Mythos: A Retelling of the Myths of Ancient Greece

Arion and the Dolphin

The Greeks, like all great civilizations, set a great price on music – placing it so high in the arts that it took its name from all nine of the daughters of Memory. Music festivals and music prizes, so ubiquitous a feature of our cultural life today, were quite as important in the Greek world.

Few earned a finer reputation in their lifetime as singer, minstrel, bard, poet and musician than ARION, from Methymna on the island of Lesbos.fn1 He was the son of Poseidon and the nymph ONCAEA, but despite this parentage he chose to devote his musical talent to the celebration and praise of the god Dionysus. His instrument of choice was the kithara, a variation of the lyre.fn2 He is accepted everywhere as the inventor of the poetic form known as the dithyramb, a wild choral hymn dedicated to wine, carnival, ecstasy and delight.

With his dreamy brown eyes, sweet voice and bewitching ability to cause the toes to tap and hips to rotate, Arion soon became something of an idol around the Mediterranean world. His patron and most enthusiastic supporter was the tyrant of Corinth, PERIANDERfn3 and it was he who found out about a big music festival being held in Tarentum, a prosperous port city set in the instep of Italy’s heel. Periander gave Arion the money to get himself across the sea and take part in the competitive elements of the festival on the condition that he agreed to split the prize money on his return.

The outward journey was uneventful. Arion arrived in Tarentum, entered the competitions and easily won first prize in every category. The judges and members of the public had never heard such thrilling and original music. A treasure chest of silver, gold, ivory, precious stones and exquisitely wrought musical instruments was his reward. In gratitude for so generous a prize Arion gave a free concert for the townspeople the following day.

The Tarentum region was famous for the great wolf-spiders commonly found in the countryside all around. The locals called them, after their town, ‘tarantulas’. Arion had heard that tarantula venom could provoke hysterical frenzy and so he improvised for the crowd a variation on his wild dithyrambs that he called a tarantella. The delirious rhythms of this folk dancefn4 maddened the excitable Tarentines, but towards the end he tamed them with a medley of his softest, most romantic airs. By the early hours he could have had his pick of any girl, boy, man or woman in southern Italy and it is reported that, like the successful musician he was, he did.

A large crowd was there to see Arion off the next morning, many of the people blowing kisses and a good few sobbing their hearts out. He and his luggage, including the box of treasure, were rowed out to sea in a tender, where a small but serviceable brig crewed by a sea-captain and nine civilian sailors was standing off. Arion was soon comfortably settled aboard. The crew hoisted sail and the captain set a course for Corinth.

Overboard

As soon as land was out of sight and they were in the open sea, Arion sensed that something was wrong. He was used to being stared at – he was after all as outrageously beautiful as he was talented – but the looks that were being directed at him by the crew were of a different order. Days passed in this sullen and threatening atmosphere and he grew more and more uncomfortable. There was something in the sailors’ eyes that resembled lust, but suggested a darker purpose. What could be wrong? Then one hot afternoon, the ugliest and meanest looking of the sailors approached him.

‘What you got in that chest you’re sitting on, boy?’

Of course. Arion’s heart sank. That would account for it. The sailors had heard tell of his treasure. He supposed they wanted some of it, but he was damned if he was going to share his hard-won prize with anyone but Periander. He had earlier planned in his mind to tip the crew generously at the end of the voyage, but now his heart hardened.

‘My musical instruments,’ he replied. ‘I am a kitharode.’

‘You’re a what?’

Arion shook his head sorrowfully and repeated slowly, as if to a child. ‘I – play – the – kith – ara.’

Such a mistake.

‘Oh – do – you? Well – play – us – a – tune – then.’

‘I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.’

‘What’s going on here?’ The captain of the brig approached.

‘Snotty kid says he’s a musician but won’t play. Says he’s got a kithara in that box of his.’

‘Well now, I’m sure you won’t mind showing it to us, will you, young man?’

The full ship’s complement had circled round him now.

‘I – I’m not feeling well enough to play. Perhaps tonight I’ll be in better shape.’

‘Why don’t you go below and rest in the shade?’

‘N-no, I prefer the fresh air.’

‘Seize him, lads!’

Rough hands lifted Arion up as easily as if he were a newborn puppy. ‘Let me go! Leave it alone. That’s not your property!’

‘Where’s the key?’

‘I’ve … I’ve lost it.’

‘Find it, boys.’

‘No, no! Please I beg you …’

The key was easily found and wrenched from round Arion’s neck. Low whistles and murmurs arose as the captain loosened the latch and raised the lid. Light from the glitter of gold and flash of gemstones danced on the sailors’ greedy faces. Arion knew he was lost.

‘I am quite p-prepared to sh-share my treasure with you …’

The sailors seemed to find the offer highly amusing and laughed heartily.

‘Kill him,’ said the captain, taking out a long rope of pearls and holding it up to the light.

The ugliest sailor took out a knife and approached Arion with an evil smile.

‘Please, please … may I – may I at least sing one last song? My threnody, my own funeral dirge. You owe me that, surely? The gods would punish you if you dared send me to my death without a cathartic obsequy of some kind …’

‘I’ll stop you spouting those bloody words,’ snarled the ugly sailor, drawing closer.

‘No, no,’ said the captain. ‘He does have a point. We’ll let our Cygnus sing his swan song. I suppose you’ll need this lyre.’ He fished the kithara from the chest and gave it to Arion who tuned it, closed his eyes and began to improvise. He dedicated the song to his father Poseidon.

‘Lord of the Oceans,’ he sang, ‘King of Tides, Earth Shaker, beloved father. Often have I neglected you in my prayers and sacrifices, but you, O great one, will not neglect your son. Lord of the Oceans, King of Tides, Earth Shaker, beloved –’

Without warning, clutching his kithara tightly to him, Arion leapt overboard and dropped into the waves. The last thing he heard was the laughter of the crew and the captain’s dry voice: ‘That was easy! Now for the spoils.’

If any of them had bothered to look down, a remarkable sight would have met their eyes. Arion had plunged below the surface and was fully intending to open his mouth and let the seawater in without a struggle. Someone had told him that drowning is a sweet and pleasant death, a slow passing into sleep, as long as you don’t fight it. Choking is a terrible panicky nightmare, but true drowning is a serene and painless release. So he had been told. Despite this comforting knowledge, Arion kept his mouth firmly clamped, and with bulging cheeks he kicked at the water, hugging his kithara.

And then, just as his lungs were ready to burst, something amazing happened. He felt himself being pushed upwards. Pushed hard and fast. He was surging through the water. He had broken the surface! He could breathe! What was going on? It must be a dream. The rush of the water, the bubbles and spray, the tilting, rocking horizon, the booming in his ears, the soaking, the roar and the dazzle – it all prevented him from understanding what was happening until he dared look down and through stinging eyes saw that … that … he was on the back of a dolphin! A dolphin! He was riding it over the waves! But its skin was slippery and he began to slide off. The dolphin barrelled and twisted and Arion was somehow righted again. The animal had deliberately manoeuvred to keep him safe! Would it mind if he stretched out one hand and held onto the dorsal fin, much as a horseman might grip the horn of a saddle? The dolphin did not mind, indeed it bucked a little, as if in approval, and increased its speed through the water. Arion slowly reached for the strap of his kithara and swung the instrument behind him so that he could enjoy the ride with two hands on the fin.

The brig was out of sight now. The sun shone down, dolphin and man ploughed furrows through the sea, sending up plumes of iridescent spray. Where were they going? Did the dolphin know?

‘Hey, dolphin. Set your course for the Gulf of Corinth. I’ll direct you when we get there.’

The dolphin gave a series of squeaks and clicks that seemed to indicate understanding and Arion laughed. On and on they went, chasing the never-nearing horizon. Arion, confident of his balance now, pulled his kithara back round and sang the song of Arion and the Dolphin. It is lost to us, but they say it was the most beautiful song ever composed.

At length they reached the gulf. The dolphin negotiated this busy shipping lane with graceful, zipping ease. Sailors on the busy barques, barges and small boats turned to stare at the remarkable sight of a young man riding a dolphin. Arion steered on the fins with gentle tugs this way and that and they did not stop until they had reached the royal docks.

‘Send word to King Periander,’ he said, stepping from the dolphin onto the quay. ‘His minstrel is returned. And feed my dolphin.’

The Monument

Periander was overjoyed by the homecoming of the musician he loved. The story of his rescue filled the court with wonder and amazement. They feasted all night and into the morning. It was evening by the time they set out to see, praise and pet the heroic dolphin. But a sad sight met their eyes. Ignorant dock workers had brought the animal ashore to be fed. It had languished overnight without any water to keep its skin moist and then lay all morning and afternoon on the quayside, surrounded by inquisitive children, the hot sun burning down and drying it up. Arion knelt on the ground and whispered into its ear. The dolphin rippled an affectionate reply, heaved a shuddering sigh and died.

Arion recriminated himself bitterly and even Periander’s instructions that a high tower be constructed to commemorate the dolphin and glorify its memory failed to raise his spirits. For the next month all his songs were sad ones and the palace mourned along with him.

Then came news that the brig crewed by the nine sailors and its villainous captain had been blown by a storm into Corinth. Periander sent messengers to command the crew to come before him, bidding Arion to stay away while he questioned them.

‘You were supposed to be conveying my bard Arion back from Tarentum,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

‘Alas, dread majesty,’ said the captain. ‘So very sad. The poor boy was swept overboard in the storm. We recovered the body and gave him a most respectful burial at sea. Great pity. Charming lad, popular with all the crew.’

‘Aye. Indeed. Pleasant fellow. Terrible loss …’ muttered the sailors.

‘Be that as it may,’ said Periander, ‘news reaches me that he won his singing competition and came to you with a treasure chest, half of which is my property.’

‘As to that …’ the captain spread his hands. ‘The chest was lost during the violent pitching of the storm. It opened as it slid down the deck and into the sea and we managed to recover some small bits and pieces. A silver lyre of some kind, an aulos – one or two trinkets. I wish it had been more, sire, really I do.’

‘I see …’ Periander frowned. ‘Assemble tomorrow morning by the new monument at the royal docks. You can’t miss it. There’s a carved dolphin on top. Bring what treasure remains and perhaps I will allow you to keep Arion’s share, now that the poor boy is dead. You are free to go.’

‘Have no fear,’ said Periander to Arion as he related to him all that had been said. ‘Justice will be done.’

Next morning, the sea-captain and his nine men arrived early at the monument. They were laughing and relaxed, amused that they had to return only a small amount of Arion’s treasure and might even expect to be given a share of that by the gullible tyrant.

Periander arrived with his palace guards at precisely the appointed hour. ‘Good morning, captain. Ah, the treasure. That’s all you managed to save? Yes, I see what you mean, not much at all, is it? Now, remind me what befell Arion?’

The captain repeated his story fluently and easily, every word exactly the same as it had been the day before.

‘So he really is dead? You really did recover the body, prepare it for burial and then return it to the waves?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And these trinkets are all that remain of the prize treasure?’

‘It grieves me to say so, majesty, but yes.’

‘How then,’ Periander asked, ‘do you account for the discovery of all this hidden in the hollow of your ship’s timbers?

At a sign, some guards came forward bearing a litter on which was disposed the bulk of the treasure.

‘Ah. Yes. Well …’ the captain gave a winning smile. ‘Foolish of us to attempt to deceive you, dread lord. The poor boy died, as I said, and there was his treasure. We are but poor working sailors, sire. Your cunning and wisdom has found us out.’

‘That is handsome of you,’ said Periander. ‘But I am still puzzled. I had a kithara made for Arion in silver, gold and ivory. He never went anywhere without it. Why is it not here amongst the other things?’

‘Well now,’ said the captain. ‘I told you how fond we were of young Arion. Like a younger brother to us, isn’t that right, lads?’

‘Aye, aye …’ muttered the sailors.

‘We knew what his kithara meant to him. We included it with him in his shroud before committing his body to the waves. How could we have done otherwise?’

Periander smiled. The captain smiled. But suddenly his smile disappeared. From the mouth of the golden dolphin at the top of the column emerged the sound of a kithara. The captain and his men stared in amazement. Arion’s voice joined the notes of the kithara and these were the words that came from out of the carved dolphin’s mouth:

‘Kill him, men,’ the captain said.

‘Kill him now and seize his gold.’

‘We’ll kill him now,’ the sailors cried,

‘And throw him to the sharks.’

‘But stop,’ the minstrel said. ‘Only let me sing

One final farewell song.’

One of the sailors let out a scream of fear. The others fell quaking to their knees. Only the captain, white-faced, stayed upright.

A door opened in the plinth and Arion himself stepped from the monument, strumming his kithara and singing:

But the dolphin came and saved him.

He rode it on the rolling waves.

They crossed the sea to Corinth,

The dolphin and the bard.

The sailors began to weep and blubber, begging forgiveness. They blamed each other and most especially they blamed the captain.

‘Too late,’ said Periander, turning on his heel. ‘Kill them all. Now, come with me, Arion and sing me a song of love and wine.’

At the end of the musician’s long and successful life, Apollo, to whom dolphins and music were sacred, set Arion and his rescuer amongst the stars between Sagittarius and Aquarius as the constellation Delphinus, the Dolphin.

From their position in the heavens, Arion and his rescuer could aid navigators below and remind all of us of the strange and marvellous kinship that exists between mankind and dolphins.