ‘Goodness me,’ he said. ‘You really are the most incredible host. I can’t imagine how much we drank last night. But forgive me, sir, you look distracted.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Iobates tapped the letter on the desk and thought frantically. ‘Cares of state, you know. We have concerns in the kingdom. Great concerns …’ ‘Anything I can help with? You’ve only to say the word.’ ‘Well, now that you mention it …’ Yes! Of course. The very thing. Iobates cleared his throat. ‘Did you ever, I wonder,’ he said casually, ‘hear tell of the Chimerafn9?’ ‘No, sir. What is it?’ ‘She is a beast. A two-headed monster. Progeny, it is said, of Typhon and Echidna. She ravages the countryside around Methian, near the border with Caria and Pamphylia. Few who see her live to tell the tale, but word has it that she has the body and head of a lion. A second head, that of a goat, rises from her back. Her tail, some have claimed, is a venomous lashing serpent …’ ‘Surely not!’ ‘Well, you know what country people are like. Probably exaggerated, but it’s certain that the land all about is littered with dead and savaged livestock. Who knows what to think?’ ‘And you’d like me to find this creature and kill it?’ ‘It’s too much to ask, too much. You’re my guest. Besides, you’re just a young man … No, no, no.’ ‘Sir, I insist that you let me do this for you.’ Nothing that Iobates could say would dissuade Bellerophon. ‘But only the bravest hero could even get near. You’re far too young.’ ‘With respect, sir, that’s nonsense.’ ‘Besides, forgive me, but I haven’t told you the worst part yet. They say …’ Iobates lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, ‘they say the Chimera breathes fire! Yes! I’ve heard it sworn as fact. To go against her would be suicide. Anyone would understand if you backed out …’ Strangely, these desperate bids to offer the young man a way out seemed only to strengthen his resolve. Outwardly Iobates shook his head and clicked his tongue in distress. Inwardly he hugged himself. How cleverly he had played on the young hothead’s vanity and pride. There was no possibility that Bellerophon could subdue or slay the Chimera, whose immortal bloodlines made her one of the most terrible monsters ever to have risen from the earth. Bellerophon would most certainly die in the great jets of searing, roasting, devouring flame that the creature belched. Justice for daring to lay hands on Stheneboea and no stain on me, Iobates told himself, for harming a guest. Altogether a perfect solution. The King of Lycia helped himself to a fig and smiled.

C HIMERICAL R EACTION Iobates waved Bellerophon goodbye, his left arm around the weeping Philonoë. ‘Try to put him out of your mind, my dear,’ he said. ‘There’ll be other men in your life, just you wait and see.’ ‘But none as wonderful as my Bellerophon,’ sobbed Philonoë. Bellerophon himself set out cheerfully enough. He would slay this Chimera, bring its heads and pelt to Iobates, stay a few more weeks in Lycia and finally return to Corinth to resume his life there as prince and heir. Now that he was cleansed of his accidental fratricide he would be able to marry Aethra. Life was good. But first he needed to find a competent smith. He had had an idea about how best to tackle the Chimera. A short time later, Bellerophon marched into the meadow where he had left Pegasus, a fine new lance forged to his special instructions canted over one shoulder. The horse came trotting forward to greet him. ‘What happened to your tether?’ Bellerophon asked in surprise. Pegasus shook his mane and stamped a hoof. The rope lay mangled under his hoofs, chewed in pieces. ‘You’re a cunning one,’ said Bellerophon, cupping the soft muzzle. ‘Now, before we fly off, we need to be sure of ourselves. A two-headed fire-breathing monster with a venomous snake for a tail. Think you’re up to it?’ Pegasus tossed his head. ‘I’ll take that as a “yes”.’ Bellerophon set the lance in its sheath. ‘Come on then. Up, up and away.’ Looking down at the landscape around Methian, Bellerophon could see that much of the land was badly scorched. Deserted villages, fields empty of livestock and the burnt-out shells of barns and farmhouses all bore witness to catastrophe. Of his monstrous quarry herself he could see no sign. ‘Up, up!’ He had never ridden Pegasus so high. It was a cloudless day, but he shivered in the rush of cold air. The land below now took on an intricate, ordered pattern that reminded Bellerophon of barbarian carpets from the east. The jagged coastline came into view and the green lands of Caria, Phrygia and Lydia lay beneath him, picked out by a network of glinting threads meandering down from the mountains towards the sea.fn10 He searched the landscape for anything that might betray the presence of the Chimera. He saw a mountain from which rose a thin wisp of smoke. He tried to recall his lessons in geography. Mount Taurus? He leaned forward and urged Pegasus down. The fire could be anything, of course, but he was low enough now to see that what had looked like a thin wisp was really a thick cloud. The forest in the foothills was ablaze. A wave of warm air came up as they descended. Men, goats and deer were running from the flames down to a lake. Wildfires were not uncommon. Bellerophon did not see what he could do to help and was just about to drive Pegasus back up to resume their high search when a great stag burst out from the trees below. It was being chased by a lion and … a lion and a … It was just as Iobates had said. A lion’s body with a goat’s head sprouting out of the middle of its back. ‘Down, Pegasus, down!’ Pegasus dived down until Bellerophon could see every detail. The Chimera leapt onto the stag and a flailing ball of antlers, goat horns, lion and serpent rolled down the hill. The savage horns on the goat’s head tore at the stag’s flanks. The snake tail darted and jabbed at the underside. The lion’s jaws opened and roared fire into the face of the stag which screamed and fell back, instantly blinded. The claws of the lion ripped the belly open and its heads dived gorging into the mess of guts that came tumbling out. Pegasus circled lower and the shadow of horse and rider fell over the scene. The Chimera raised a head to look at them. The stag shuddered and jerked as it tried to rise and – the lion’s blood-mottled head still staring up into the sun and sky – the snake tail extended her fangs and stabbed down into its hindquarters to finish it. A jet of flame shot up towards them. Bellerophon yelled at the intense heat and kicked Pegasus upwards. Again the Chimera bellowed fire at them, but this time it fell short. ‘Are you all right?’ Bellerophon smelled burnt hair. His own or Pegasus’s, he could not tell. As they circled higher, he took his bow and notched an arrow. ‘Steady now, steady …’ He looked down, took aim and fired. His arrow struck the neck of the goat, just where it grew out from the lion’s back. The yellow goat eyes widened and she let out a shriek of pain. The goat head shook herself and the arrow dropped free. Bellerophon shot again, and kept shooting. Some arrows glanced off and some pierced the lion flanks of the Chimera, who had now worked herself into a bellowing fury. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to get closer,’ shouted Bellerophon, pulling out the lance from its sheath. Pegasus circled and swooped till the sun was behind him and then hurtled down. If the smith had been surprised by Bellerophon’s commission, he had not shown it. ‘A “lance”, you say, sir?’ ‘That’s right. Half as long as I am high.’ ‘But the tip made of lead?’ ‘Lead.’ ‘Very soft, is lead. You won’t be piercing no armour nor no hide with a spearpoint of lead.’ ‘Nonetheless, that is what I require.’ ‘Your money,’ said the smith. ‘Makes no difference to me if it’s tin or tissue.’ The Chimera saw Pegasus diving out of the sun and reared up, claws thrashing. Bellerophon leaned out as far as he could. The jaws of the monster opened wide to blast one last great ball of fire and Bellerophon hurled the lance deep into the open mouth and down the tunnel of its throat. A tidal wave of heat burst over them as Pegasus pulled out of the dive at the last minute. He rocketed upwards, almost crashing into the tops of the trees, before steadying himself. Bellerophon looked down and saw the monster screaming and bucking – the leaden tip of the lance had instantly melted in the fierce fury of the fire, and molten lead was pouring into her interior. Fatally wounded, she floundered and fell. The goat’s head exploded in steam, flame and blood, the lion’s fur was ablaze and with one last ear-splitting shriek and twitch, the Chimera died. Bellerophon landed and dismounted. A foul stench arose from the smoking carcass. Bellerophon cut off the snake tail and the lion’s head, mangled and charred as they were. Grisly mementos, but proof of his victory. When he went to mount Pegasus, he saw that the underside of the horse’s neck was burned and the mane singed. ‘You poor fellow,’ said Bellerophon. ‘We’ll find you a healer. Think you can make it to Mount Pelion?’fn11

F LYING TOO HIGH Iobates hid his fury well when a cheerful Bellerophon strode into his chamber and dropped a stinking, scorched lion’s head and suppurating snake carcass on his desk. Philonoë gasped. ‘You killed her! Oh, you’re so brave!’ Bellerophon winked and her cheeks flared red. Iobates was thinking hard. ‘That’s … good lord … my, my … I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Come, share a cup of wine with me. You killed her!’ ‘Her death should bring peace and prosperity back to your kingdom,’ said Bellerophon, downing his wine with the casual modesty that only arrogance can produce. ‘Yes indeed …’ mused Iobates. ‘Only … that is … well, it’s nothing.’ ‘Don’t tell me there’s another monster rampaging about?’ ‘No, no, not a monster. We do have a problem with the men of Pisidia. They’re descended from SOLYMUS. Heard of him? No? Well, Solymus married his sister MILYE, and you know what the offspring of incestuous couplings are like. His descendants – the Solymi, they call themselves – they pay no taxes, they raid neighbouring towns and villages, and word has it they are even now rising up to revolt against my rule. I’ve sent platoons and even large companies of soldiers against them, but they’ve always been ambushed and either kidnapped for ransom or slaughtered.’ ‘So you’d like them brought into line?’ said Bellerophon with an infuriatingly cocky grin and another wink at the round-eyed Philonoë. ‘It’s too much to ask … too much …’ A few days later a column of Solymi trooped into the palace to bow low and swear allegiance to Iobates for ever. They had lost seventy of their finest when Bellerophon and Pegasus descended on their town, and that was enough. Now Iobates urged Bellerophon not to go to war with the Amazons, who were in the habit of raiding Lycia from their fastness in the northeast. Mounted on Pegasus, Bellerophon dropped great boulders on these fierce female warriors until they too pledged themselves by treaty to leave Iobates and his kingdom alone. Next Bellerophon defeated the pirate CHEIMARRHUS, having ignored Iobates’ entreaties about leaving such a fearsome foe well alone.fn12 News of this latest exploit reached Iobates ahead of Bellerophon. Desperate to finish off the arrogant youth once and for all, the king now ordered his own citizens to take up arms and kill the pestilential youth as soon as he returned to Xanthus. Arriving at the gates of the palace to see the troops lined up against him and barring entrance to the city, Bellerophon at last understood: all this time Iobates had meant him harm. Without Pegasus, whom he had left behind in his meadow, he was all but defenceless against such numbers. All he could do was pray to his father Poseidon. Behind Bellerophon, the River Xanthus began to overflow its banks, flooding its plain with water which swept towards the city. Iobates, watching in horror from the tower of his palace, sent men to plead with the hero, but the iron had entered Bellerophon’s soul and he marched grimly on, the waters surging behind him. Finally the women of Xanthus, desperate to save their homes and families, hoisted their dresses right up and ran towards him. Bellerophon, so bold and self-assured in other ways, was modest, shy and awkward when it came to sexual matters. At the sight of the women’s buttocks, breasts and bushes he turned and ran, shocked and hot with shame and embarrassment. The floodwaters receded with him and the city was saved. It was time for Iobates to understand the obvious truth: this hero was protected by the gods. The letter of his son-in-law Proetus made no sense. If Bellerophon had truly tried to rape Stheneboea, surely the gods would have abandoned him? Now Iobates came to think of it, his daughter Stheneboea had always been trouble. Perhaps he had misjudged the boy? A sudden clamour drew him to look down into the courtyard. Bellerophon and Pegasus had landed; the young man dismounted and was now striding towards the king’s apartments, sword in hand. When he burst into the chamber, he found Iobates waving a letter at him. ‘Read this, read this!’ cried the king. Bellerophon snatched the letter and read it. ‘B-but it was the other way round,’ he said. ‘It was she who tried to seduce me!’ Iobates nodded. ‘I see that now. Of course I do. Forgive me, my boy. I owe you everything.’ In the end it turned out that Bellerophon didn’t want to go back to Corinth and marry Aethra, the princess of Troezen. Over the weeks and months he stayed in Xanthus, he had begun to notice how beautiful and sweet-natured young Philonoë was. When the news reached Stheneboea that her sister was to marry Bellerophon, she knew the story of the botched seduction and spiteful, duplicitous revenge would come out. Proetus would hear of it. The whole of the Peloponnese would whisper of it. Unable to bear the shame, Stheneboea hanged herself.fn13 Like the Chimera herself, Bellerophon’s story begins with a glorious and majestic roar but ends with a sharp serpent’s bite. It gives me no pleasure to relate that his youthful cockiness soured over the years into a very unappealing arrogance and vanity. He believed that his divine parentage, his relationship with Pegasus and the heroic feats he undertook with that magical horse had all raised him to a level greater than that of a mere mortal. One day he mounted Pegasus and rode the winged horse up to Mount Olympus. ‘The gods will welcome me,’ he told himself. ‘I am of their blood. I have always been marked out for greatness.’ Such hubris was a blasphemy that could not go unpunished. When Zeus saw Bellerophon flying towards the summit, he sent a gadfly to torment Pegasus. The insect’s vicious sting maddened the horse, who bucked and reared, throwing Bellerophon. The hero plummeted down through the thin air, smashing his hip on the rocks far below. Pegasus landed on the top of Olympus and Zeus kept him there as his glamorous pack animal, charged with carrying his thunderbolts. Bellerophon dragged out the rest of his days shunned by society for his sacrilege, until he died a crippled, embittered and lonely old man. Few heroes die peacefully in their beds after long lives filled with happiness. But few have had sadder ends than the once glorious Bellerophon.

ORPHEUS

T HE P OWER TO S OOTHE THE S AVAGE B EAST Orpheus was the Mozart of the ancient world. He was more than that. Orpheus was the Cole Porter, the Shakespeare, the Lennon and McCartney, the Adele, Prince, Luciano Pavarotti, Lady Gaga and Kendrick Lamar of the ancient world, the acknowledged sweet-singing master of words and music. During his lifetime his fame spread around the Mediterranean and beyond. It was said that his pure voice and matchless playing could charm the beasts of the field, the fishes of the sea, the birds of the air and even the insensate rocks and waters. Rivers themselves diverted their courses to hear him. Hermes invented the lyre, Apollo improved upon it, but Orpheus perfected it. It is agreed who his mother was, but there is less certainty about his father. Here we come to a theme that repeats in many variations in this Age of Heroes. That of double parenthood. CALLIOPE, Beautiful Voice, the Muse of Epic Poetry, was Orpheus’s mother by a mortal, the Thracian king OEAGRUS.fn1 But Apollo was believed to be Orpheus’s father too, and Orpheus was quite a favourite of the god. In any case, young Orpheus romped with his mother and eight Muse aunts on Mount Parnassus and it was there that the doting Apollo presented his son with a golden lyre, which he personally taught him to play. Soon the prodigy’s skill at the instrument exceeded even that of his father, the god of music. Unlike MARSYAS, who may have been his stepbrother, Orpheus did not boast about his prowess, nor did he make the mistake of challenging his divine father to a competition.fn2 Instead he spent his days mastering his craft, charming the birds of the air and beasts of the field, causing the branches of the trees to bend down and listen to his lyre and the fishes to jump and bubble with joy at his soft, seductive strains. His character matched the sweetness of his playing and singing. He played for the love of music and his songs celebrated the beauty of the world and the glory of love.

O RPHEUS AND E URYDICE So great was his fame that when Jason gathered a crew for the Argo and his quest for the Golden Fleece, he knew he had to have Orpheus on board. But more of Jason later. For now, all we need to know is that the gods rewarded Orpheus for his bravery and loyalty in this adventure with the gift of love, in the shape of the beautiful EURYDICE. As might be imagined, the wedding was quite an affair. All the Muses attended. THALIA entertained with comedy sketches; TERPSICHORE led the dances. Each of the other sisters also delighted the guests with examples of their own particular art. But a strange and uncomfortable incident clouded the happy event in the minds of many who witnessed it. Among the guests was Orpheus’s half-brother HYMEN, a son of Apollo and the Muse URANIA. A minor deity of song (he gave us the word ‘hymn’) Hymen served as one of the Erotes (the young men in the love god Eros’s retinue), with a special responsibility for weddings and the marriage bed. Our words ‘hymen’ and ‘hymenal’ also derive from him. His presence at his half-brother’s wedding was natural and a great compliment, but for some reason – jealousy perhaps – Hymen failed to bless the union. The torch he bore spluttered and smoked, causing everyone to cough. The atmosphere was so acrid that even Orpheus was unable to sing with his accustomed sweetness of tone. Hymen soon departed the feast, but the cold unfriendliness of his presence left a taste in the mouth quite as unpleasant as that of the black smoke from his torch. Orpheus and Eurydice, this dark note quite banished from their minds, set up a happy house together in Pimpleia, a small town that nestled in the valley below Olympus, close to the Pierian Spring, sacred to the Muses. It was Eurydice’s misfortune, though, to catch the eye of ARISTAEUS, a minor god of bee-keeping, agriculture and other country crafts. One afternoon, on her way home from the market, she took a shortcut through a water meadow. In the distance she could just hear her beloved Orpheus strumming his lyre as he tried out a new and lovely song. Suddenly Aristaeus burst out from behind a poplar tree and bore down upon her. Frightened, she dropped the bread and fruit she was carrying and fled wildly, zigzagging across the fields. Aristaeus pursued her, laughing. ‘Orpheus! Orpheus!’ Eurydice cried. Orpheus put down his lyre. Was that his wife’s voice? ‘Help me, help me!’ screamed the voice. Orpheus ran towards the sound. Eurydice wove this way and that, trying to escape the remorseless Aristaeus, whose hot breath she could feel on her neck. In her blind panic she stumbled and fell into a ditch. Aristaeus closed in, but by now Orpheus had appeared and was running towards them, shouting. Aristaeus knew an angry husband when he saw one and turned away, disappointed. As Orpheus reached the scene he heard Eurydice cry out again. The ditch into which she had stumbled was the home of an adder which struck out angrily, sinking its fangs into her heel. Orpheus reached her side in time to see her sink back in mortal agony. He took her in his arms. He breathed into her, sang softly into her ear, begging her to return to him, but the venom of the viper had done its work. Her soul left her body. The cry that escaped from Orpheus struck horror and fear into the whole valley. The Muses heard it, the gods on Olympus heard it. It was the last sound they were to hear from Orpheus for some time. His mourning was as absolute and unwavering as could be. He put his lyre aside. He would never sing again. He would never smile again, compose a lyric again, so much as hum again. What life was left to him would be spent in pain and anguished silence. The town of Pimpleia was given over to lamentation, grieving more over the loss of Orpheus’s music than the life of Eurydice, well-loved as she had been. The nymphs of the woods, waters and mountains fell into mourning too. Even the gods of Olympus pined and fretted at the drying up of the music. Apollo went to visit his son. He found him sitting in the porch, gazing out across the very fields where Eurydice had met her end. ‘Come now,’ said Apollo. ‘It’s been more than a year. You can’t mope like this for ever.’ ‘Watch me.’ ‘What would persuade you to pick up your lyre again?’ ‘Only the living presence of my beloved wife.’ ‘Well …’ a thoughtful frown appeared on the golden god’s smooth brow. ‘Eurydice is in the underworld. The gates are guarded by Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell. No one but Heracles has ever penetrated the underworld and returned, and even he didn’t come back up with a dead soul. But if anyone can do it, you can.’ ‘What are you saying?’ ‘Why not go and get her?’ ‘You just said, “No one has ever penetrated the underworld and returned.” ’ ‘Ah, but no one has ever had the power you have, Orpheus.’ ‘What power?’ ‘The power of music. If anyone could tame Cerberus and charm CHARON the ferryman, it is you. If anyone could melt the hearts of Hades and Persephone, it is you.’ ‘You really think …?’ ‘Have faith in what music can do.’ Orpheus went into the house and retrieved his lyre from the dusty cupboard into which he had thrust it. ‘String it with these,’ said Apollo plucking from his head twenty-four golden hairs. Orpheus restrung the lyre and tuned it. Never had it sounded more beautiful. ‘Now go, and come back with Eurydice.’

O RPHEUS IN THE U NDERWORLD Orpheus travelled all the way from Pimpleia to Cape Tainaron in the Peloponnese, the southernmost point of all Greece,fn3 where could be found a cave that formed one of the entrances to the underworld. The path from the cape sloped down, after many mazy turns, to the main gate guarded by Cerberus – the slavering, shuddering, slobbering three-headed dog, offspring of the primordial monsters Echidna and Typhon. At the sight of a living mortal daring to enter the halls of hell, Cerberus wagged his serpent tail and drooled in anticipation. Only the dead could pass him, and in order to dwell in peace in the Meadow of Asphodelfn4 they would know to bring with them a piece of food with which to placate him. Orpheus had no sop for Cerberus other than his art. Inwardly quaking but outwardly assured, he brushed the strings of the golden lyre with his fingers and began to sing. At the sound of the song, Cerberus – who had bunched himself up ready to bound forward and savage this presumptuous mortal – gave a whining gulp and froze in his tracks. His huge eyes rounded and he began to pant with pleasure and an inner joy that was entirely new to him. He dropped down on his haunches and curled himself on the cold stone of the gateway, like a huntsman’s favourite hound dreaming by the fire after a long day in the field. Orpheus’s song slowed into a gentle lullaby. Cerberus’s six ears flopped down, his six eyes closed, his three tongues passed across his chops with a great slap and his three massive heads dropped into a deep and happy sleep. Even the snake of his tail drooped in peaceful slumber. Orpheus climbed over the snoring form and, still humming his lullaby, he headed along the cold dark passageway until his progress was blocked by the black waters of the River Styx. Charon the ferryman poled his way towards him from the further bank where he had just deposited a new soul. He stretched out his hand for payment but quickly withdrew it when he saw that the young man standing before him was alive. ‘Hence! Avaunt!’ cried Charon in a hoarse whisper.fn5 In reply Orpheus strummed his lyre and began a new song, a song praising the overlooked profession of ferryman, glorifying the unrecognised diligence and industry of one ferryman in particular – Charon, the great Charon, whose central role in the vast mystery of life and death should be celebrated the world over. Never had Charon’s ferry skimmed the cold waters of the Styx with such alacrity. Never before had Charon, his skiff now beached, put an arm round a fare and helped them gently to disembark. And for sure, never, not in all eternity, had such a stupid, fatuous smile played over the ferryman’s habitually gaunt and unrelenting features. He stood supporting himself on his pole, his adoring gaze fixed on the person of Orpheus who, with a final wave and strum of the lyre, was soon swallowed up by the darkness of the passageways that led to the palace of Hades and Persephone. On entering the palace’s great hall, Orpheus found himself facing the three Judges of the Underworld, MINOS, RHADAMANTHUS and AEACUS, enthroned in a grim semicircle.fn6 The light of Orpheus’s living spirit dazzled their eyes. ‘Sacrilege! Sacrilege!’ ‘How dare the living invade the realm of the dead?’ ‘Summon Thanatos, lord of death, to suck the insolent soul from his body!’ Orpheus took up his lyre and before the last command could be obeyed, the three judges were smiling, nodding their heads and tapping their sandaled toes in time to the intoxicating strains. Their retinue of ghoulish servants, sentries and attendants had not heard music for so long that they could not remember how to respond to it. Some clutched at the air as if the sounds they heard were butterflies that could be caught in their hands. Some clapped, clumsily at first, but soon in time to the beat of the lyre’s chords. An awkward shuffle turned into a rhythmic stamp that became a frenzied dance. Within minutes the whole chamber was alive and echoing with singing, dancing and cries of joy and laughter. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ At the sight of Hades, King of the Underworld himself, and his pale consort Persephone, the hall fell into an instant and guilty silence. As in a game of musical chairs, they froze to a halt with thuds and skids. Only Orpheus appeared unmoved. Hades curled a beckoning finger. ‘If you wish to avoid an eternal punishment more excruciating than those of IXION, SISYPHUS and TANTALUS combined, you had better explain yourself, mortal. What possible excuse could you have for this indecent display?’ ‘Not an excuse, sir, but a reason. The best and only reason.’ ‘A pert reply. And what is this reason?’ ‘Love.’ Hades replied with the barrage of bleak barks that was the closest he came to laughing. ‘My wife Eurydice is here. I must have her back.’ ‘Must?’ Persephone stared at him in disbelief. ‘You dare use such a word?’ ‘My father Apollo –’ ‘We do no favours for Olympians,’ said Hades. ‘You are mortal and you have trespassed into the realm of the dead. That is all we need to know.’ ‘Perhaps my music may change your mind.’ ‘Music! We are immune to its charms here.’ ‘I tamed Cerberus. I charmed Charon. I bewitched the Judges of the Underworld and their retinue. Are you perhaps afraid that my songs might enchant you also?’ Queen Persephone whispered briefly in her husband’s ear. Hades nodded. ‘Fetch Eurydice!’ he commanded. ‘One song,’ he said to Orpheus. ‘You may sing one song. If it fails to delight, the relentless agony of your torture will be the talk and terror of the cosmos till the end of time. If your music moves us, well – we will allow you and your woman to return to the world above.’ When Eurydice’s spirit floated into the hall and saw Orpheus standing so boldly before the King and Queen of the Dead, she let out a great cry of joy and wonder. Orpheus saw the shimmering form of her shade and called out to her. ‘Yes, yes!’ said Hades, testily. ‘Most affecting. Now. Your song.’ Orpheus took up his lyre and gave a deep breath. Never had an artist asked more of their art. The moment his hands touched the strings everyone present knew that they were going to hear something entirely new. Nimbly, Orpheus’s fingertips flew up and down the strings, causing a cascade of trilling notes so quick and pure that everyone caught their breath. And now, out of the golden ripple emerged the voice. It asked everyone to think of love. Surely, even here, in the dark caverns of death, love still sat in their souls? Could they remember the first time they felt the sweeping rush of love? Love came to peasants, kings and even gods. Love made all equal. Love deified, yet love levelled. Persephone’s hand tightened around Hades’ wrist as she recalled the day his chariot erupted into the meadow where she had been gathering flowers. Hades found himself thinking of the bargain he had struck with Demeter, Persephone’s mother, allowing him access to his beloved for six whole months in every year. Persephone turned to look at her husband, the man who had taken her by force but kept her by his steadfast love. Only she understood his dark moods and the honest passions that boiled within. He returned her gaze. Could that be a tear she saw welling up in his eye? Orpheus reached the climax of his song to Eros. It wound its way along the passageways and through the chambers, galleries and hallways of hell, binding all who heard it – the servants of Hades, the emissaries of death and the souls of the departed – in a spell that took them, for as long as the music played in their ears, far away from the remorseless miseries of their endless captivity and into a kingdom of light and love. ‘Your wish is granted,’ boomed Hades huskily as the last notes faded away. ‘Your wife may depart.’ At his words Eurydice’s shade took on the substance and form of quick and breathing life. She ran into her husband’s arms and they held each other tight. But a frown was forming on Hades’ brow. The loss of just one dead soul tormented him. When it came to the spirits doomed to spend eternity in his kingdom, he was a hoarder, a miser of the meanest kind. ‘Wait!’ The moment Eurydice had returned to flesh and blood, Orpheus had stopped playing and singing and the powerful spell of the music began to weaken its hold. It was a memory, a keen and a beautiful one, but the transcendent mood it engendered, like all the keenest pleasures, vanished like steam the moment the closing notes died away. Hades now regretted bitterly that while imprisoned in the bewitching coils of Orpheus’s song he could have been so weak as to agree to Eurydice’s release. How foolish he had been to give his word in front of so many witnesses. He leaned across for a whispered consultation with Persephone. Nodding, with a small smile of triumph, he kissed her cheek and pointed a finger at Orpheus. ‘Let go of the woman. Turn and leave us.’ ‘But you said …’ ‘She will follow. As you make your way to the upper world, she will remain ten paces behind. But if you turn round to look at her, if you cast so much as the briefest backward glance in her direction, you will lose her. Trust, Orpheus the musician. You must show that you honour us and have faith in our word. Now go.’ Orpheus took Eurydice’s face in his hands, kissed her cheek and turned to leave. ‘Remember!’ Persephone called after him. ‘Look back for just one instant and she will be ours. No matter how many times you return, and how many songs you sing, you will have lost her for ever.’ ‘I won’t be far behind. Have faith!’ said Eurydice. Orpheus reached the door that led to life and freedom. ‘Faith!’ replied Orpheus, his eyes fixed resolutely ahead of him. And so he began to make his way along the slowly rising stone corridors and passageways. Hundreds of flitting souls acknowledged him and breathed messages of good luck as he passed. Some alarmed him by begging to be taken to the upper world with him, but Orpheus waved them away and kept resolutely to his course, upwards and ever upwards. Gates and doors opened mysteriously before him as he went. To encourage Eurydice, but mostly to reassure himself, he called out continually. ‘Still there, my darling?’ ‘Still there.’ ‘Not tiring?’ ‘Always ten paces behind. Trust me.’ ‘So close now.’ Indeed, over the last two hundred or so paces Orpheus had become aware of a cool breeze fanning his face and fresh air filling his nostrils. Now he saw light ahead. Not the underworld’s light of rush torches, pitch lamps and burning oil, but the pure light of living day. He quickened his step and pressed forward. So close, so fantastically close! In just fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve steps they would be free, free to live their lives again as husband and wife. Free to have children, to travel the world together. Oh, the places they would visit. The wonders they would see. The songs and poetry and music he would compose. The mouth of the cave opened wide as Orpheus strode on with joy and triumph in his heart. One more step – out of the shadows and into the light. He had done it! He was out in the world, the sun was warming his face and its light was dazzling his eyes. Ten more steps forward to be sure, and now he could turn and take his beloved in his arms. But no! No, no, no and no! Orpheus had not known it, but his last twenty or so steps had accelerated into a run. Eurydice had quickened her own pace to try to match his, but when he turned round she was still too far behind, still in shadow, still in the realm of the dead. Her eyes, filled with horror and fear, caught his for a second before the light inside her seemed to die and she was pulled back into the darkness. With a cry of anguish Orpheus ran into the cave but she was flying away from him at tremendous speed, no longer flesh and blood but an immaterial spirit once more. Her unhappy cries echoed as Orpheus ran blindly into the blackness after her. The doors and gateways that had opened to let them leave now slammed shut in his face. He beat his fists against them until they bled, but to no avail. He could no longer hear her cries of despair, only his own. If he had waited just two blinks of an eye before turning, they would have been united and free. Just two heartbeats.

T HE D EATH OF O RPHEUS Orpheus’s later life was a sad one. After a long second mourning period, he picked up his lyre again and continued to compose, play and sing for the rest of his life, but he never found a woman to match his Eurydice. Indeed, it is reported in several sources that he turned away from women altogether and lavished what affection he had left on the male youths of Thrace. The Thracian women, the Ciconians, followers of Dionysus, were so enraged at being overlooked that they threw sticks and stones at Orpheus. However, the sticks and stones were so charmed by his music they just hung in mid-air, refusing to hurt him. At last the Ciconian women could bear the degradation and insult of being ignored no longer and, in a Bacchic frenzy, they tore Orpheus to pieces, pulling off his limbs and wrenching the head from his shoulders.fn7 The golden harmonies of Apollo were always an affront to the dark Dionysian dances and dithyrambs. Orpheus’s head, still singing, was cast into the River Hebrus where it floated out into the Aegean. Eventually it found its way onto the beach at Lesbos; it was taken up by the inhabitants of the island and placed in a cave. For many years people came from all over to the cave to ask the head of Orpheus questions, and it always sang the most melodious prophecies in reply. At last Orpheus’s father Apollo, perhaps jealous that the shrine was threatening the supremacy of his own oracle at Delphi, silenced him. His mother Calliope found his golden lyre and carried it heavenwards, where it was placed amongst the stars as the constellation Lyra, which contains Vega, the fifth brightest star in the firmament. His aunts, the eight other Muses, gathered up the fragments of his body and buried them at Libethra, below Mount Olympus, where nightingales still sing over his grave. Finally at peace, Orpheus’s spirit descended once more into the underworld where he was at last reunited with his beloved Eurydice. Thanks to Offenbach, they still perform a joyful cancan together in the realm of the dead every single day.

JASON

T HE R AM The voyage of Jason’s ship Argo in the quest for the Golden Fleece involves backstory, backstory and more backstory. But it’s good, juicy backstory, so I hope you will dive in. A lot of names will come at you now like quills shot from a porcupine; but don’t worry, the important ones will stick.fn1 We can start with BISALTES, a founder hero of the Bisaltae peoples of Thrace. His mother was the primordial earth goddess Gaia and his father the sun Titan Heliosfn2. Bisaltes’ beautiful daughter THEOPHANE caught the eye of the sea god Poseidon, who snatched her up and took her to the island of Crinissa, where he turned himself into a ram and Theophane into a ewe. In the course of time she gave birth to a beautiful golden ram. Point One – there now existed in the world a beautiful golden ram, of immortal lineage. Ixion, a king of the Lapiths, had once dared to attempt to seduce Hera, the Queen of Heaven, at a banquet on Mount Olympusfn3. To expose his depravity Zeus entrapped Ixion by sending to him a living cloud in the exact likeness and form of Hera. The brutish Ixion had leapt all over this cloud, thinking it was the goddess herself. As a punishment for such blasphemous intent, Ixion was bound to a revolving wheel of fire and sent spinning across the heavens, and latterly down into the underworld to remain there for ever. The cloud took on the name NEPHELE and went on to marry King ATHAMAS of Boeotiafn4 by whom she had twins, a boy, PHRIXUS, and a girl, HELLE. Point Two – the twins Phrixus and Helle are born to Athamas of Boeotia. In time Nephele took her place back in the sky as a cloud and as a minor goddess of xenia, the highly prized principle of hospitality. Athamas looked to take a new wife and chose INO, one of the daughters of CADMUS, the founding King of Thebes.fn5 Ino installed herself in Athamas’s palace and, as second wives will, instituted a new regime to banish all memories of her predecessor. Ino came with a reputation as the most caring and nurturing of women – it was she who had suckled her sister Semele’s child by Zeus, the infant Dionysus. Her other sisters, AGAVE and AUTONOË, had rejected Semele and paid a terrible price when a grown Dionysus visited Thebes and sent them mad to tragic effect.fn6 But Ino had survived with her life and good name intact, and the world loved her for it. Inside, however, Ino was ambitious, relentless and cruel. She had taken an instant dislike to her stepchildren Phrixus and Helle and decided to get them out of the way. By Athamas she had her own sons, LEARCHUS and MELICERTES, and was determined they should rule Boeotia when Athamas died, not Phrixus and Helle. An archetype of the wicked stepmother that was to dominate myth, legend and fairy tale for ages to come, Ino hatched a formidably malicious and elaborate plan to destroy the twins. First she persuaded the women of Boeotia to ruin the seedcorn in the barns and silos by charring it, so that when their husbands went out to sow in the fields it would be unable to sprout. As she had hoped, the next year’s harvest failed and famine threatened the kingdom. ‘Let us send messengers to Delphi, dear husband,’ said Ino to Athamas, ‘and find out why this disaster has been visited on us and what we can do to set it right.’ ‘How wise you are, dear wife,’ said the besotted Athamas. But the messengers sent to Delphi were paid agents of Ino and the words they claimed now to bring back from the oracle were hers and hers alone. ‘My lord king,’ said the chief messenger, unfurling a roll of parchment, ‘hearken unto the words of Delphic Apollo. “To placate the gods for the sins of the city and the vanities of its citizens, your son Phrixus must be sacrificed.” ’ On hearing this Athamas let out a howl of anguish. He was too distressed to consider how uncharacteristically direct and unambiguous this pronouncement was from an oracle notorious for its equivocations and double meanings. Young Prince Phrixus stepped up. ‘If my life will save the lives of others, Father,’ he said in a clear, steady voice, ‘then I go happily to the sacrificial altar.’ His mother Nephele, high in her palace of clouds, heard this and made ready to intervene. Phrixus, head held aloft, was led to the great sacrificial stone that had stood in the town square for generations. Human sacrifice, especially involving the young, was now looked on as barbaric, an unwanted legacy from the days when gods and men were crueller. But gods and men never lose their cruelty and the stone remained, just in case. A royal guard stood high on a roof and began to pound his drum. If the youth was to die, better to make a good show of it. The women of Boeotia put scraps of linen to their eyes and made a great display of weeping. Children who had never known the privilege of witnessing a ritualistic killing of this kind pressed forward to get a better view. Athamas howled and beat his breast, but the townspeople had all had a surfeit of famine. The words of the oracle were clear and the sacrifice was required. The high priest, dressed all in white, stepped forward, a ceremonial knife of shining silver in his hand. ‘Who gives this child to the Lord Zeus?’ ‘No one, no one!’ wailed Athamas. ‘I give myself!’ said Phrixus stoutly. Young Helle, who had not let go of her brother’s hand from the moment he had volunteered himself for the sacrifice, now added her voice. ‘I die with my brother!’ Ino almost hugged herself. ‘Really, this is better than I dared hope!’ she thought. ‘No!’ cried Athamas. Strong hands took both children and laid them on the sacrificial slab. As the priest raised his knife and held it poised for the strike, a voice called down from the sky. ‘On his back, Phrixus! Quick, Helle! Hold tight!’ Down from the clouds flew a golden ram. It landed on the stone in front of Phrixus and Helle who, obeying the command of their mother, clutched at the thick fleece and fell forward onto the animal’s back. They were taken up into the air before the priest, their guards, Ino or anyone else had time to react.fn7 Phrixus and Helle gripped the golden fleece as the ram flew east over the narrow straits that separate Europe from Asia. Here a gust of wind and a sudden swift turn from the ram caused Helle to fall from the ram’s back. Phrixus cried out in vain for it to stop. He looked down in horror and saw his sister plummet to her death in the water of the straits, which the Greeks were to call in her honour ‘the Hellespont’ or Sea of Helle.fn8 A distraught Phrixus wept bitter tears into the fleece as the golden ram flew further east, towards the Propontis, or Sea of Marmara, and over the Bosporus until they saw the glittering waters of the great inland sea that we call today the Black Sea, but which for the Greeks presaged the outer limits of what was civilised and Grecian. Beyond its shores lay strangers, barbarians and the deranged denizens of the eastern edge of the world, so it was known to them as the Unfriendly Sea, the Hostile Sea, the Sea of Enmity.fn9 As they passed the Caucasus Mountains, Phrixus could make out the naked, sunburnt form of Prometheus manacled and spread out on the rock. The shadow of an eagle passed over it. Phrixus knew it was on its way to feast on Prometheus’s liver, a torture the Titan endured every day.fn10 On the far eastern shores of the Black Sea lay a kingdom of some wealth and size. This kingdom, which we would call today a province of the Republic of Georgia, was known in those days as Colchis. Its king was AEËTES, a son of Helios the sun Titan and an Oceanid called PERSEIS. He ruled from the capital, Aia. If Aeëtes was astonished to see a golden ram land in front of his palace and a youth step down off its back, he was too cautious and politic to say so. Mindful of the rules of hospitality, he invited Phrixus to dine with him. Phrixus, grateful for the honour, sacrificed the ram to Zeus and presented Aeëtes with its golden fleece. It seems hard on so amiable and obliging an animal, but with death came the ultimate compliment: Zeus, pleased with the sacrifice, raised the noble creature to the stars as Aries, the Ram. The GOLDEN FLEECE was a most precious gift. Aeëtes hung it on the branches of an oak that stood in a grove sacred to Ares, the god of war. Aeëtes had somewhere about the palace grounds a huge serpent,fn11 terrible to look at and endowed with the special gift of never closing its eyes. This was set to guard the oak and its valuable burden. At some point Phrixus married CHALCIOPE, one of Aeëtes’ daughters, and all was well in Colchis. Meanwhile, back in Boeotia, we left Athamas and Ino staring up at the sky as a golden ram, with Phrixus and Helle on board, disappeared into the clouds. It was not long before Athamas came to understand that the whole crop-failure/famine/oracle/human-sacrifice affair had been a ruse devised in the evil mind of his wife. In a frenzy, he lashed out and killed his son by her, Learchus.fn12 Ino fled with their other boy, Melicertes. But Athamas cornered them and, in her despair, Ino threw herself and Melicertes over the cliffs and into the sea. Dionysus, ever mindful of his foster mother’s kindness to him, did not let her drown, but instead transformed her into the immortal LEUCOTHEA, the ‘white goddess’ of the sea.fn13 Melicertes became PALAEMON, a dolphin-riding deity and guardian of ships. Athamas’s life had not been a happy onefn14, but we can see how it led indirectly, through Nephele’s intercession to save their twins, to the hanging of the Golden Fleece on the oak in the Grove of Ares in Colchis on the far shores of the Black, Unfriendly Sea, also called the Euxine Sea. I should say that all of the above is really backstory to the main backstory – whose narrative strands I will now try to separate here. Even setting aside the marriages of Athamas, his family was notorious. He had three quarrelsome and villainous brothers. One brother, Sisyphus, was soon to be doomed to push his boulder uphill for eternity as punishment for his many crimes and blasphemiesfn15. Another brother, SALMONEUS, tried to pass himself off as a god of thunder and storms and was blasted to atoms by Zeus for his impertinence. Just to make matters even more complicated, Salmoneus’s daughter TYRO married and had children by each of her uncles: with Athamas himself, with Sisyphus and with CRETHEUS, the third brother. Tyro’s eldest son by Cretheus was AESON, but she also had two sons by Poseidon – Pelias and Neleus.fn16 I pause to remind you that I am aware of how complicated and forgettable such divagations into the family tree may be, but they are relevant to the main line of our story. You mustn’t feel obliged to memorise these names and relationships. It is enough to get a sense of what all this portends. Cretheus ruled over IOLCOS, a city in Aeolia, the north-eastern region of mainland Greece that included Larissa and Pherae. Therefore Aeson, his son by his niece Tyro, was the rightful heir and would succeed to the throne when Cretheus died. But Aeson’s half-brothers, Pelias and Neleus, believed that they, as sons of Tyro and the great Olympian god Poseidon, had a claim not just to Iolcos but to all of greater Aeolia. Accordingly, the moment Cretheus died they besieged Iolcos. Aeson and his wife ALCIMEDEfn17, fearing that the city was lost, managed to smuggle out their firstborn child, JASON. Alcimede was friendly with the centaur CHIRON, and it was he who received and raised the boy. Shortly after, Pelias broke into the city and slaughtered every man, woman or child connected by blood to the throne, all but Aeson and Alcimede whom he threw in prison. While in captivity the couple had another son, PROMACHUS. It is worth mentioning too that Pelias’s and Neleus’s mother Tyro had been mistreated by SIDERO, Cretheus’s second wife. Pelias and Neleus ran Sidero down to a temple, in whose precincts they killed her. This proved to be a disastrous mistake, for the temple was dedicated to Hera. The Queen of Heaven, outraged at such desecration, swore instant enmity against these two sons of Poseidon. Of all the gods to make an enemy of, Hera was the most dangerous and implacable. So there we have it. A GOLDEN FLEECE far to the east. IOLCOS and Aeolia in the grip of the tyrannical and murderous Pelias, who rules the region cruelly but with a resolute grip that no rebel can hope to loosen. In fact, as we find today, rebellions from the outside nearly always fail: familial quarrelling, dynastic feuding, party disunity, the palace coup and the stab in the back … these are what dislodge regimes and topple tyrants. Pelias knows this and is haunted by just enough suspicion and despotic paranoia to consult an oracle on the security of his throne. ‘One of your own blood will end the life of Pelias. Beware the man who comes from the country wearing but one sandal.’ Was that two people or one? If a man of his own blood would kill him, who could this single-sandaled rustic be? Did they know each other? Were they both blood relations? Were they one and the same? Why couldn’t oracles ever be straight? It really was too tiresome. Meanwhile, on the slopes of Mount Pelion, towering over Iolcos, the rightful heir to the city – Jason – is being tutored by the wise and clever Chiron.

R ETURN TO I OLCOS Some years earlier, when Apollo’s son Asclepius had been his pupil, Chiron had detected in him preternatural skill in science and the healing arts, which led to the mortal, under Chiron’s tutelage, rising to become the foremost practitioner and theorist of medicine in the Greek world – and would later bring about his elevation to divine status.fn18 Although Chiron perceived little of such potential in Jason, he gave him a thorough grounding in medical and herbal theory, knowledge and practice, nonetheless. Mostly he saw in the child, and the young man he became, boundless courage, athleticism, intelligence and ambition. He saw too lots of words beginning with ‘self’, which gave him pause. Self-belief, self-possession, self-righteousness, self-confidence, self-love. Perhaps these characteristics are as necessary to a hero as courage. So Jason began to grow up. He knew the story of his father’s imprisonment at the hands of the usurper Pelias, but he was prepared to bide his time before setting out to avenge the injustice and claim the throne of Iolcos. One of the many virtues he learnt at the feet of the noble Chiron was patience. It might have been that any inward ambition to become a great hero was kindled by an unexpected visit from the hero Bellerophon, who landed one day outside Chiron’s cave on the back of a flying horse. ‘Chiron, you are famed around the world for your mastery of the healing arts. You are half-horse yourself – who better to help my poor friend?’ Pegasus, immortal but not immune from harm, had been badly burned around the neck and mane during Bellerophon’s fight with the Chimera. While Chiron set about smearing a medicinal paste on the wounds, Bellerophon related his adventures to a spellbound young Jason. Chiron was amused by Jason’s round-eyed wonder; but before Bellerophon left with a restored Pegasus, the centaur could not resist a lecture. ‘You are pleased with what you have done, Master Bellerophon,’ he said. ‘Certainly you have been brave and resourceful. But I hope you understand enough of the ways of the Fates and of the gods to know that only darkness and despair awaits those who believe that their achievements are theirs and theirs alone. Pay proper homage to the gods who helped you and the immortal horse without whom you would be just another insignificant little prince.’ Bellerophon laughed and exchanged an eye-rolling shrug with Jason, who giggled. Chiron shook his head as they waved Bellerophon and Pegasus off on their way back to King Iobates and the resumption of their adventures. ‘It is the fate of the young never to learn,’ the centaur sighed. ‘I suppose it is arrogance and unwavering self-belief that propels them to their triumphs, just as surely as it is arrogance and unwavering self-belief that unseats them and sends them plummeting to their ends.’ Jason hadn’t heard. He was watching Bellerophon and Pegasus disappear into a small dot in the distant sky. Chiron clapped his hands in front of the boy’s eyes. ‘You are in a trance. Wake up and tell me. Which herbs did I use in the poultice I applied to Pegasus? What was the juice I added to make the paste heat up, foment and fizz?’ And so the years passed, with Jason learning as much as he could while dreaming all the time of a heroic future. It would be too much to expect that he could ever be in possession of a flying horse, but he would find something – some symbol, some animal, some object – which would grant him everlasting fame. Soon, too soon in Chiron’s view, Jason had grown to be a fit, strong, tall and handsome young man, ready to leave Chiron’s cave on Mount Pelion and make his way down to Iolcos. ‘Remember,’ cautioned the centaur. ‘Modesty. Observance of the gods. In a fight, do not do what you want to do, but what you judge your enemy least wants you to. You cannot control others if you cannot control yourself. Those who most understand their own limitations have the fewest. A leader is one who …’ and on and on, precept after precept, warning after warning. Jason nodded and pretended to take in every word. For psychological effect, to draw attention to and accentuate the physique he had built up over years of training, he had dressed himself in a leopard skin. With his long golden hair, tanned musculature and burning eyes he would present a fierce and fascinating figure to the strangers he encountered on the way. ‘Don’t worry, old friend,’ he said, embracing Chiron. ‘I’ll make you proud.’ ‘You’ll make me proud,’ Chiron called after him, tears running down his cheeks, ‘if you don’t make yourself proud.’ Not long on his journey, Jason came to a fast-flowing river, the Anaurus. On its banks stood a frail old woman, bent double by age, uncertain how to cross without being swept away. ‘Hello there. Let me carry you across and don’t you worry about a thing, dear mother,’ said Jason, not meaning to sound patronising, but managing to, nonetheless. ‘Too kind, too kind,’ wheezed the old woman, who leapt with surprising agility onto Jason’s back, her fingernails digging hard into his flesh. Jason waded into the torrent, the old lady chatting into his ear and pinching his skin as she held on. The sharp pain of her grip at one point caused Jason to stumble. He caught a foot between two stones and nearly fell over. When he reached the other side and was able to deposit his garrulous burden, he realised that he was missing one of his sandals. He looked back and saw it wedged in the rocks where his foot had been stuck. He made to retrieve it, but the old lady was pawing at him. ‘Thank you, young man, thank you. How kind. I bless you. I bless you.’ Jason watched the sandal loosen itself and float away on the strong current. But when he glanced down to acknowledge the woman’s gratitude, he was surprised to see that she had disappeared. Extraordinarily fleet of foot for such a frail little thing, he thought to himself. We should have guessed straight away that this was no frail little thing, but Hera, in one of her favourite disguises. The Queen of Heaven knew very well that Jason was journeying to Iolcos to wrest the kingdom from his uncle, the same Pelias who had so outrageously and unforgivably desecrated one of her temples. Hera wanted to be sure that the enemy of her enemy was worthy of her support and protection. His uncomplaining courtesy at the river confirmed that he was. From now on she would do all that she could to help him. The same Hera that strove every step of the way to hamper and torment Heracles would strive every step of the way to guide and favour Jason. The motive, so typically of Hera, was not love of Jason but hatred of Pelias. When the people of Iolcos saw the mesmerising figure of Jason with his leopard skin, rippling hair and bulging muscles stride into the marketplace they knew at once that here was somebody who should be paid attention to. Palace messengers ran to find their lord and king Pelias, who never took kindly to being anything other than the very first to hear important news. He was seated at a map table in his great hall, planning games to be held in honour of his father Poseidon. ‘Stranger?’ he said. ‘What kind of stranger? Describe him.’ ‘Come in from the country, he has,’ said one herald. ‘His hair is gold, my lord king,’ said another. ‘And long. Right down his back,’ sighed a third. ‘He wears the skin of a lion.’ ‘Er, actually it’s leopard, not lion.’ ‘No, pretty sure it’s lion.’ ‘You can see the spots …’ ‘Markings, yes, but I wouldn’t call them “spots”. Lions have …’ ‘Thank you!’ Pelias cut in. ‘This stranger is wearing the pelt of some large cat. Good. Is there anything else?’ ‘Could just as easily be lynx.’ ‘Or bobcat, maybe.’ ‘A bobcat is a lynx.’ ‘Really? I thought they were different?’ ‘Enough!’ Pelias smashed a fist down on the table. ‘Is he tall, short, dark, fair? What?’ ‘Fair.’ ‘Tall, very tall.’ ‘And he walks with a limp.’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t call it a limp, exactly,’ said the second herald. ‘He’s lame, man!’ countered the first. ‘Yes, but that’s because, if you noticed, he’s only got one sandal, so naturally he’s going to list to the side a bit …’ ‘What did you say?’ ‘Well, my lord, just that it’s more of a list to one side than a full-blown limp …’ ‘Yes, your majesty. I’d call it maybe a mild hobble.’ Pelias grabbed the second herald by the throat. ‘Did you just say that he was wearing one sandal?’ ‘Yes, sire,’ gasped the herald, going purple in the face. Pelias let go of him and looked at the others. ‘You all saw this?’ They nodded. Fear gripped Pelias’s heart. The stranger from the country with one sandal! What could he do? To attack or imprison a visitor would be to defy the laws of hospitality sacred to Zeus and Nephele … Nephele! The mention of her name awoke an idea in Pelias’s mind. He strode out to the marketplace where he found Jason drinking at a fountain surrounded by a crowd of admiring children. Yes, there could be no doubt. The man’s left foot was unshod, naked. As bare as truth. ‘Welcome, stranger!’ Pelias managed to say, in what he hoped was an amiable, yet suitably grand, manner. ‘What brings you to our kingdom?’ ‘It is indeed “our kingdom”, uncle,’ was Jason’s bold reply. He had decided to be forthright from the first in his approach to Pelias. ‘Uncle?’ Pelias had many brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces and cousins, thanks to his mother Tyro’s multiple marriages. But the use of the word from this single-sandalled stranger struck dread into his heart. The oracle had warned him to beware not just of a man with one sandal, but also of a kinsman, a man of his own blood. ‘Yes, Pelias, son of Tyro,’ said Jason. ‘I am Jason. My father is Aeson, son of Tyro and of Cretheus, the former King of Iolcos. Aeson, the rightful ruler of this kingdom. I have come to claim our inheritance. What you have gained from your years of usurpation you may keep. All the cattle, treasure, buildings and land are yours. But from now on the kingdom is mine and you must release my parents from their imprisonment.’ ‘Ah,’ said Pelias, grasping Jason by the shoulders. ‘Welcome, nephew. You come at just the right time.’ ‘I do?’ ‘This land is yours by right, Jason, of course it is. I have been ruling in your place, but will happily step aside now that you are here, only –’ He broke off in some confusion. ‘Only what?’ demanded Jason. ‘Only this land is … cursed!’ ‘Cursed?’ ‘Oh yes, quite cursed. Isn’t that so, people?’ Those citizens of Iolcos who had crowded around to see more of the impressive and strikingly dressed stranger knew very well how to interpret the wishes of Pelias. If he wanted them to agree with what he was saying, they had better agree. And wholeheartedly. Neither by word nor sign did they betray their complete ignorance of any such curse. Instead they nodded their heads decisively and threw in vigorous words of agreement. ‘Oh yes, cursed …’ ‘Terrible curse.’ ‘Curse on the land.’ ‘A blight, a curse …’ ‘On the land.’ ‘On the land? All over it, more like …’ ‘But what kind of curse?’ asked Jason. ‘Ah, well.’ Pelias had never felt so inspired. A perfect plan was forming in his mind. ‘You know of my nephew – your cousin – Phrixus, son of your uncle Athamas and the cloud goddess Nephele?’ ‘Who has not heard of Phrixus?’ ‘He died not long ago in far Colchis. Since that moment a curse has descended upon us.’ ‘Upon our land!’ said one citizen. ‘Blighting and cursing and blighting our land,’ muttered another. ‘But why?’ Jason asked. ‘I wanted to know the answer to that same question,’ said Pelias, ‘and so I consulted the oracle. Didn’t I, people?’ ‘Certainly you did, my lord.’ ‘Who says you didn’t? They’re a liar!’ ‘How well we remember. Consulted the oracle, he did.’ ‘It had never been so consulted.’ ‘Yes, yes. The point is,’ continued Pelias, ‘that the oracle made plain that this kingdom could never know peace or prosperity unless its king went to Colchis and brought back the Golden Fleece here to Iolcos, where it should find its new home for eternity. That is what the oracle proclaimed. Did it not, people?’ ‘Aye, aye!’ ‘Exactly that. Word for word.’ ‘And since you are, as you say, the rightful King of Iolcos, you, Jason, must be the one to … fetch the Fleece and raise the curse. Am I not right?’ ‘Aye, majesty, aye!’ cried the people. They were not sure what they were celebrating or assenting to, but they could see triumph and satisfaction in the eyes of Pelias, and that was enough to make them cheer and cheer. Pelias was congratulating himself on devising a scheme that had in fact been all the work of Hera, who saw in Jason the heroic instrument to fulfil – with a little divine assistance, where needed – two of her desires simultaneously. He could unseat the brutish Pelias, who had so flagrantly dishonoured her temple. And he could bring the Golden Fleece home to mainland Greece where it could form the centrepiece of a magnificent new shrine sacred to Hera and Hera alone. The golden ram, it must be remembered, belonged to Nephele who, as a proxy in Hera’s likeness, had been the instrument of saving her from violation at the licentious hands of Ixion. The Fleece therefore was holy to the Queen of Heaven, and she did not like the idea of it being trapped in a Grove of Ares on the far eastern edge of the civilised world. Hera chose her champions well. It is doubtful that many other mortals would have considered so dangerous and groundbreaking a quest as this. The Golden Fleece was known to be guarded by a fierce serpent that never slept or closed its eyes. King Aeëtes and his soldiers would undoubtedly have added further protection over the years. The journey would have to be made by sea, and such a lengthy voyage through such dangerous waters had never yet been undertaken. But Jason was blithe, fearless and possessed of that supreme self-confidence which Chiron had recognised in the makeup of his pupil as both an attractive virtue and a less-appealing flaw. And ever since Bellerophon and Pegasus had visited Chiron’s cave when he was a boy, Jason had dreamed of an adventure, a quest that would prove his mettle and prove him worthy of the word Hero. ‘The Golden Fleece, eh?’ He smiled broadly. ‘What a splendid idea, uncle. It shall be done.’

T HE A RGO A map can show you how far it is by sea from Iolcos in Aeolia to Colchis on the shores of the Black Sea. It cannot show in detail the natural and unnatural obstacles that made such a voyage so uniquely hazardous. Jason’s first requirement was a suitably hardy and well-equipped vessel for the journey. He chose as his shipwright ARGUSfn19, and the unique vessel that he built became known as the Argo in honour of her creator. It is said the goddess Athena, who like Hera smiled favourably on Jason’s quest, assisted Argus in the ship’s construction. The Argo was equipped with a rowing deck, much like an ordinary galley, but no seagoing vessel before her had been fitted with more than one mast and such complicated and clever arrangements of sailcloth and rigging. Athena brought oak from the sacred grove at Dodona (those that had spoken to Perseus and helped him on his way to the Graeae). This timber formed the prow, or beak, of the ship; carved into it was the representation of a female head – some said of Hera herself – endowed with the power of prophecy and speech. A mortal seer was appointed a member of crew too: IDMON, a son of Apollo, agreed to come along despite having foreseen that the quest for the Golden Fleece would bring him fame but also death early in the venture.fn20 Argus appointed as his helmsman TIPHYS, who brought on board his kinsman Augeas (later to become famous for the filthy condition of his stables) and ANCAEUS, King of Samos, himself a skilled helmsman. Athena instructed Tiphys and Ancaeus in the use of the sails that were to give such speed to the Argo. Whether Athena taught them by inward whispered inspiration or a direct manifestation is not quite known. Tiphys also came up with the idea of leather cushions for the rowing seats, not for comfort but to allow the oarsmen to slide backwards and forwards on their benches; this added to the rowing stroke the strength of their legs as well as the strength of their backs. Although no one knew it yet, this innovation was to prove of vital importance to the expedition. Meanwhile Jason had been spreading the news. The word went out around Greece and its islands that a new kind of voyage was being organised, a quest of unprecedented ambition. A party of heroes was required to crew the ship and help win eternal glory. Being sailors on the Argo they would be known as ARGONAUTS and their mission was to sail to Colchis under Jason’s command and bring the Golden Fleece home to the Greek mainland. The trickle of applicants travelling to Iolcos soon became a torrent. A handful, then dozens, then scores of candidates arrived in the city, all eager to take part in an adventure that would be sure to bring lustre to their names and assure the prosperity of their houses. If Pelias felt put out or sidelined by the obvious admiration demonstrated by the people for Jason’s courage and confidence, not to mention the general assumption that his young nephew was already King of Iolcos, he was wise enough to conceal it. Indeed, Pelias made a great show of offering support to the venture and lavished the most openhanded hospitality on all who came to Iolcos clamouring for a place on board the Argo. All the time he remained happily convinced that the mission must be suicidal and that Jason would never return to claim his throne. Aside from many whose names are remembered for nothing other than their appearance in the lists of Argonauts handed down to posterity,fn21 some of the best-known figures of the Greek world were enlisted, heroes whose fame already preceded them or was to grow great after their involvement in the voyage. Heroes such as NESTOR of Pylos, for example. He would survive to become an invaluable advisor to the Greek leadership in the Trojan War, where his name would be forever associated with wise counsel. PELEUS of Aegina (not to be confused with Pelias of Iolcos, Jason’s wicked uncle) volunteered for the quest along with his brother TELAMON. They would each go on to father heroes. Telamon’s sons were Teucer, the legendary bowman, and Ajax (the Great), both of whom would play key roles in the siege of Troy. The only surviving offspring of Peleus by his marriage to the sea nymph Thetis was to be Achilles, perhaps the most glorious and perfect of all the heroes.fn22 In the prime of their young manhood, and unaware of the destinies of their children, Peleus and Telamon came for adventure. They brought with them the strongest man of the age, HERACLES, who was between Labours and had with him his beloved young page HYLAS. The adoring pair were joined by Heracles’ brother-in-law, POLYPHEMUS.fn23 MELEAGER, son of Oeneus, was present too. He was to be one of the principals in the hunt for the Calydonian Boar, in which many of the Argonauts would participate.fn24 Meleager’s cousins, CASTOR and POLYDEUCES – the Dioscuri – are usually included in the manifest too, as were yet another pair of brothers, CALAIS and ZETESfn25. As sons of Boreas, the North Wind, they were often referred to as the BOREADS. Their paternity endowed them with the ability to take to the air and fly. It is said that the far-famed hunter ATALANTA – whose story would later be so tightly intertwined with that of Meleager – applied to join the quest but was turned down by Jason, who thought the presence of a woman on board ship would bring ill-luck.fn26 If such blatant discrimination sounds harsh to our ears, it is at least more pleasingly typical of a true Greek hero that Jason should reserve a place for music in his crew list. ORPHEUS, greatest of all singers, poets and composers was welcomed into the ship’s company. The enchanting power of his lyre would prove invaluable. PIRITHOUS, King of the Lapiths was there toofn27. He had a special reason to join the crew perhaps, for he was descended from Ixion, whose inappropriately libidinous handsiness with Hera, you will recall, was the primary cause of the creation of Nephele, the summoning of the golden ram and its flight to Colchis with Phrixus and Helle in the first place. Two other Argonauts are worth mentioning here: PHILOCTETES, who was to play crucial parts in the story of Heracles and in the Trojan War; and EUPHEMUS, a son of Poseidon who could walk on water. All in all the ship’s complement amounted to around fifty souls … the conventional crew for a ‘penteconter’. Phew! It’s all rather a lot to take in. All those heroes, all those figures descended from so many kings and queens and so many gods, goddesses and minor deities. In many ways the voyage of the Argo might be regarded as a kind of dress rehearsal for the epic siege of Troy and, even more so, its aftermath, the Odyssey and the fall of the house of Atreus.fn28 The interference, protection and enmity of the Olympians; the treachery of some heroes and the selfless sacrifice of others; the wit and cunning, the horrible cruelty, the endurance, patience, faith and determination of the warriors in the teeth of what wind, weather, malice, chance and betrayal threw at them – all these were as much a feature of the voyage of the Argo as the legendary expedition to and from Troy.

T HE I SLE OF L EMNOS Pelias and the citizens of Iolcos gathered at the harbour to join in the praising and blessing of the Argo’s voyage. Goats screamed under the knives of priests, smoke from their burnt flesh rose up to the gods. Flowers were strewn and grains were sown on the water; flocks of released doves rocketed into the sky; choirs of children sang; dogs barked, fought and mated. On board the Argo laughing stowaway youths were pulled from their hiding places and thrown onto the quayside, into the arms of their whooping, drunken friends. Jason’s mother and father, Aeson and Alcimede, now freed from their imprisonment by the apparently repentant Pelias, stood and waved up from the dockside, conflicted by alternating feelings of pride and consternation. Their young son Promachus was there, stamping his feet and sobbing because he had been deemed too young to join the crew. ‘I’ll be thirteen soon! That’s old enough to go on a voyage.’ Jason had ruffled his hair. ‘When I come back, I’ll let you sail with me on my next voyage. Until then your job is to look after our mother and father. I want you all safe here in Iolcos.’ Those words would haunt Jason one day. A reverential silence fell as Orpheus stood on the prow and struck up a hymn upon his lyre. The brothers Calais and Zetes called on their father Boreas, the North Wind, and on AEOLUS, keeper of all the winds. On the foredeck, Jason, the bright rays of the morning sun seeming to set his hair ablaze, stood hand on hip calling out orders to cast off and set sail. Three girls in the crowd swooned and fainted dead away. Deckhands heaved on the rigging and the people gasped to see the Argo’s sails unroll from their twin masts and stretch to catch the wind. They cheered as Jason sprang down and cried to Tiphys to raise the anchor stone and let slip the mooring ropes. The Argo plunged a little, as if ducking to wet her beak, then came upright and surged serenely forward, the surf streaming from the painted figurehead on her prow. Never had such a ship been seen. Not a roll, not a yaw and not a creak from her timbers. So stable and so sturdy, so swift, straight, trim and true. The citizens of Iolcos stayed to gaze after her until she was no more than a speck on the horizon. Pelias climbed into his litter, glancing back at Aeson and Alcimede who now stood alone on the quay, arm in arm. ‘They can wait till they rot of old age,’ he said to himself, ‘their precious son won’t be coming back.’ Pelias was well aware of the dangers that awaited the Argonauts. He stroked his beard. ‘I wonder where they will first put in? Lemnos would be about right. Oh, I do hope it is Lemnos.’ His malicious hope was to be fulfilled. Myrina, on the isle of Lemnos, was indeed the first port of call planned by Jason. The Argo had sailed eastwards from Iolcos without incident. Jason found the ship everything he had hoped for and more. Never had so well-built or so well-provisioned a vessel put to sea. Morale was high; dolphins leapt in the bow waves, auspicious sea eagles mewed high above them. They had the music of Orpheus to raise their spirits and the knowledge that they were all members of the finest crew of men ever to set out on a quest. ‘Lemnos in an hour, sir,’ Tiphys said to Jason, squinting up at the sun and making his calculations. ‘Gather round, everyone,’ commanded Jason. ‘For those who do not know, let me tell you about Lemnos.’ He was grateful now that he had, for the most part, paid attention during those long lessons when his tutor Chiron patiently took him through the history and practices of the tribes, peoples, provinces, islands and kingdoms of the known world. ‘As I’m sure most of you learned at your mothers’ knees, Lemnos is where the infant Hephaestus was brought up after being cast down from Olympus by his mother, the Queen of Heaven.’ Jason touched the fingers of his right hand to his lips and raised them heavenwards in a salute to his divine protectress, Hera. ‘But since then Lemnos has had a heavy history. There are no men on the island, only women.’ Cheers, laughter and crude expressions of delight from the crew. ‘Yes, yes. But listen. Generations ago, the women of the island began to neglect Aphrodite. We all know how the goddess treats those who insult her, but what she did to the Lemnian women was extreme, even for the Lady of Cyprus. She made the women smell so rancid, disgusting, so foul that the island’s male population couldn’t bear to go near them. So the men took to sailing off to the mainland and bringing back Thracian women and girls instead. The Lemnian wives wouldn’t stand for that so they murdered the men in their beds one after the other, leaving an island of women only. Their queen is HYPSIPYLE fn29 and when we put in you must give me a chance to call on her and make sure we will be welcomed.’ ‘Do they still stink then, these women?’ ‘Well?’ said Jason, directing the question to the figurehead on the prow. Though carved into a likeness of Hera, her voice and manner more resembled those of the talking oaks of Dodona, of whose timbers she was composed. ‘Are you talking to me?’ ‘The women of Lemnos. Are they still cursed with the foul stench?’ ‘You’ll just have to find out, won’t you?’ When they put in at the small harbour, Jason and the crew were met by a knot of stern-looking women from whom no discernible odour arose. Nor did Queen Hypsipyle, who received Jason with warmth and respect, give off anything but an air of friendly welcome. It seemed to all the Argonauts that the curse of Aphrodite must have been lifted, for the women soon showed nothing but delight in the company of men. ‘Let’s stay,’ said Tiphys, who already had his arm round two smiling and blushing Lemnians. Jason, entirely smitten by the beauty of Hypsipyle, willingly assented. The Argonauts stayed long enough for the queen to bear Jason twin sons, EUNEUS and THOAS, the latter named after Hypsipyle’s father, whom she had secretly spared from the general massacre of Lemnian menfolk. ‘I hid my father in a wooden chest and sent him out to sea,’ she confided to Jason. ‘I have since heard word that he survived and is well.fn30 Don’t tell the other women – they’ll never forgive me.’ ‘Such mercy is so like you,’ said Jason lovingly. Mercy was a strange word to use, perhaps. Hypsipyle had willingly allowed every other man on the island to be slaughtered in their sleep, but Jason did not let that spoil the perfect image of Hypsipyle that he carried in his lovestruck mind. He had sworn eternal fidelity and meant it. First love is like that. Another year passed. Then one day Heracles – who had taken no part in the general frolicking and fornicating – paid Jason a visit.fn31 ‘We’re supposed to be searching for a Golden Fleece,’ he grumbled. ‘Not rutting like bloody stags.’ ‘Yes,’ said Jason. ‘Yes. You’re right.’ The goodbyes were fraught. ‘Take me with you,’ begged Hypsipyle. ‘My darling, you know we have a “strictly no women” rule on board.’ ‘Then take the twins. This is no place for them to grow up. They need men to learn from.’ ‘We do have a strict “no children” rule too …’ It was all very sticky, but he and the Argonauts managed to extricate themselves and Lemnos was barely out of sight before Jason was thinking only of what lay ahead. Hypsipyle and their twin sons vanished from his mind as quickly as they vanished from view. On the island, meanwhile, word came to Hypsipyle that rebellion and revenge were in the air. Jason might have let slip to some of his fellow crew members that she had spared her father from slaughter. One or two of those fellow crew members might have let slip that fact to the women on the island with whom they were consorting. Now that Hypispyle’s protector had left, the women were ready to tear their queen to pieces for such treachery. She took her twin boys Euneus and Thoas and fled the island. They were soon captured by pirates and sold as slaves to king LYCURGUS of Nemea.fn32 Euneus was later to return and rule Lemnos. During his reign the island played a small but pivotal role in the outcome of the Trojan War. Some time later it served as a springboard for the Great War’s ill-fated Gallipoli campaign.

T HE D OLIONIANS On ploughed the Argo, through the Dardanelles and on to the Propontis, the Sea of Marmara as we call it today. On the Asian side the Argonauts came to the coastal kingdom of the Doliones, or Dolionians, ruled over by the young King CYZICUSfn33 and Queen CLITE, who welcomed them with lavish hospitality. It was while they were recovering from a night’s feasting that the Argo was attacked by a neighbouring tribe of giantsfn34, great six-armed earthborn monsters. Heracles came splendidly into his own here and led the strongest of the Argonauts out to meet them. By the time he had finished, the giants all lay dead. Cyzicus and Clite were immensely grateful to be rid of the marauding predators that had raided the kingdom for generations and urged Jason to stay for more feasting. Mindful of the time they had wasted on Lemnos, Jason thanked them but insisted that regretfully they had better get going. The night after the Argonauts’ departure a great storm caught the Argo and blew her back to the shore. But it was dark; neither the Argonauts nor the Dolionians recognised each other and fierce fighting broke out. With Heracles on their side it was unlikely that the Argonauts would lose, and before long most of the Doliones, friendly King Cyzicus included, lay dead on the ground. When morning broke, Queen Clite was the first to leave the palace. When she saw the body of her husband, whom Jason himself had unwittingly killed, she ran to her bedchamber and hanged herself. In the light of day the Argonauts discovered with horror what they had done. They helped bury the dead, made expiatory sacrifices to the gods and left the Dolionian coast in sombre mood. ‘I do think,’ Jason said to the figurehead and Idmon the Seer, ‘that you might have warned us.’ ‘You never asked,’ said Idmon. ‘There was a storm howling about our heads. Waves higher than the ship were tossing us about like leaves in the wind. How could I have asked?’ ‘Could have raised your voice, couldn’t you?’ said the figurehead. ‘Where are we sailing to now? You can at least tell me that.’ ‘Thrace,’ said Tiphys, while Idmon and the figurehead ummed, ahhed and tutted. The southern shores of Thrace, which we would call Bulgaria today, formed the northern coastline of the Propontis. The region was known for its fierce and warlike people, descended from THRAX, a son of Ares. ‘Anything we should look out for, especially?’ enquired Jason. ‘All the aitches,’ said the figurehead. ‘Aitches?’ ‘Harpies, Hylas and Heracles,’ explained Idmon.fn35 ‘What about them?’ Idmon and the figurehead would say no more.

H YLAS D ISAPPEARS Mostly they sailed, but sometimes, when the wind dropped, they rowed. Which is to say Heracles rowed. He could do the work of the whole crew. All he required was water to drink, fruit to eat and his beloved Hylas to mop his brow and say soothing things to him. He was needed in the dead calm that followed the storm that had propelled them back to the Dolionians and the tragedy that had ensued there. Hugging the Mysian coast, Heracles rowed with long, powerful strokes; perhaps his temper or sorrow made him pull more violently than usual, for suddenly his oar broke. It could not be replaced on board: the other oars were like pencils next to his: a pine tree, with the branches stripped off and a great iron shovel fixed to it for a blade. The shovel was undamaged but the shaft splintered beyond repair. It was agreed that the Argo should stop and Heracles and Hylas could find a new tree. They leapt down and waded ashore, followed by Heracles’ friend and brother-in-law Polyphemus. ‘You look that way, and I’ll look this,’ said Heracles to Hylas, pointing beyond the dunes. Hylas nodded and disappeared into the woods that lay beyond. Heracles soon found the perfect tree. He hugged it and heaved. Up it came, roots and all. Leaning it on his shoulder like a sentry’s spear, he whistled for Hylas. He called again as he strode back towards the beach, ‘It’s all right, Hylas. I’ve found the perfect tree.’ He stood and waited for Hylas, but only Polyphemus emerged, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Very odd,’ he said. ‘I heard a kind of cry.’ ‘Where from?’ Polyphemus pointed back towards the woods. Heracles dropped the tree and they both ran into the woods, calling all the while. Heracles uprooted bushes and trees, turned over boulders and cleared undergrowth, but he could find no sign of Hylas. Polyphemus followed, shouting and shouting his name. They widened their search. Beyond the woods there were fields and ditches, but very little cover. No Hylas. He had vanished. Heracles returned to the shore and began searching the rockpools and caves in desperation. ‘Strange thing is, there’s no wild animals for miles around,’ said Heracles. ‘I don’t understand it. He would never leave me, never.’ ‘A shame,’ said Polyphemus. ‘A tragedy. Come, we will sacrifice a great bull for him when we arrive in Colchis.’ ‘I’m staying here,’ said Heracles. ‘Not going till I find him.’ ‘But we need to be on board. Tiphys said that the wind was beginning to get up. He’ll want to catch it.’ ‘They can wait,’ said Heracles, who was as strong-willed as he was strong-muscled. That evening Tiphys hoisted the sails and the Argo left. It never occurred to Jason, nor any of the other Argonauts, that Heracles, Hylas and Polyphemus were still ashore. Only when they were miles out to sea did they discover their absence. Jason and many of the others were all for turning back at once. ‘No, no,’ said Calais. ‘Their lookout,’ said Zetes. ‘They knew we were leaving on the good wind our father sent.’ ‘We must return!’ said Telamon, Heracles’ closest friend amongst those still on board. ‘How can we expect to win the Golden Fleece without him? He’s worth ten of them …’ he pointed scornfully at Calais and Zetes. ‘Oh really?’ said Zetes. ‘Shall we ask our father to send another wind?’ ‘One that will smash this ship to splinters?’ ‘Then we’ll see who’s worth what.’ ‘Are you threatening the ship?’ Telamon grabbed Calais by the throat. ‘That’s mutiny. I should throw you over board.’ ‘We’d only fly away,’ said Zetes. ‘Then you’d look bloody silly, wouldn’t you?’ ‘Enough!’ Jason interposed himself. Just then the sea surged and rocked them all nearly off their feet. Up from the waves rose the sea god GLAUCUS. He had been born a mortal fisherman in Boeotia, but achieved divine status when he nibbled at a herb that he had observed to have the power to bring dead fish back to life. The herb conferred immortality on him, but caused him to grow fins and a fish’s tail. He acted now as a guide, rescuer and friend to stricken sailors. ‘The Argo must not turn back!’ he commanded. ‘It is Heracles’ destiny to return to the court of Eurystheus and complete the tasks he was given. Nothing must interfere with this.fn36 Polyphemus too has a future. He will found the city of Cius. These things are ordained.’ With a shake of his finny arms and a nod of his barnacled head, Glaucus disappeared beneath the waves. ‘I’m sorry,’ Jason said to Telamon with genuine regret. ‘What must be, must be. We cannot turn back.’ Telamon nodded. For the sake of harmony on board he resisted the urge to wipe the smug, gloating grins from the faces of Calais and Zetes.fn37 Heracles never found his adored Hylas. After months of fruitless searching, he made his way sorrowfully home to mainland Greece to receive his next Labour from Eurystheus, but not before charging the local Mysian people to continue the search for Hylas. If they did not, he promised he would return and wreak vengeance upon them. To make sure they did keep searching, he took several sons of the noblest Mysian families back with him as hostages. Polyphemus did, as Glaucus had foreseen, go on to found the city of Cius on the Bithynian coast, not far from where Hylas was lost.fn38 He subsequently died trying to rejoin the Argonauts and was buried on the southern shores of the Black Sea, where a white poplar marked his grave. But what had happened to Hylas? Well, a little while after he parted from Heracles and went into the wood, he came upon a pool of water and knelt down to drink from it. Unlike NARCISSUS, he did not fall in love with his own reflection.fn39 Instead, it was the water nymphs of the pool who were smitten at the sight of the beautiful youth. They rose to the surface, sang to him, seduced him and eventually lured him in.fn40 As the Argo sailed steadily on, the figurehead remarked smugly to Jason: ‘Told you to watch out for the aitches. Harpies next.’

H ARPIES The Argonauts anchored off the coast of Thracefn41 and made their way inland, searching for food with which to provision the ship. It was not long before their path was blocked by a blind and emaciated old man. ‘Who’s there?’ he cried, waving a stick in their general direction. For all his pitiable state, his manner was sharp and imperious. ‘Jason of Iolcos and his crew. Out of our way, if you please.’ ‘Ah!’ cried the old man eagerly. ‘I knew you would come! Are the sons of the North Wind of your company?’ Calais and Zetes stepped forward. ‘Who wants to know?’ ‘PHINEUS, the king.’fn42 ‘Of Thrace?’ ‘You are in Salmydessus, and I am its ruler.’ ‘I have heard of you,’ said Jason. ‘You put out your own sons’ eyes and you were blinded as a punishment.’ ‘Not true, not true! That is a lie put about by my first wife. Zeus, the father of us all, granted me the gift of prophecy and it was he who took away my sight.’ ‘Why?’ ‘He thought I was too generous in revealing the future to anyone who cared to know. But that was not all he had in store for me. Look, can you see that?’ With trembling hands Phineus pointed his stick towards a stone table. There were pieces of bread, fruit and smoked meats on it, but they were all spattered with something that looked like mud. ‘Pee-yew! It stinks!’ cried Calais and Zetes who had gone close. ‘Their droppings,’ said Phineus. ‘It is not enough that they seize everything they can before I can eat it, they shit on whatever is left.’ ‘They?’ said Jason. ‘Who are “they”?’ ‘The Harpies. Two monstrous flying womenfn43. Women? They have the faces of women I am told, but the wings and talons of birds. Human vultures. Food is put out for me, but whenever I try to eat they fly down shrieking and shitting. They snatch the food from my very mouth and fly off screeching with laughter. It is enough to send a man mad. But I stayed sane because I knew salvation was coming. I knew that the Boreads with their gift of flight would come and deliver me from their curse.’ Calais and Zetes shifted uneasily. ‘Whoa there, old man. Are you saying you want us to get rid of them?’ said Calais. ‘If Zeus sent them, he’s not going to thank us for interfering,’ said Zetes. ‘We’re sorry for you, really we are, but we’re not going to offend the Cloud-Gatherer and Lord of Storms. Not for anything.’ ‘No, no!’ said Phineus, thrusting out a quavering hand in his direction, as if the act of touching Zetes might change his mind. ‘You will not be punished for aiding me. I assure you. I have seen. It is ordained that you will release me from the Harpies and so you will. And when you have done this,’ he added with a smile of some cunning, ‘I will tell you the only way you can safely proceed on your journey. A terrible obstacle lies ahead of you. Unless you overcome it, you will never reach Colchis. No, you will all perish.’ ‘What obstacle?’ Jason demanded. ‘It is enough to say that, without my help, it will destroy your ship and cause the death of everyone on board.’ Jason turned to Calais and Zetes. ‘Well, boys? It’s up to you.’ The twins exchanged glances and nodded. ‘We’ll do it.’ While Tiphys and two of the Argo’s crewmen wiped down the stone table, two other sets of brothers, Telamon and Peleus, and the twins Castor and Polydeuces were sent to forage for food. They returned with basketfuls of figs, olives and apples, to which was added the remaining store of Argo’s bread and smoked fish. The food was heaped up in appetising piles on the stone table. Jason guided Phineus into his seat at the feast and all the Argonauts withdrew to a high vantage point, save Calais and Zetes who concealed themselves behind a tree close to the table. When all was still and the trap set, Calais gave a low whistle. Phineus stretched out his hand and picked up a fig. It was barely halfway to his mouth when with a demented scream, the two harpies dived down from the clouds. One snatched the fig from Phineus’s fingers and devoured it. The other seized a pile of the fruit in her enormous claws, defecating on the rest as she did. The first joined her in ransacking and fouling the food.fn44 Calais and Zetes, with their own blood-curdling cry, shot from their hiding place. Twisting their bodies round, they launched themselves spinning into the air to catch the fast-flowing gust sent from their father. The eyes of the harpies started from their unpardonably ugly human faces and they screamed in shock, scattering food and faeces everywhere. The other Argonauts ran out into the open and watched as the Harpies were pursued across the sky and out of sight. As the brothers told Jason afterwards, it had been a close run thing. The terrified Harpies flapped their wings as hard as they could, covering a huge distance as they flew westwards; but the twins, streaming after them on their swift current of air, eventually caught up with them near to the Floating Islandsfn45. They were on the verge of seizing the seizers when their way was barred by the sudden appearance of a brightly coloured arc in the sky, from whom the rainbow goddess IRIS herself spoke.fn46 ‘Leave them, Boreads, leave my sisters be. Zeus sent them and only he can choose their fate. Leave them and know that they will harass Phineus no more.’ So the twins turned back. In honour of this, the Floating Islands became known, as they still are today, as the Strophades, the Turning Islands. When their father Boreas dropped them gently back on the ground in Salmydessus, next to the table, the twins saw that the befouled food had been cleared away and Phineus was enthusiastically gorging on a fresh supply. ‘So,’ said Jason, when he had heard about Iris and her promise that Phineus would be left alone. ‘This “obstacle” you claim we must overcome to reach Colchis …’ ‘Yes, yes,’ Phineus nodded, fig juice dripping from his chin. ‘There is but one way from the Propontis into the Euxine Sea.fn47 You must sail through the narrow strait they call the Symplegades, the Clashing Rocks.’ ‘We know about those,’ said Jason, annoyed. ‘Nestor, tell him your plan.’ ‘Any ship that dares to try the channel between the rocks will be smashed to pieces,’ said Nestor. ‘They sense its passage and clash together, crushing anything in their path. So, my plan is that Argus, Tiphys and his men dismantle the Argo into portable sections which we take overland from the eastern shore of the Propontis to the western shore of the Euxine Sea, thus circumventing the Symplegades entirely.’ Phineus sprayed fruit and bread everywhere as he snorted with derisive laughter. ‘Circumventing, you say? Oh dear me, that’s a good one. Circumventing. The land between, your ‘circumventing land’ bristles with bandits, some of them only half human. They hide in the bushes, shoot arrows and wait for you to die of your wounds. You’ll never see them. For all your crew of musclebound heroes you’d be better turning for home than trying such a foolish thing. Suppose they only got ten of you – that would be ten pieces of your ship you vitally need. Circumvent that.’ Nestor rubbed his chin. ‘I fear there is much in what he says, Jason. My stratagem is weak, very weak.’ ‘Very well then,’ said Jason. ‘You say you know how we can get through. Tell us, all-seeing Phineus.’ They waited for the old man to finish his mouthful of bread. Finally, he swallowed, wiped his sleeve across his mouth and told them.

T HE C LASHING R OCKS By the time they had reprovisioned the Argo, Phineus had put on weight and grown even more bumptious and impossible. ‘I see what will happen to you,’ he told each of the Argonauts in turn. ‘Ooh. Goodness me, that’s nasty. Dear, dear, I only hope I’m wrong.’ ‘Don’t know why Zeus took his eyes,’ Castor said to Jason. ‘Should have taken his tongue.’ ‘Either tell us our futures or be silent,’ said Jason. ‘Oh, I can’t tell you. Don’t want to risk the return of those nasty Harpies. But it’s grim,’ he added with a cackle, ‘oh yes, it’s grim.’ The hour for embarkation and departure could not come quickly enough. The Argo sailed east and soon came to the narrow strait that connected the Propontis to the Euxine Sea. It was over this waterway that Io flew after Zeus had turned her into a cow and Hera sent a gadfly to torment her.fn48 For that reason the narrow passage had been given the name ‘Cow-Crossing’, or Bosporus. It was one thing to fly over it, quite another to sail through. Two great rocks loomed up ahead. They faced each other like cliffs, massive and immobile. Jason saw that they were a marvellous blue in colour.fn49 It seemed impossible that they could move an inch. He stood on the foredeck and addressed the crew. ‘Orpheus, you have the dove?’ ‘I have her.’ Orpheus, his hands tenderly cupped, stepped past Jason until he stood at the very tip of the prow. ‘The rest of you, take up your oars. Tiphys, bring us as near as you can without waking the rocks.’ Every Argonaut went to their appointed rowing stations and waited. When they were as close as Tiphys dared take the Argo, Jason brought down his arm. Orpheus released the dove which shot from his hands, rose into the air and made for the channel. A great grinding sound filled the air and Jason saw the rocks tremble and shift on their bases. Gulls rose with startled cries from their ledges and nests on the rock face. The dove was already a quarter of its way through to the other side when the rocks began to move together with surprising speed. Halfway, and the passage was narrowing fast. The dove flew gamely on. Jason had to shade his eyes to see it battling towards the light and the open sea beyond. Phineus had told them that the speed of a dove over the distance of the strait matched the speed of a strongly rowed galley. If the bird was crushed therefore, the Argo would never be able to make it. The gap between the rocks left a mere slit of light and Jason could no longer see the dove. With a thunderous clash that set the Argo pitching and rolling the rocks slammed together. It was all Jason could do to stay upright on the foredeck. When it was quiet and stable enough, Orpheus took up his lyre and strummed. He sang as loudly as the crew had ever heard him, calling and calling to the dove he had been training ever since Phineus had told them the key to their safe passage through. The Argonauts rested on their oars and scanned the sky. Of the dove they saw no sign. The rocks had started to separate now, causing the water to suck back through the channel. ‘Hold!’ cried Tiphys. ‘Back oars.’ They pushed hard with their oars against the current to keep the ship from being pulled towards the rocks, which had now returned to their original positions and stood tall, stately and still. It was hard to believe they had ever moved. Still the strains of Orpheus’s song filled the air. ‘There!’ shouted Pirithous stabbing a finger in the air. The dove flew towards Orpheus and the whole crew cheered as she landed on Orpheus’s outstretched palm and with rippling coos of triumph accepted her grains, strokes and congratulations. ‘Look!’ said Orpheus, holding the bird up, ‘her tail is gone.’ It was true. Where there should have been a neat fan, Jason could see only a torn and ragged row of broken feathers. He turned to address the crew. ‘This tells us that it will be close,’ he said. ‘Very close indeed. Every man must row as if his life depends on it. For his life does. Picture this in your minds. What you most desire lies on the other side. Love, fame, riches, peace, glory. Whatever you have dreamt of is there. If you’re too slow, it will disappear for ever, but if you strain yourself you can reach it.’ He leapt down to take up the one remaining rowing station. ‘Oars!’ he cried, gripping and twisting the handle of his own to present its blade to the water. His fellow Argonauts followed suit. ‘Are we ready?’ ‘Aye!’ ‘Are we ready?’ ‘Aye!’ ‘Are we ready?’ ‘Aye! Aye! Aye!’ ‘Then row, my friends, row!’ With a great cheer they engaged oars and the Argo lurched forward. Never had a galley flown through the water with such speed. Every man pulled hard, sliding backwards and forwards on their leather cushions. Every man save Orpheus. As an artist, his strengths lay elsewhere. He was the only man bar the steersman facing the direction of the Argo’s travel and could urge the men on. He had two wooden chests either side of him and he began thumping them like drums to drive the beat of the oars. ‘Heave!’ he cried. ‘And heave, and heave, and heave!’ They all heard the shuddering, grating roar of the rocks. This is it, thought Jason. They’re moving now. No turning back. Only hard rowing will get us through. A quarter of the way through and Orpheus felt that they were going to make it. He could see the open waters of the great sea ahead and the rocks, though closing, looked as though they would lose the race. ‘Heave, and heave, and heave!’ But the rocks seemed to be moving faster. Jason and the oarsmen could see the cliffs rising and growing higher and higher and closer and closer. The clear view he had had of the Propontis was beginning to be cut off. Looking in their direction of travel, Orpheus was no longer so sure that they could make it. As they passed the halfway mark he increased the stroke of his pounding on the wooden chests until his fists felt they would catch fire. “Heave-and-heave-and-heave-and-heave!’ The walls towered above them now. Were they going to be crushed like flies in the slapped hands of a child? All this effort. All this planning and praying. For nothing? Jason felt his lungs bursting, his back and thighs burning. ‘Yes!’ yelled Orpheus. ‘Yes, yes, yes! We’re going to make it! Faster, faster, faster. Put everything into it. Pull, pull, pull! Pull, you bastards, pull!’ The rocks were on them now. Jason could even make out the green weeds growing in crevices. A chill darkness was closing in until … daylight flashed across him and the whole ship. They were through! The rocks crashed and still the Argonauts rowed as the aftershock of waves tossed them up and forward, further out of reach. Jason stood up and let out a barbaric hoot of triumph. All around him the others were doing the same. Euphemus pointed back at the rocks. ‘Look!’ The left-hand rock was cracking. The crag opposite was sliding back to its original position as usual, but its neighbour – partner? lover? – crumbled and disintegrated, sending an avalanche of boulders into the water. The Symplegades never clashed again. Separating Asia from Europe, the Bosporus is still narrow today; but ever since that moment it has lain open to all shipping. The exhilaration of their triumph banished the crew’s exhaustion. ‘We did it!’ ‘And without Heracles!’ Meleager pointed to the rear of the ship. ‘Look! We lost our tail feather too!’ It was true. The final clash of the rocks had sheared off Argo’s sternpost as they pulled through. That is how close it had been. While they paused to repair the stern timbers, the figurehead called back to them from the prow. ‘Make sure you mend that sternpost well, Jason, or one day you will regret it. One day far, far ahead, you will regret it.’ Meleager and Pirithous approached Orpheus. ‘Pull, you bastards, pull?’ Orpheus eyed the two warily. ‘I had to motivate you … Those rocks were closing in fast.’ ‘Bastards? Let’s show him, Pirithous.’ Meleager took his arms and Pirithous his legs. ‘Let go, let go!’ ‘Heave and heave and heave!’ Pirithous chanted, in a fair imitation of Orpheus’s lyric tenor, as they swung him back and forth. On the final ‘heave’ the protesting musician was hurled into the sea. The crew leaned over and cheered as he splashed below them. ‘You are bastards!’ he gasped. ‘Sing out for a dolphin, like Arion!’fn50 So began the tradition, which has lasted to the present day, of a victorious rowing crew throwing its cox into the water.

D EATHS , R AZOR -S HARP F EATHERS AND THE P HRIXIDES Eastwards the Argo sailed. After the initial high, the exertions of the crew were beginning to catch up with them. The breakage of the sternpost had forced Argus to work hard to make a new steering blade. Not for the first time Jason was grateful that Chiron had instructed him so well in the healing arts.fn51 He prepared medicinal salves for the blistered hands and chafed buttocks of the crew, and even allowed them a little wine, albeit mixed with honey and water. Orpheus, a blanket over his shoulder, made a great show of sneezing. The Euxine Sea was living up to its optimistic name. No pirates, sea monsters or unfavourable gales hindered their passage to Colchis. They made a few stops along the way however, which did have unhappy outcomes. The first occurred in the kingdom of Mariandynia, where Idmon the Seer met the end that he had always known was coming. As he walked through the woods, a wild boar burst from the undergrowth and gored him with its tusks. Peleus speared the beast, but the damage was done and Idmon died of his wounds. He was not the only casualty of that stopover. Tiphys succumbed to a fever and died too. He was replaced as helmsman of the Argo by Ancaeus of Samos. Funeral rites were observed for both and it was a far sadder crew that left Mariandynia behind. They were at least fortunate that it was summer, their new helmsman Ancaeus told them, for the winters this far east could be cruel.fn52 As they sailed on, passing the lands ruled over by the Amazons, they suddenly found themselves under attack from above. A flock of wild birds was dropping their feathers onto them. But these were no ordinary feathers, the crew soon discovered. Their quills were bronze and their vanes razor-sharp, so that they fell like arrows. The Argonauts had to take refuge under their shields for protection. For once Orpheus’s singing was of no help; if anything, it seemed only to enrage the birds into further assaults. ‘Let’s just yell at them,’ Philoctetes suggested. They hooted, screamed, and bashed their swords against their shields until at last the birds flew away. ‘What the hell were they?’ ‘No idea,’ said Jason.fn53 ‘But let’s put in at this island and make sure their feathers haven’t ripped the sail or cut the rigging.’ The island at which they now dropped anchor was called Areonesos, or ‘the isle of Ares’, because of a small temple where the Amazons sometimes came to worship their father, the war god. The avian arrows seemed to have done no serious harm to the Argo, and Jason and Nestor were debating whether to spend the night there or press on when four young men approached and introduced themselves. Their names were ARGOS,fn54 CYTOROS, PHRONTIS and MELAS, and they were the PHRIXIDES, or sons of Phrixus. Phrixus, you will recall, was the child of Nephele and Athamas who had been rescued along with his sister Helle by the golden ram, whose fleece Jason and the Argonauts had come all this way to bring back to Greece. ‘But why are all four of you here?’ Jason asked. ‘We were shipwrecked,’ said Melas. ‘Our grandfather accused us of plotting against him.’ ‘Which was untrue!’ ‘So untrue …’ ‘We just simply weren’t …’ ‘Whoa!’ said Jason. ‘Your grandfather?’ The brothers explained. When Phrixus had landed at Colchis, sacrificed the golden ram and given its fleece to King Aeëtes, he had then married Aeëtes’ daughter Chalciope. She was the boys’ mother, so Aeëtes was their grandfather. ‘Your own grandfather expelled you?’ ‘Expelled us? He was going to kill us!’ ‘We escaped on a ship before he got the chance.’ ‘We wanted to get to Greece and maybe try our luck with our other grandfather, Athamas.’ ‘But we were shipwrecked …’ ‘And here we are …’ ‘Thought we’d die here …’ ‘But you arrived …’ ‘Who are you, by the way?’ When Jason explained that he and his men were on a quest for the very fleece their father had brought to Colchis, their eyes widened. ‘It’s the Fates,’ said Phrontis. ‘No question.’ ‘I detect their hand here too,’ said Jason. ‘Come with us back to Colchis. We’ll protect you from Aeëtes. You can introduce us to your father Phrixus. The Fleece is his by right. Surely he would let us bring it back to Greece?’ ‘That would be a problem,’ said Cytoros. ‘Dad died last year.’ With these four new crewmen enlisted, the Argo sailed from the isle of Ares and finally reached the port of Phasis at the mouth of the river of the same name.fn55 Somewhere upriver and inland, Jason knew, lay Aiafn56, the capital of Colchis. And somewhere in Colchis the Golden Fleece hung on its tree awaiting them. ‘Do we have to leave the Argo here,’ he asked the four grandsons of Aeëtes, ‘or can we safely navigate up?’ ‘No problem,’ they replied. ‘Plenty of shipping gets to Aia.’ The shallow draft of the Argo and the shallow rise of the Phasis towards its distant source in the Caucasus Mountains did indeed allow them to travel far upstream. As they made their way along the river, the four grandsons of Aeëtes told Jason a little of how things went in Colchis. ‘Our grandfather is a tough man. Some say he killed our father Phrixus. We don’t know about that.’ ‘He’s the son of the sun, and he never lets anyone forget that.’ Jason had indeed heard the rumour that Helios the sun Titan was the father of Aeëtes by the Oceanid Perseis, herself a daughter of one of the original twelve Titans.fn57 ‘His sisters,’ said Melas, ‘are our great-aunts Pasiphae, Queen of Crete, and the enchantress CIRCE. I’m sure you’ve heard of them.’fn58 Jason had indeed. ‘There is magic in your family.’ ‘None that we’ve inherited, but yes.’ ‘And Aeëtes is still married?’ ‘Oh yes, to our grandmother, IDYIA.fn59 They had two daughters, Aunt Medea and our mum Chalciope …’ ‘… and a very late son, Uncle ABSYRTUS.’ ‘… who’s actually younger than us.’ ‘I believe that does happen,’ said Jason. ‘Uncles can be younger than their nephews and nieces. So your mother Chalciope married Phrixus?’fn60 ‘Correct.’ ‘Whom you say Aeëtes may have killed?’ ‘It’s a pretty fair bet.’ ‘And yet your mother stays at the palace in Aia?’ ‘She loves her father. Now, two more bends in the river and we will see that palace.’ ‘We’ll stop here then,’ commanded Jason. The talk of Aeëtes’ power and apparently murderous propensities put Jason on his guard. He ordered everyone to disembark from the Argo and lift her out of the river. They carried her across to a wooded area that he picked out as a sheltered hiding place. They covered her with some of the netting they used for catching fish on the voyage. Jason instructed them to twist saplings and leaves through the netting so that from a distance the ship was invisible in its woodland setting. ‘Animals merge into their backgrounds to avoid danger,’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t we?’ Carrying gifts for the royal court they set out on foot over the short distance to Aia. But before the Argonauts reached the city, the four sons of Phrixus took their leave, promising to meet up later. Aeëtes would not take kindly to seeing them amongst Jason’s party.

T HE E AGLE K ING If King Aeëtesfn61 was surprised or alarmed by the band of renowned heroes that trooped into his court, he concealed it well. He accepted with dignified courtesy the gifts Jason offered, before introducing his family. ‘My wife, Queen Idyia …’ Jason bowed towards an old lady, who inclined her head with markedly stiff and frosty disdain. ‘My daughter, Medea …’ A pair of green eyes flashed towards him and turned away. ‘My daughter Chalciope …’ Something approaching a smile here. ‘And my son, Absyrtus …’ A boy of eleven or twelve gave a small wave, blushed and looked down at the ground. ‘It is an honour, majesty,’ said Jason with another bow. ‘You have sailed all the way here without having to change ship, you say?’ ‘Indeed.’ ‘Remarkable. You must tell me how you managed such a feat. I should have thought it was impossible. Meanwhile, you are all welcome here. Where are you bound after this? Even further east?’ ‘This is our final destination before we return home, my lord king.’ ‘Colchis? We are honoured. I wonder what you expect to find here.’ ‘We have come to claim the fleece of the golden ram that Phrixus, son of Athamas, left here.’ ‘Oh really?’ ‘My grandfather Cretheus was a brother of Athamas. Through him I am the rightful King of Iolcos and have come to take the Fleece back to its home.’ King Aeëtes stroked his beard. This young man was resourceful, he could see that. He had with him some of the most celebrated warriors and wonder-workers alive. If he really was the grand-nephew of Athamas, his claim to the Fleece was just. Aeëtes could hardly send him and his men back to Greece with a blank refusal. They had – how, he could not guess – sailed directly here. They must have a most remarkable vessel. They might return with a whole fleet of them. Even if he somehow managed to kill them all before they could get back home … a mass poisoning at a feast, for example … the scandal would reverberate around the civilised world. Orpheus alone was as famous as any man since Perseus. Others would come for revenge. No, he must be cleverer than that. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you come for the Fleece, do you? I wondered if the day might dawn when someone would. I prayed to the gods for guidance many years ago on this very matter. They told me that the Fleece could only be taken by one prepared to undergo three tests.’ ‘Tests?’ said Jason. ‘If you agree to undertake them, the Fleece will be yours.’ ‘May I know what they are?’ ‘First you must agree. And your men must swear not to aid you in any way.’ Jason could see no other choice. ‘Very well. Name them.’ ‘You swear before the gods to accept these trials as the only way to take the Fleece?’ ‘I swear before the gods.’ ‘And your men?’ Jason turned and indicated to the Argonauts that they too must assent. They went down on one knee, struck their breasts and pledged their oath. Aeëtes concealed his delight very well. ‘Now. The great god Hephaestus made a gift to me. A pair of bulls with mouths and hoofs of bronze – the fire-breathing Oxen of Colchis, the Khalkotauroi.’ ‘I have heard of them.’ ‘Doubtless you have. They are very famous. Your first task is to yoke these two great beasts together and plough a field with them.’ ‘Consider it done.’ ‘Good. I am a collector of antiquities and objects of curiosity and historical interest. I have in my possession some of the dragon’s teeth that Cadmus used when he founded Thebes. You will sow the furrows you have ploughed with the oxen of Hephaestus with these teeth. When this is done, armed men will rise up from the earth. You must defeat them. That will be task number two.’ ‘Splendid,’ said Jason picking an invisible thread from the sleeve of his tunic. ‘A chance to get some exercise.’ ‘Thirdly, you will go to the Grove of Ares where the Fleece hangs on the branches of a sacred oak. A dragon that never sleeps is coiled around its trunk. Overpower the dragon and the Fleece will be yours. ‘Phew,’ said Jason. ‘For a moment there I was worried that you were going to make it something difficult.’ Aeëtes smiled a thin smile. He knew bravado when he saw it. He knew he was safe. Jason felt none of the confidence he had publicly shown. In an ever-darkening mood he followed the servants that led him to his guest room. When he was alone he threw himself on the bed. ‘Why, gods,’ he groaned, ‘why did you get me all the way here only to place such an insuperable barrier before me? First Pelias sends me on one impossible quest and now, when I am close, another king sets me more unachievable tasks. Am I a mouse, gods, to be batted back and forth in your cruel catlike claws?’

T HREE G ODDESSES Jason’s anguished complaints rose into the heavens where they reached the ears of Athena and Hera on Mount Olympus. ‘He has a point,’ said Athena. ‘Until now I greatly admired his spirit,’ said Hera. ‘This whining self-pity is a disappointment. Comparing us to cats playing with mice. That is hardly proper.’ ‘He has some cause,’ countered Athena. ‘To have got so far and now be trapped into promising the impossible.’ Hera arched an eyebrow. ‘Nothing is impossible.’ ‘You are suggesting we intervene? Go down and assist him?’ ‘That would hardly do. Zeus has made it clear that he frowns on too much of that sort of thing. And heaven knows I have tried to make clear my views of his mortal entanglements. No, one rarely if ever makes appearances these days. We could send a plague to kill Aeëtes, perhaps?’ ‘But Jason has already sworn an oath to undergo the three trials. It makes no difference whether Aeëtes is alive or dead.’ ‘This is all most vexing,’ said Hera. ‘I am beginning to think my plan to use the young man as a means to punish Pelias for daring to violate my temple is too elaborate, too indirect. Perhaps Jason is not the right vessel. So young. So cocky and headstrong.’ Athena stroked the chest of the owl that sat on her shoulder. ‘Ah, I think I have it. The daughter of Aeëtes …’ ‘Chalciope?’ ‘No, the other – Medea.’ ‘What of her?’ ‘It happens that she is a worshipper of HECATE and skilled in her arts.’fn62 ‘Is she now?’ ‘None more so, they say. She could help Jason.’ ‘But why should she?’ ‘What is it that drives mortals more than anything? More than power or gold?’ ‘Ah!’ said Hera, nodding her head. ‘How wise you are, Athena. Seek Aphrodite out.’ Athena found the goddess of love in Cyprus. ‘How may I help you?’ asked Aphrodite. ‘Hera and I need a Princess of Colchis called Medea to fall in love with a Prince of Iolcos called Jason. You see, Hera intends this Jason to …’ ‘I really don’t need the reason,’ said Aphrodite. ‘I know this Medea. It has long irritated me to see how she devotes herself to Hecate while neglecting me. I shall send my boy to her at once.’

M EDEA Medea was sitting and reading a clay tablet on a window seat in the corridor of the palace when Eros arrived in the early morning. She did not see him, for the god of desire was invisible. He stood there, his quiverful of arrows over his shoulder and his silver bow strung and ready. ‘What a beautiful young woman,’ he thought to himself. ‘No wonder mother is annoyed that she has remained single all her life. Lucky Jason.’ He turned his head towards the entrance to the palace’s guest wing and blew. Jason woke suddenly in his bed. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Strange dream. Eros had whispered in his ear and commanded him to … It was all nonsense. He had other things to think of than the sport of love. He must see if there was a way to defeat these oxen. No reason not to explore the palace; he might find something that could help. Eros shot his arrow into Medea’s chest and stepped back. She looked up from her tablet. The young prince Jason was walking along the corridor in her direction. Why had she not noticed how handsome he was? Oh my heavens, he was more than handsome, he was beautiful! That hair, that walk, those eyes, that slim but muscled frame. She stood. ‘Jason!’ He saw her. ‘Ah, Princess Medea, isn’t it? I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for –’ ‘I can help you. Come, come with me.’ She led him by the hand to the corner of the palace where she kept her shrine to Hecate. She turned to him, her green eyes alight. ‘I am going to help you with your three trials.’ ‘That’s wonderful. Why?’ ‘Why? Because I love you, Jason. I love you and will come with you when you return to Greece. I will be by your side, always.’ This could only be the work of Eros. That must be what his dream had meant. Jason knew that his prayers had been heard. And how wonderful a way to answer them. This Medea was very beautiful indeed. ‘I am going to prepare a salve, an ointment,’ she said. ‘In the morning you must rub yourself all over with it. Every part of you, from the crown of your head to the soles of your feet.’ ‘Why? ‘It will protect you from the fire of the bulls. You will be invulnerable for the course of one day. As you anoint yourself, pray to Hecate. That is important. I’ll teach you the right words. You must learn them.’ ‘I will.’ ‘I love you, Jason. I would do anything for you. Anything.’ Anything. She meant it.

T HE K HALKOTAUROI At one side of a broad hedged field King Aeëtes and his court were gathered on a platform under a large canopy that shaded them from the heat and glare of the noonday sun. A crowd of excited spectators pressed in around the other three sides of the field. ‘It’s going to be rather bloody,’ Aeëtes warned his wife. ‘I enjoy a good spectacle,’ said Idyia, stifling a yawn. ‘What about you, my dear?’ said Aeëtes, turning to his daughter Chalciope. ‘Think you can take a bit of a gore?’ She nodded listlessly. Still fretting herself about those sons of hers, thought Aeëtes. Good riddance to them. Phrixus was gone, those boys of his were gone and soon this Jason would be gone. All who threatened him would be gone. Now his daughter Medea joined them. ‘Ah, you don’t mind some blood and guts, do you?’ Medea smiled. ‘I am so looking forward to this, papa.’ Absyrtus clambered up onto the dais. ‘No, my darling …’ said Aeëtes firmly, but with a soft affection he reserved only for his youngest child, the ‘consolation for my old age’ as he called him. ‘But papa!’ ‘You’re too young. Tell him, Idyia.’ ‘Obey your father, child,’ said Idyia without turning round. ‘It’s not something fit for a boy of your age to see,’ said Aeëtes. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. We’ll go and see the dragon tomorrow. How’s that?’ Absyrtus swung moodily round and clambered down. Aeëtes clapped his hands and nodded to his steward who signalled to the musicians. Trumpets sounded, the crowd of Colchians cheered and Jason stepped forward, holding a yoke and harness. He presented the most magnificent sight. He was naked but for a shield and sword and his whole body gleamed. ‘Ha! The fool’s rubbed oil all over himself. That’ll only make matters much worse. One blast from the bulls and his skin will catch fire. Oh, this is going to be good!’ Another fanfare and gates at the far end of the field opened. Two enormous bulls trotted out. They stopped for a moment, pawing the ground with their bronze hoofs. Medea gazed at Jason, trying to keep the look of love out of her eyes. Aeëtes glanced across at her. She really is a bloodthirsty little thing, he thought to himself. Quite my favourite daughter. In the centre of the field Jason dropped the yoke and harness and began to beat his sword against his shield. The crowd roared their approval. The bulls looked up and bellowed. With flames bursting from their mouths and smoke pouring from their nostrils, they charged. Jason held his ground. ‘By the gods, this ointment better work,’ he muttered to himself, as the bulls galloped towards him. The flames enveloped him as they approached, but he felt nothing. Leaping to one side he slammed his shield into the first bull, which stumbled. The other turned on him and directed a ball of fire directly into his face. Jason stabbed its side with his sword and its bellow turned to a shriek. The bulls had never had to fight before. Their flames had always been weapon enough. On Jason they had no effect and it demoralised them. They circled him, puffing smoke and jetting out ever more feeble spears of fire. The crowd stood to their feet as Jason picked up the yoke and attached it to the bulls who bowed their heads, humbly submissive to his touch. The royal steward approached Jason with a wooden ploughshare. He skirted the yoked bulls with evident fear, which set the crowd jeering. The ploughing itself was easy enough. The bulls were subdued and obedient and the furrows they ploughed straight and deep. Jason turned towards Aeëtes. ‘One!’ he shouted. ‘One!’ echoed the crowd. Aeëtes swept his hand in a gesture that was supposed to combine impassive acceptance, a modicum of admiration and an air of regal graciousness. It succeeded only in looking petulant. A trumpet sounded and the steward approached Jason again, bearing this time a silver box high above his head. Jason took it and gave it a shake. He heard the rattle of the dragon’s teeth. Aeëtes watched with a frown. How this conceited youth could have withstood the blast of the oxens’ breath was more than he could understand. It was displeasing too that the crowd should be so loudly and unmistakably on his side. Well, it was one thing to tame the bulls, quite another to defeat the armed men that would spring from the soil. Jason walked the furrows, sowing the long, sharp yellow dragon’s teeth in the grooves. When he had finished he stood back and looked for a suitable stone. Medea had told him that the way to defeat the Spartoi, the ‘sown men’ that would rise up fully armed from the earth, would be to throw a large stone into their ranks. He saw a jagged boulder that was big but not too heavy for him to lift and edged round to it. He looked across the field. The eyes of the king and the crowd were on the ploughed earth, from which the tips of spears were beginning to sprout. The green eyes of Medea were on him. He nodded and leaned down to pick up the boulder. The spear tips were followed by helmets, then shoulders, trunks and legs. The field was now filled with row on row of rough, virile soldiers. They roared in unison, grunting out war cries and brandishing their weapons. The sight and sound of them was terrible. Jason raised the boulder above his head and hurled it with all his might. It landed on two of the Spartoi in the middle of the field and bounced off onto the shoulder of another. Immediately they turned on each other with a snarl and started to fight. Others joined in, and soon they were all stabbing, roaring, thrusting and throttling each other. One by one they fell, until only one was standing. The lone soldier staggered groggily about the field of his slain companions. Jason marched smartly up to him and with one sweep of his sword, cut off his head. He held the head high as he turned to Aeëtes and shouted. ‘Two!’ ‘Two!’ yelled the crowd. Aeëtes stood, turned his back on the field and left. The rest of the court went with him, but the crowd stayed to chant Jason’s praises. He knelt down and thanked Hecate, Hera, Athena, Aphrodite and all the gods he could think of for his deliverance. ‘And thank you, Eros,’ he added, ‘for sending me Medea.’

T HE G ROVE OF A RES Late that afternoon Aeëtes called a council of his leading warriors, chieftains and nobles. ‘This kingdom will be humiliated in the eyes of the world if we let Jason leave Colchis with the Fleece. It cannot be allowed to happen.’ The council murmured assent. ‘But how did he defeat the Khalkotauroi?’ asked one of the noblemen. ‘Yes, that’s what I want to know.’ ‘Perhaps I can help,’ came a female voice. They all turned to see Idyia, Aeëtes’ wife, standing in the doorway ‘Really, my dear,’ said Aeëtes, ‘this is a royal council. We cannot have women walking in and –’ ‘Oh well, if you don’t wish to know who is responsible for helping this Jason, it really makes no difference to me,’ she said, turning away with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘You know? Then you must tell us.’ ‘Our daughter Medea,’ said Idyia. ‘Who else is versed enough in witchcraft? Besides, I saw them together yesterday afternoon. She was kissing him.’ Aeëtes barked orders everywhere. ‘Find her! Arrest her! Imprison her!’ ‘But what if Jason gets away with the Fleece?’ said one of the generals of Aeëtes’ army. ‘I ordered that his ship be found. He won’t get too far without that.’ ‘Yes, my lord, but we have scoured the countryside far and wide without success. One party searched all the way to Phasis. The vessel must be out to sea.’ ‘Well in that case they’ll have to follow the river to join it. We can cut them to pieces if they try.’ We leave Aeëtes to his council and turn our attention back to Jason. We find him, having reunited with the four grandsons of Aeëtes, being led by them through the dusk of evening to the Grove of Ares. They were soon joined by Medea, who pulled up short at the sight of the nephews. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it’s us, Aunt Medea! Jason has told us you’re are on our side. We’re with him too.’ ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ ‘Wasn’t it fantastic, the way that he dealt with the Khalkotauroi!’ ‘We watched the whole thing with Absyrtus through a gap in the hedge, didn’t we Absyrtus?’ Medea’s young brother, who had been hiding behind his nephews, came forward and smiled up at his sister. ‘Hey there, Medea.’ ‘You as well?’ ‘Let’s face it,’ said Melas. ‘None of us ever liked the old man, did we? He’s grown so cruel with age. And as for grandmother – she’s a dead fish.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ said Jason. ‘This is all very charming, but you must go now. Round up the crew and accompany them to the Argo. If I don’t join you tonight with the Fleece you are all to leave without me, you understand?’ ‘But –’ ‘This is not a subject for debate. Go!’ The four brothers and young Absyrtus left. Medea fell into Jason’s arms. ‘They are searching for me. My father must have guessed at my part in your victory. Oh darling, you were so splendid!’ They kissed. ‘We must hurry, my love,’ she said. ‘The grove is just there …’ Medea pulled Jason along with her and they hurried through a long avenue of trees. At the end stood a great oak. Moonlight streamed down upon it, illuminating the golden-scales of thick coils that wound around the trunk. As they approached, the head of a great dragon came round from the other side of the tree and opened its mouth with a hiss. ‘Whatever I do,’ Medea said quietly, ‘you are not to interfere. You promise?’ Jason nodded. He was content to keep his distance. He had never seen a dragon before. Were they all as huge as this one? It raised its head high and gazed down at them. Medea stepped forward. The dragon hissed. Medea threw up a hand and sang out some words that Jason could not quite hear. The dragon lowered its head so that it was level with Medea. She stared deep into the vertical slits of its yellow eyes, the eyes that could never close, chanting her incantations all the while. The dragon froze, its mouth sagged open and great strings of drool dropped to the ground. The grass and moss below hissed and steamed as the venomous saliva hit them. Medea took dried herbs, roots and flowers from her satchel and rubbed them into a ball in the palms of her hands. The dragon was frozen and immobile, but Jason could hear the slow panting of its breath. Medea pushed the ball into the dragon’s open mouth. It fizzed on its tongue; with a sigh, the creature lurched and tottered to the ground. ‘He’s sleeping,’ said Medea. ‘Now let’s take the Fleece and go.’ ‘But where is it?’ said Jason, gazing up at the oak in confusion. ‘The other side, you idiot.’ Jason moved round the trunk. The Fleece was hanging from the lower branches, but still too high for him to reach. Medea leapt on his shoulders, reached up and threw it down. It was a fleece of rough and ragged sheep’s wool, of the kind you might see draped on the hedges of any field. But it was gold, so very gold. It shimmered when Jason stroked it. A million sparkles of light glittered as he ran his fingers through its shining fibres. ‘Plenty of time to play with it when we are safely aboard your ship,’ said Medea. ‘Come!’ They stepped round the sleeping dragon and, hand in hand, ran laughing down the grove, the Golden Fleece slung across Medea’s shoulders like a peasant’s shawl.

E SCAPE FROM C OLCHIS The Argo floated down the Phasis, the river’s current strong enough to speed them away from any pursuit. The crew had found their ship securely hidden under her camouflage netting. When the Argonauts saw Jason and Medea coming through the dark and the Fleece gleaming and streaming they had let out a great cheer. Now, as they glided down the river, each Argonaut came up in turn to touch it. When he had finished feeling it, Orpheus had tears in his eyes. ‘Men will sing of this through the ages,’ he said, ‘but let me be the first.’ He tuned his lyre and softly sang as the other Argonauts approached one by one to admire the Fleece. The grandsons of Aeëtes and young Absyrtus were open-mouthed with astonishment. ‘Only seen it from a distance,’ they said. ‘Never thought this day would come.’ Nestor was as profoundly moved as Orpheus. ‘Yet there is a long distance, and a long time, between here and now and Iolcos,’ he warned. ‘Aeëtes will surely pursue us. They say he has a navy second only to that of Minos of Crete.’ Jason had long grown accustomed to relying on Nestor’s wisdom. When everyone had finished paying homage to the Fleece, he took Nestor and Ancaeus the helmsman aside. ‘I agree that Aeëtes will come after us with all the force he can muster,’ Jason said. ‘What do you advise we do about it?’ Nestor considered awhile before speaking, a habit of his that irked many but which guaranteed that nothing foolish ever came from his mouth. ‘Aeëtes is certain to discover that the Symplegades are no longer blocking the Bosporus. News that the passage between the Propontis and the Euxine Sea lies open will have spread through all the ports and towns in the region. He will pursue us there. Therefore we should go another way.’ Jason stared. ‘What do you mean “another way”? There is no other way. The Euxine is an inland sea. The Bosporus is the only connection with the Propontis and thence the Hellespont, the Mediterranean and home.’ ‘What about the Istros?’ said Nestor. ‘The Istros!’ Jason leaned forward and kissed Nestor on the forehead. ‘You are a genius, my friend.’ ‘Yes,’ cried Ancaeus. ‘Istros! Why didn’t I think of that?’ The Istros was a long river that flowed through many strange kingdoms to the north of Greece. It rose somewhere in the barbarian west, but its great delta drained through the northwestern shore of the Euxine Sea. We call it the Danube today. Nestor explained to the two helmsmen, Ancaeus and Euphemus, that they could sail up the Istros, across the top of Thrace and westwards along the river courses almost to Galatia; from here they could voyage south along the western coast of Italy, round Sicily and the Ionian islands, thence to the Peloponnese and north along the east coast of Greece for Thessaly and Iolcos. This would entirely fool Aeëtes, who would be certain to go the direct route – the route the Argo had taken on her outward voyage.fn63 They reached the port of Phasis without incident, stocked the Argo with as much food, water and other necessary provisions as they could barter or buy and, barely four days after Jason and Medea had passed Aeëtes’ three tests and won the Fleece, they were sailing across the Euxine Sea heading northwest for the Istrian delta. By the afternoon of the first day out from Phasis, it was apparent that a ship was in hot pursuit behind them. Keen to disguise their intentions, they changed course, as if heading to the Bosporus. Medea looked back and recognised the prize galley of the Colchian fleet. ‘It is my father,’ she said. ‘His is the fastest ship in the world. It has three banks of oars.’ ‘He’s gaining on us,’ said Jason. ‘Damn. We’ll have to turn side on and fight.’ ‘He has a catapult on board. He will happily toss balls of flaming pitch onto our decks. He stops at nothing to get what he wants.’ ‘But he would burn the Fleece along with us.’ ‘That wouldn’t worry him. He’s fighting for pride, not the Fleece. But fear not, my darling Jason, I stop at nothing too.’ She took Jason’s face in her hands and kissed him hard. ‘Back in a moment.’ Jason turned back to watch the Colchian ship bearing relentlessly down upon them. It was close enough now for him to be able to make out the brightly coloured prow, dipping and rising in the waves. It was painted to look like the face of the guardian dragon of the Golden Fleece. Medea returned to the sternpost, arms around her young brother Absyrtus. ‘Look, there’s daddy’s ship,’ she said, pointing. Absyrtus’s eyes widened. ‘He’s going to be so cross when he sees me.’ ‘Upset rather than cross, I think,’ said Medea, cutting open the boy’s throat with one swift stroke of a curved knife. Jason stared in horror as the blood gushed from the child. ‘Medea!’ ‘The only way,’ said Medea. ‘Fetch me an axe, and hurry – they’re gaining on us.’ The boy’s head was the first to go overboard. It bobbed along in the Argo’s wake. Jason and Medea watched as the ship of Aeëtes slowed down, raised its oars and came to a stop. ‘He loved that boy,’ said Medea, looking on with satisfaction. ‘He will never allow his soul to go the underworld unless the body has been purified and all proper funeral rites observed.’ Jason said nothing. Medea was beautiful. She was devoted to him. But there were limits. Surely there were limits.

T HE J OURNEY H OME By the time the last pieces of Absyrtus had been dropped into the water at careful intervals, Aeëtes’ ship was far behind, out of sight below the horizon. Night had fallen when Jason and Ancaeus felt confident in altering course back to their original destination. A week later the Argo slipped safely and unobserved through the marshes that fringed the mouth of the Istros and entered into Thrace. Their route swung, as Nestor had explained when he told the other Argonauts of his plan, in a wide arc west and north through the strange kingdom of the Hyperboreans – through what we would call Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary and Sloveniafn64 – until they struck south around Italy and the Peloponnese. The talking figurehead, though, began telling Jason that they had no chance of reaching Iolcos. ‘What are you saying?’ said Jason. ‘The Colchians lost us weeks ago, there’s fair weather ahead and our route is clear. What can stop us?’ ‘The gods can stop you,’ said the figurehead. ‘The weather may be fair, but your behaviour has been foul.’ Jason looked over his shoulder to be sure that Medea was not within earshot. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You know very well,’ tutted the figurehead. ‘A blood crime of the most abominable kind has been committed. Did you think such a thing could go unpunished? If you fail to cleanse yourselves, Zeus and Poseidon will send storms and sea serpents until there is nothing left of this ship and its crew. Nothing left but me, of course …’ ‘How can we cleanse ourselves?’ ‘Put in at Aeaea and seek the help of the sorceress Circe.’ ‘What a good idea,’ said Medea, who had heard everything. She had very sharp hearing. ‘She is my aunt and knows even more than me about potions, enchantments and cleansing rites.’ Circe welcomed them on her home island of Aeaea with warmth and genuine happiness. Wolves and lions came out with her to meet them, but they proved to be as tame as domestic dogs and cats, licking them and nuzzling around their ankles. She lived a lonely life, taking most of her pleasure in turning sailors unfortunate enough to land on Aeaea into domestic animals.fn65 Circe took great delight in performing the rituals, chanting the appropriate incantations and piacular prayers, for the purification of her niece and the proper propitiation of the gods. Overnight, however, the truth of what Medea had done was revealed to Circe in a dream and the following morning she cursed them off her island with shrieks of disgust. ‘In the name of all that is holy, he was your younger brother, my nephew! It is only because I fear committing a blood crime like yours that I let you leave unharmed!’ she yelled after them. ‘Go and never return!’ ‘I thought that went rather well,’ said Medea sweetly as they sailed south, hugging Italy’s western coast. They were upon Sirenum Scopuli, the Siren Rock, before they knew it. The strains of sweet music were wafted into the ears of everyone on board as they approached. Members of the crew began to snatch at the air trying to catch the sound, like puppies snapping at butterflies. They stood at the gunwales of the Argo and leaned out, straining to get closer. Jason was ready for his – ‘Now!’ he shouted to Orpheus, who stood high on the foredeck, picked up his lyre and began to sing his own song. The two most enticing sounds in the world intermingled. Orpheus’s music, being in closer proximity to the Argonauts, won the day. He had been saving a special song, his most perfect, for just this occasion. Jason and the others turned away from the Sirens on their rock and let the rippling of Orpheus’s lyre and the sublime tones of his voice enter their minds and hearts. Only one member of the crew was immune to the competing sounds of Orpheus’s lyre. A Sicilian king named BUTES had been recruited solely for his prodigious skill with bees. Each time the Argo had occasion to put in to shore he would go inland to hunt out honey, giving the crew a chance to sweeten their often unappetising rations. The song of the Sirens, no one later could explain why, maddened him more violently and uncontrollably than anyone else and, wresting himself free of the others, he threw himself overboard and started swimming towards their island. The tender beauty of the Sirens’ music was inversely proportional to the vicious cruelty of their purpose. They sang to entice sailors – birds and wildlife too – and draw them onto the rocky cliffs of their home. They would hop from their crags to the wrecked ships and feast on their transfixed crewmen. Orpheus’s competing song had frustrated them, but when they saw Butes floundering on the waves they knew that they would at least have something to eat that day. Even that small snack was to be denied them, however. Aphrodite swept down, whisked Butes from the waves and carried him to Lilybaeum in his home island of Sicily.fn66 As soon as the Argo sailed clear of the Siren Rock, Jason was faced with a difficult choice. To the west lay the channel that passed between the fearsome SCYLLA and CHARYBDIS. Scylla was a dreadful six-headed monster who would lean down from a cliff to pluck up and eat six crew members of any ship that passed too close to her. But try to steer too far away from her cliff and a vessel would be pulled into the path of Charybdis, a fast churning whirlpool that could suck down an entire ship. Instead, Jason ordered Ancaeus to veer away, avoiding Scylla and Charybdis altogether, but taking them towards another danger – the infamous Planctae, or Wandering Rocks.fn67 These were turbulent waters close to Mount Etna, whose fury caused them violently to froth and churn between dangerous reefs, bubbling with flame and smoke. Once the Argo was caught in their currents, there could be no turning back. Ancaeus fought to steer as they were flung towards streaming black volcanic boulders. The Argo was a large ship but now she was nothing more than a toy boat hurtling through foaming white rapids.fn68 Above the roar of the torrent, Jason could hear the precise nagging tones of the figurehead. When he was finally able to make out what it was saying, he pulled Ancaeus round and yelled in his ear. ‘Don’t try to steer! Let go!’ ‘What?’ ‘Let go of the tiller bar. Just let go!’ ‘Are you mad?’ ‘Do as I say!’ Ancaeus obeyed. In truth controlling the tiller had been like trying to catch a tiger by the tail, and he was more than glad to let go and commend his spirit to heaven. They were all in the hands of the gods now – and that was just as the figurehead intended. Hurled this way and that, slammed sideways and spun round and round, plunging down and rearing up, the ship somehow threaded her way through without once touching a rock. When they were at last vomited out of the mad ferment into calm sea, the Argonauts fell to their knees and thanked the gods for their miraculous salvation. All but one. ‘That was fun,’ said Medea, looking back at the smoke, steam and spray raising from the reefs. ‘Can we have another go?’ ‘It was Hera, Queen of Heaven,’ said Jason. ‘She guided us through. When next we make landfall, we must sacrifice a great heifer to her.’ They made landfall a few days later, on the green and fertile island of Scheria, home of the Phaeacian people.fn69 Their king and queen, ALCINOUS and ARETE, welcomed them, feasted them and provided them with the animals that allowed them to send up their grateful prayers and sacrifices to Hera for their deliverance from the Planctae. They had been on Scheria a week when five strange ships dropped anchor in the harbour. Ships from Colchis. Aeëtes himself was not on board, but their leader presented himself before King Alcinous and insisted that Medea be handed over. ‘She is the property of King Aeëtes, not of the pirate Jason. Aeëtes demands her return.’ ‘But my understanding is that Medea does not wish to go back to Colchis.’ ‘It is the wishes of the king her father that are paramount. She and this Jason are not man and wife. She is also in possession of a valuable and sacred object belonging to our kingdom.’ ‘What object is that?’ The deputation conferred. ‘We are not at liberty to state.’ In another part of the palace Medea was kneeling before Queen Arete. ‘You do not understand how cruel my father is,’ she wept. ‘He is a monster.’ ‘But Jason sounds like a monster too,’ said Arete. ‘The Colchians tell us that he kidnapped your young brother and chopped him up, dropping pieces into the sea. Can you really want to live with a man like that?’ ‘That is a lie!’ sobbed Medea, letting her hair fall over the queen’s feet and waving it backwards and forwards as she wailed. ‘My brother died of fever and Jason was the first to insist we lose valuable time to give him a proper funeral.’ Arete’s heart was moved. ‘I shall go to my husband immediately,’ she said. She arrived at the throne room in time to hear Alcinous delivering his judgement. ‘If Medea is a virgin,’ he ruled, ‘she belongs to her father and must return with the Colchians. If she is not, she must stay with Jason. I have sent for a venerable and wise priestess who lives in the north of our island and who knows how to determine the … er … the state of female parts.’ Arete left and ran to Medea and Jason. ‘There is no time to lose. I must ask you this. Have you slept together? By which I mean … have you coupled?’ Jason blushed. ‘We have had no time … on board ship it has hardly been possible …’ Arete turned to Medea. ‘My dear, are you still intact?’ Medea dropped her head. For once she had no need to lie. ‘I am.’ ‘Then tonight you must put that right,’ said Arete. ‘Tomorrow morning a woman will arrive and inspect you. If she finds you are still intact, my husband will deliver you into the hands of the Colchian legation.’ It was a tableau of rare power and beauty. Jason and Medea spread out the Fleece and made love on its soft and golden wool. The next morning the frustrated Colchians departed. Alcinous summoned Jason to his throne room. ‘My ships will escort you until you can be sure of your way home,’ said the king. Now that he had made his decision, he was not of a mind to let the Colchians ambush the Argo when they left Scheria. The Argonauts sailed under the Phaeacian escort for three days and nights before saluting a grateful farewell and threading their way round the islands of the Ionian Sea.fn70 They neared Crete having sighted no Colchian ships for days, only to be faced by the most extraordinary threat they had yet encountered. As they approached Souda Bay great surging waves rocked them until the Argo nearly capsized. On the Cretan shore they saw a huge man … not a man … a machine made to look like a man and formed entirely of bronze. It stamped its great bronze feet up and down and sent waves crashing against the Argo’s hull. ‘Quick, turn the ship about! And row!’ yelled Jason. ‘Row like you rowed through the Clashing Rocks!’ Once they were safely out of range, they looked back. The huge automaton was striding round the corner of the island and out of sight. ‘What the hell was that?’ demanded the Argonauts. ‘TALOS,’ said Nestor. ‘That was Talos.’ ‘My tutor Chiron told me about him when I was a child,’ said Jason, ‘but I always thought it was just a stupid story made up to amuse me.’ ‘He’s real enough as you have seen,’ said Nestor. ‘He walks around Crete three times every day to protect the island from pirates and invading fleets.’ ‘Is it true that Hephaestus constructed him in his Olympian forge at the command of Zeus?’ asked Jason. ‘I thought Daedalus built him for King Minos,’ said Meleager. ‘No, no. I believe I am right in saying that he is the last of the great race of Bronze Men,’ Nestor said. ‘They were born from the Meliae – you know, the nymphs of the ash tree who sprang from the earth when Kronos castrated his father Ouranos.’fn71 ‘If that is true,’ said Medea, ‘then he is not a machine, but a mortal; and as a mortal he can be killed.’ ‘But darling,’ said Jason. ‘He is made of solid bronze.’ ‘Not quite true,’ said Nestor. ‘Whether he is man or machine, it is certain that he has a single tube or pipe running down from his neck to his ankle like a great vein. This is where his ichor runs, the divine fluid necessary for his life and motion.fn72 It is all held in by a brass nail in his heel. If that nail is dislodged, the liquid will run out and he will fall.’ ‘Why risk engaging with him?’ Meleager asked. ‘Let’s just leave.’ ‘We need provisions,’ said Euphemus. ‘We’re out of fresh water, bread, fruit … everything.’ ‘Besides,’ said Ancaeus, ‘he’s here again!’ It was true, Talos had reemerged and was sloshing through the waves towards them. ‘Let me,’ said Medea, standing up high on the foredeck, calling out her incantations. ‘Come Talos, come! Come to me, come to me!’ Talos stopped mid-stride and cocked his head. Medea stared deep into the blank eyes chanting all the while. As the dragon in the Grove of Ares had done, Talos froze. ‘There,’ said Medea. ‘Now, someone go down and pull out that nail of his.’ Pirithous was only too happy to dive into the water and do the deed. He came up from the waves, a bronze pin between his teeth. Behind him the automaton creaked, tottered and crashed into the sea. Jason hugged Medea. ‘You’re a miracle worker!’fn73 They crept east along the northern shore of the island and put in at Heraklion,fn74 where the collapse of Talos had yet to be noticed. Now provisioned for the final leg of their homeward voyage they sailed on to Iolcos.fn75

T HE M AGICAL D EATH OF P ELIAS Jason knelt before Pelias, the Fleece spread out before him. The successful return of Jason and his crew complete with Golden Fleece was the last thing that Pelias had expected or hoped for. Wicked men who send heroes on their quests always believe that they are sending them to certain death. Wicked men never learn, for wicked men have no interest in myths, legends and stories. If they had they would learn from them and triumph, so we must be glad of their ignorance and dullness of wits. ‘Sorry it took so long,’ said Jason, ‘but Colchis is a fair distance and there were one or two obstacles on the way.’ Pelias, under the curious gaze of his court, did his best to look pleased. ‘I accept this Fleece. It certainly looks genuine. You may leave.’ They withdrew. It was clear at once that Pelias had no intention of giving up his throne. What is more, Jason now discovered that his father and mother, Aeson and Alcimede, were dead. Some said that, along with his young brother Promachus, they had been executed by Pelias; others that a distraught Aeson had poisoned his wife and son and fallen on his own sword after Pelias told him that it was certain the Argo had sunk with all lives lost. ‘In either case,’ said Jason bitterly, ‘Pelias is responsible for their deaths.’ ‘Let me deal with that, darling,’ said Medea. ‘He’s your kinsman and it wouldn’t be right for you to be seen to end his life. You know how fussy gods and mortals are about such things.’ Medea befriended Pelias’s nine daughters, the PELIADES:fn76 ALCESTISfn77, ACASTUS, fn78, ANTINOË, ASTEROPEIA, EVADNE,fn79 HIPPOTHOË, AMPHINOME, PELOPIA and PISIDICE. ‘It is so sad that your father is growing old,’ she said to them. ‘My own father, Aeëtes, is twenty years Pelias’s senior, but he looks – and acts – young enough to be his grandson.’ ‘How is that?’ the daughters demanded. ‘I expect you’ve heard of my powers,’ said Medea. ‘They say you’re a witch!’ said Pelopia. ‘I always think that’s such a terrible word. I prefer ‘enchantress’. Yes, there are ways to make your father youthful, but I don’t suppose you’d be interested?’ ‘Oh, we would, we would!’ cried the girls, who loved their father very much. Medea now prepared a gruesome conjuring trick. With the girls watching in open-mouthed stupefaction, she took an old ram and cut its throat before butchering it into small pieces which she threw into a great cauldron. Next she sprinkled magic herbs into the pot and made dramatic passes over it with her hands. Suddenly, a bleating sound was heard and a lamb leapt alive from the cauldron and gambolled awayfn80. The girls gasped and clapped their hands. ‘There you are,’ said Medea, handing them a packet of herbs. ‘Now you try it. Don’t forget to move your hands exactly like this …’ She repeated the mystical gestures she had made over the pot. The girls ran to Pelias’s chamber where he was taking his afternoon nap. With cries of joy and excitement they slit his throat and cut him up. They carried the bloody chunks of his flesh to the cauldron, dropped them in, sprinkled in the herbs and made the magical passes with their hands. They waited breathlessly for a rejuvenated Pelias to spring from the pot, but strangely he did not. When they went sobbing to their brother Acastus and told him what they had done, he immediately knew that the girls had been tricked. ‘She gave you the wrong herbs, you fools!’fn81 Acastus arranged not only a grand funeral for his father, but funeral games too. They were to become the most famous yet celebrated, surpassed only by those held a generation later by Achilles to honour the death of his beloved friend PATROCLUS, cut down by HECTOR before the walls of Troy. Acastus was a far more likeable man than his fatherfn82 and the people of Iolcos believed him when he apportioned as much blame to Jason as to Medea for the death of Pelias. From being the popular hero Jason became overnight a loathed criminal. Until he atoned for the blood killing – Pelias was, after all, his unclefn83 – he could not even stay in Iolcos, let alone claim its throne. So Medea and Jason fled, leaving Acastus to rule the kingdom. The crew of the Argo dispersed, returning to their homes, lives and subsequent adventures. Many of them were to meet up again and join in the Calydonian boar hunt. Meanwhile, it is worth leaving Jason and Medea for a moment to relate the story of Ancaeus, the man who took over the duties of helmsman of the Argo following the death of Tiphys. Once the Argo had put in at Iolcos, Ancaeus made for his home island of Samos, just north of Patmos. Before he left to join the Argonauts, he had planted out a vineyard, which he hoped would be bearing grapes by the time he came backfn84 The island’s seer told Ancaeus that, while he would certainly return to Samos safe and sound, he would never taste the vineyard’s wine. On his return Ancaeus saw to his delight that the grapes had ripened beautifully and been turned into wine. He summoned the seer before him and raised a cup of the wine to his lips. ‘So much for your false prophecies,’ he said, waving the cup in the seer’s face. ‘I should sack you for incompetence.’ ‘There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,’ said the seer.fn85 Just as Ancaeus was about to take a drink, a clamour rose up outside. A wild boar was ravaging the vineyard. Ancaeus put down the cup and ran out to inspect the damage. The boar charged out, tossed him on his tusks and gored him to death. The seer, fully aware that he had coined a new proverb that would be repeated for generations, picked up the cup of wine and drained it. The boar was later sent by Artemis to Calydon, as we shall find out when we follow the adventures of Atalanta.

M EDEA RISES UP The story of Jason and Medea now moves to Corinth where they found refuge from the wrath of Acastus and the people of Iolcos.fn86 King CREONfn87 offered them sanctuary, and they soon settled in comfortably enough to life in his palace. Medea bore Jason three sonsfn88 and all was well until Jason’s eye fell upon Creon’s daughter CREUSA. Eros’s arrow, when it struck Medea, had never pierced a heart more ready for utter devotion. Her love for Jason was animal, obsessive and terrifyingly passionate. Her fury when she discovered his betrayal no less volcanic. To herself she swore revenge, yet she had enough inner strength somehow to conceal her rage, her hurt and her drastic intentions. ‘Can it be true,’ she asked Jason, ‘that you have decided to leave me?’ ‘It’s political,’ he replied. ‘If I marry into Creon’s family then one day our children might rule Corinth and Iolcos. You can see the value in that, surely?’ ‘After all I’ve done for you?’ Medea kept her voice steady. ‘Who was it who helped you defeat the fire-breathing oxen and the great serpent of the Grove of Ares? Who was it who overcame Talos of Crete …’ ‘Yes, yes, yes. But it was Aphrodite when you come to think of it. Idmon told me the whole thing before he died. Aphrodite sent Eros to make you fall in love with me. On the orders of my protectress Hera. It was all her doing really, she was the one who helped me. You were merely her vessel.’ Merely – her – vessel. In the days to come Medea would repeat those words to herself many times. But what came out of her mouth now was: ‘Of course, my love. You are right. I know that. I am happy for you, and happy for Creusa and her family. And to prove it, I shall send her the finest wedding gifts I can procure.’ ‘You’re an angel,’ Jason kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Knew you’d understand.’ Slapping her cheerfully on the behind, he left the room. Men! It’s not that they’re brutish, boorish, shallow and insensitive – though I dare say many are. It’s just that they’re so damned blind. So incredibly stupid. Men in myth and fiction at least. In real life we are keen, clever and entirely without fault of course. Creusa’s wedding gifts arrived, a gold coronet of leaves and a gorgeously embroidered and scented robe – all smeared by Medea with deadly poison. Creusa could not wait to try them on in front of a mirror of polished bronze. Within minutes the venom burned through her skin and entered her bloodstream. Her howls of pain summoned her father Creon, who held the dying girl in his arms, wailing and sobbing. But when he tried to lay her body down, he found that the poison gown was stuck to him and he too died in agony. Now Medea prepared to kill her sons.fn89 It might seem that what Medea was about to do is the most terrible of her catalogue of gruesome crimes; but in Medea, Euripides puts in her mouth a great speech in which she prevaricates over whether or not to do the deed. It stands as one of the great soliloquies in drama. From it Medea emerges sympathetically as a tragic and wholly human dramatic hero.fn90 The infanticide is something she agonises over. At first she decides she cannot and must not do it. Then she pictures what the children’s fate will be if she does not. Less kindly hands than hers will take their lives. Medea I have determined to do the deed at once, to kill my children and leave this land, and not to falter or give my children over to let a hand more hostile murder them. They must die and since they must I, who brought them into the world, will kill them. But arm yourself, my heart. Why hesitate to do these tragic, yet necessary, evils? Come, unhappy hand of mine, take the sword take it, move to the dismal turning point of life. Do not be a coward. Do not think of your children – how much you love them, how you gave them birth. For this one short day forget your children, and mourn tomorrow. For even if you kill them still you loved them very much. I am an unhappy woman. In an astonishing coup de théâtre Medea appears above the stage in a chariot drawn by dragons, sent by her grandfather Helios, god of the sun. She has the bodies of her children with her, fearing that if she leaves them in Corinth they will not be given proper burial. Jason, having been told what has happened to his sons, calls up to her. Their exchange of blame and curses is magnificent. Jason’s final plea to her falls on deaf ears: Jason In the name of the gods let me touch the soft skin of my children. Medea That will not happen. Your words are thrown into the empty air. (She flies off toward Athens)fn91 In Athens we will meet Medea again.fn92 A broken Jason lived on in Corinth until his old friend and fellow Argonaut Peleus, brother of Telamon, persuaded him to return to Iolcos and overthrow Acastus. This they managed and Jason was finally installed as king. His reign did not last long, however. He fell asleep one afternoon under the stern of his beloved Argo and a rotten and poorly attached beam fell on him and killed him instantly. Forward on the prow, the figurehead muttered to itself. ‘I warned him when the sternpost was sheared off by the Clashing Rocks all those years ago. “Mend it well,” I said. “Mend it well, or one day you’ll regret it.” Mortals, there’s no helping them.’

ATALANTA

B ORN TO B E W ILD Many Greek heroes were the mongrel offspring of humans, minor deities, demigods and even full Olympians. Some were born to prophetic curses that caused them to be outcast and raised by foster parents or even foster animals. A great many others would find their divine lineage a curse. Their heroism, perhaps, derived from their ability to bring their mix of the human and the divine to bear against the grinding pressures of fate. Well of course it did. That’s where all heroism comes from. I use the word ‘hero’ shorn of gender. Hero was a reasonably common female first name in the ancient worldfn1 and I hope we can agree that a division into heroes and heroines would be clumsy and unnecessary. The great hero Atalanta had a most royal pedigree: her mother was CLYMENE of the royal Minyad clanfn2 and her father, depending on whether you believe Ovid or Apollodorus as a source, was called either Iasus or Schoeneusfn3. Whatever his name, he was an Arcadian king and the kind of ruler who had no use for female offspring. When his firstborn by Clymene proved to be a girl, he had the child taken from the palace and exposed on a mountainside to die. He was neither the first nor the last royal father to consign an infant to such a fate, as we shall see. The baby was abondoned in a high cranny on Mount Parthenion where she would soon surely die. Indeed, only half an hour after the palace guard laid her down a bear, attracted by the cries or perhaps the unfamiliar human scent, lumbered up to investigate. As luck would have it – or MOROS, the deep fate that determines all – this was a she-bear, a she-bear, moreover, who had lost her newborn cub to wolves not twenty-four hours earlier. A maternal instinct still drove the bear, and instead of eating the infant she suckled her. And so the human baby girl grew to be a shy, wild and swift forest creature. Whether she thought herself a bear or knew her difference at first we cannot know. She might have remained one of those legendary wild children of the woods adopted by animals and unsocialised by her own species – an ancient Greek Kaspar Hauser or Victor of Aveyron, a female Tarzan or Mowgli – were it not that, one day, she was seen and taken by a group of hunters. Luckily for her, they were well-disposed and kindly. They named her Atalantafn4 and taught her the secrets of trapping and killing, of shooting with arrows, spears and slings, coursing, hunting, tracking and all the arts of venery and the chase. She quickly equalled and surpassed their skill, combining as she did human subtlety with the ferocity and speed of the bear that brought her up. Her supreme swiftness and unmatched ability as a huntress made Atalanta a natural devotee of the goddess of Chastity and the Chase, Artemis, to whom she committed herself, heart and soul. One day she found herself cornered by two centaurs, the half-human, half-horse hybrids famed for the accuracy and the speed of draw of their archery. Atalanta loosed two arrows that found their mark before either centaur had managed even to raise his bow. Her reputation spread and soon everyone in the Mediterranean world had heard stories of the beautiful girl, dedicated to Artemis, who ran faster and shot straighter than any man. And when Artemis cursed a neighbouring kingdom with a monstrous boar that ravaged the people and their crops and livestock, it was to be Atalanta, the goddess’s most faithful servant and adherent, who would lift that curse.

T HE C ALYDONIAN B OAR Somehow the citizenry and rulers of the city state of Calydon, part of the kingdom of Aetolia, now called Thessaly, had become lax in their devotions to the goddess Artemis. This was still a time when it was foolish to neglect any jealous deity, least of all the chaste huntress of the moon. As punishment for so insulting a slight to her honour and dignity, Artemis sent to Calydon a monstrous boarfn5 with razor-sharp tusks the size of tree branches and an insatiable appetite for goats, sheep, cows, horses and infant humans. It trampled down the crops, ravaged the vineyards and barns and, like Robert Browning’s rats in Hamelin, bit the babies in their cradles and drank the soup from the cooks’ own ladles. And much worse. The people in the countryside fled in terror to within the city walls and soon famine threatened. Oeneus, the King of Calydon – in his excessive worship of Dionysusfn6 over the other Olympians – had been the one most directly responsible for Artemis’s wrath, and so he took it upon himself to be the one to devise the means to rid the land of the rampaging boar. He sent out word out to all Greece and Asia Minor. ‘The Calydonian Hunt will gather in one month. Let only the bravest and best hunters come forward. The reward for whosoever makes the killing thrust will be the right to keep the trophies of the chase: the beast’s tusks and pelt. But, more importantly, eternal glory and honour in the annals of history will be theirs as the conqueror of the Calydonian Boar and as the greatest hero of the age.’ Many of those who answered Oeneus’s call were former Argonauts – including Jason himselffn7 – bored by the return to the placid dullness of domestic life after the camaraderie and excitement of the quest for the Golden Fleece. The band of hunters would be led by Oeneus’s son Prince Meleager, himself a distinguished member of the Argo’s crew. Though he did not know it, Meleager lived under a strange curse, and it is worth going back to the time of his birth to hear about it. I have said that Meleager was the son of Oeneus, but it seems likely that Ares, the god of war, had some part in his paternity too. As we have already heard, this is a feature of the heroes of the age. It is certain, though, that his mother was Oeneus’s queen ALTHAEA, who came from a most distinguished royal line herself, sometimes known, on account of its patriarch THESTIOS, as the THESTIADES. She had four brothers, an obscure sister called HYPERMNESTRA, whose name surely is due for a revival,fn8 and another called Leda, whose experience with Zeus in the form of a swan was to inspire many artists in ages yet unborn. Her story is for another time. Our attention for now is on Althaea, who lay with Oeneus (or possibly Ares) and nine months later gave birth to a boy, Meleager. It was a difficult labour and the effort sent Althaea into a deep sleep. The baby lay babbling in its cot before the fire. The mother slept on. Into this peaceful scene crept the three Fates, the Moirai. This baby, who could well be a son of Ares, might have an important future and it was for the Fates to tell it in their usual manner. Clotho spun the thread of Meleager’s life and declared the boy would be noble. Lachesis measured it by drawing it out from Clotho’s spindle. She foretold that Meleager would be accounted brave by all who knew him. Atropos snipped the length of the yarn and announced that for all her sisters’ prognostications she knew that the child would only live as long as the central log in the fireplace remained unconsumed by fire. ‘What can you mean?’ asked Lachesis and Clotho. ‘When that log burns up and is no more,’ said Atropos, ‘so will Meleager, son of Ares, Oeneus and Althaea, be no more!’ All three gave a cackle of delight and vanished into the night air chanting: Meleager’s life will end in a flash When his log of fate is turned to ash Althaea opened her eyes wide. Could she really have heard that right, or was it some mad dream? She got out of bed and went to the fire. There was indeed a great log in the centre of the hearth. Flames were flickering around it, but it had not yet fully caught light. In her fevered imagination it resembled, in size and form, a newborn baby. Her own infant Meleager! She pulled the log out and dropped it hastily into a copper vat of water that stood warming by the fire. The flames went out with a sizzle. The baby gurgled happily in its cradle. What should she do now? She wrapped the log in a swaddling blanket and hurried down to one of the unvisited and unused basement rooms in the palace, a room with an earthen floor where she could bury the log deep. Her son might have died in five minutes if she had done nothing. Now he might live for eternity! So we have a picture of the Calydonian palace of King Oeneus and Queen Althaea, outside the walls of which rampages a marauding boar. Their heir, the tall, strong, noble and brave Prince Meleager – now fully grown – lives with them, of course, as do his six sisters – GORGE, MELANIPPE, EURYMEDE, Deianirafn9, MOTHONE and PERIMEDE – and his uncles, Althaea’s four brothers, the Thestiades – TOXEUS, EVIPPUS, PLEXIPPUS and EURYPYLUS. The Thestiades are fine huntsmen, but fully aware that in order to corner and catch a prey as huge and monstrous as the Calydonian Boar they will need every member of the great hunting party that has answered Oeneus’s summons. But – what can this be? – the uncles burst out laughing when a tall woman, dressed in animal skins, a hunting bow over her shoulder and hounds at her feet, enters the palace and hurls a spear into the wall to stake her claim to join the hunting party. Meleager has taken one look at this slim, fierce, tanned, toned and beautiful girl and fallen instantly in love.fn10 ‘If she wants to join us, I have no objection.’ Meleager’s uncles hoot with derision. ‘Girls can’t throw,’ jeers Toxeus. ‘Girls can’t run in a straight line without bumping into trees or tripping over,’ snorts Evippus. ‘Girls can’t shoot arrows without the bowstring snapping back and stinging them in the face,’ smirks Plexippus. ‘Girls don’t have the stomach to kill,’ sneers Eurypylus. ‘Let us see,’ says Atalanta, and at the sound of her dark, throbbing, yet commanding voice Meleager falls even more deeply in love. She has gone to the window. ‘Those three trees. Which of us can put an arrow in each trunk first?’ The uncles join her at the window and follow her gaze to a distant line of three aspens, shaking in the breeze. ‘You may give the signal,’ Atalanta tells Meleager. Meleager raises an arm and drops it. ‘Fire at will!’ he cries. The Thestiades scramble to pluck arrows from their quivers and draw back their bows but – ‘Wheep, wheep, wheep!’ Three arrows fly in an instant from Atalanta’s bow and now she is standing with her back to the window, her arms folded and a mocking smile playing on her face. Meleager and the uncles look over her shoulder and towards the trees. In each of the aspen trunks is embedded an arrow, perfectly centred. In his hectic rush to draw at speed, Plexippus has fumbled his bow, which falls with a clatter to the floor. He does not take kindly to being made to look like a clumsy child. ‘Ah, but strength,’ he growls. ‘I’ll grant you may have a reasonable eye and quick hands, but this boar is fierce and strong. A mere woman could never hope –’ No one will ever discover what he is going to say next. Speech and breath are robbed of him as he finds himself quite unexpectedly lifted off his feet. Atalanta has picked him up and raised him above her head as if he were no heavier than a kitten. ‘Where shall I throw him?’ she enquires of the others. ‘Out of the window or into the fire?’ Hastily they concede her right to join them in the hunt. But there is now disgruntlement in the ranks of the hunting party. The proud brothers cannot know, as we do, that Artemis not only sent the boar to Calydon, but also sent her most fanatical votary, Atalanta, to represent her in the hunt. Artemis intends, through Atalanta, to sow as much mischief in the ranks of the hunters as she can. How much Atalanta is a knowing proxy for the goddess and how much an unconscious vessel for her will has never quite been decided. The smitten Meleager got nowhere with this wonderful girl who was, in the words of Edith Hamilton, ‘too boyish to be a maiden, too maidenly to be a boy.’ As a devoted follower of Artemis, Atalanta had, as a matter of course, turned her back on men and on love. Nonetheless, she welcomed Meleager as a companion, and for a young man so deeply in love, the thrilling propinquity of the beautiful huntress was better than nothing. The classical sources name at least fifty members of the hunting party that gathers around Meleager and the four Thestiades. As with the manifest of the Argo there is much confusion and inconsistency in the sources and perhaps a deal of wishful thinking on the part of later grand Greek families who wanted to claim descent from these heroes. Aside from Jason, the throng of former Argonauts present at the hunt includes Meleager’s cousins, the heavenly twins Castor and Pollux; bold Pirithous, King of the Lapiths; wise Nestor of Pylos and the indefatigable brothers Peleus and Telamon; hospitable Admetus, the friend of Heracles and sometime lover of Apollo; and Asclepius, unrivalled master of the medical arts. Even the great Theseus is there, drawn as much by his bond with Pirithous as by the addiction to extreme peril that unites them all. Such a muster of heroes will not be seen in the world again until the Trojan War. They are all men, save for Atalanta.