Mythos (2019 Re-Issue) Page 7

  Like Hestia, Demeter is one of the divinities less clear in our minds today as a personality than others of her passionate and charismatic family. But, as with Hestia, her domain was of paramount importance to the Greeks; shrines and cults dedicated to her far outlasted those devoted to the more superficially glamorous gods. The one great story devoted to Demeter, her daughter, and the god Hades is as beautiful as it is dramatic, far-reaching and true.

  HERA

  Hera came out of Rhea second to last.46 Words that are still applied to her, and which would have maddened her greatly, include “proud,” “imperious,” “jealous,” “haughty,” and “vengeful.” In art and common reference she is often saddled with the extra indignity of three upsetting “-esques”: statuesque, Rubenesque, and—courtesy of her Roman appellation—Junoesque.

  Fate and posterity have been unkind to the Queen of Heaven. Unlike Aphrodite or Gaia she has no planet named in her honor,47 and she must bear the burden of a reputation that portrays her as more reactive than active—reactive always to the errant infidelities of her husband-brother Zeus.

  It is easy to dismiss Hera as a tyrant and a bore—jealous and suspicious, storming and ranting like the very picture of a scorned harridan wife (one imagines her hurling china ornaments at feckless minions), exacting spiteful revenge on nymphs and mortals who have displeased her, failed to burn enough animals on her altars, or, most fatally of all, committed the crime of consorting with Zeus (whether they had been willing or unwilling she never forgave them and could hold a grudge for lifetimes). But, ambitious, snobbish, conservatively protective of hierarchy, and impatient of originality and flair as she certainly was—the archetype of many a literary aunt and cinematic dowager dragon—Hera was never a bore.48 The force and resolution with which she faced up to a god who could disintegrate her with one thunderbolt shows self-belief as well as courage.

  I am very fond of her and, while I am sure I would stammer, blush, and swallow awkwardly in her presence, she finds in me a devoted admirer. She gave the gods gravity, heft, and the immeasurable gift of what the Romans called auctoritas. If that makes her seem a spoilsport, well, sometimes sport needs to be spoiled and the children called in from the playground. Her special province was marriage; the animals associated with her were the peacock and the cow.

  Over the course of the war against the Titans, she and Zeus developed into a natural couple, and it became apparent to him that she was the only one with enough presence, dignity, and command to stand as his consort and bear him new gods.

  Crackling with tension, impatience, and distrust, theirs was nonetheless a great marriage.

  A NEW HOME

  Zeus’s ambition for a new era, a new dispensation for the cosmos, encompassed more than the simple distribution of powers and provinces amongst his brothers and sisters. Zeus imagined something more enlightened and rationally constituted than the bloody and brutal tyrannies that had gone before.

  He envisioned an assembly of twelve major gods—a dodecatheon as he Greekly put it to himself.49 So far we have met six, the children of Kronos and Rhea. There was already another deity to call upon of course, one who was older than any of them—foam-born Aphrodite. The moment the Titanomachy erupted, Zeus collected Aphrodite from Cyprus, aware that she would constitute a great prize if kidnapped, ransomed, or recruited by the Titans. For the last ten years she had contentedly been living amongst them and thus the gods now numbered seven.50

  The triumphant gods of Olympus.

  As the Titans had made Othrys their mountain home, so Zeus now chose for his headquarters Mount Olympus, Greece’s highest peak. He and his gods would be known as the OLYMPIANS and they would rule as no divine beings ruled before or since.

  THE RUNT

  Hera was pregnant when the gods moved to Olympus. She could not have been more satisfied. Her ambition was to bear Zeus children of such majestic power, strength, and beauty that her place as Queen of Heaven would be assured for eternity. She knew that Zeus had a roving eye, and she was determined not to let any other parts of him rove either. First she would give birth to the greatest of the gods, a boy whom she would call HEPHAESTUS, and then Zeus would marry her properly and submit himself forever to her will. This was her plan. The plans of the immortals, however, are as subject to the cruel tricks of Moros as are the plans of mortals.

  When her time came, Hera lay down and Hephaestus was born. To her dismay the child turned out to be so swarthy, ugly, and diminutive that, after one disgusted glance, she snatched him up and hurled him down the mountainside. The other gods watched the wailing baby bounce once off a cliff and then disappear into the sea. There was a terrible silence.

  We will find out what happened to Hephaestus soon enough, but for the moment let us stay on Olympus, where Hera soon became pregnant by Zeus again. This time she took every care to look after herself, eating healthy foods and exercising gently but regularly, in accordance with all the approved precepts and practices of pregnancy and parturition. She wanted a proper son, not a runt fit only to be thrown away.

  IT’S WAR

  In due time Hera was indeed delivered of the lusty, strong, and handsome child she had set her heart on.

  ARES, for so she called him, was from the beginning a pugnacious, violent, and aggressive boy. He picked quarrels with everyone and thought of nothing but the clash of arms and horses, chariots, spears, and martial arts. It was natural that Zeus, who disliked him from the first, should appoint him god of war.

  Ares, god of war

  Ares sleeps peacefully, while Aphrodite watches, awake and alert

  Ares—MARS to the Romans—was unintelligent of course, monumentally dense and unimaginative for, as everyone knows, war is stupid. Nevertheless even Zeus acknowledged with grudging consent that he was a necessary addition to Olympus. War may be stupid, but it is also inevitable and sometimes—dare one say it?—necessary.

  As Ares grew swiftly to manhood he found himself irresistibly attracted to Aphrodite—as which gods weren’t? More perplexingly perhaps, she was equally drawn to him. She loved him, in fact; his violence and strength appealed to some deep part of her. He in turn grew to love her, so far as such a violent brute was capable of the emotion. Love and war, Venus and Mars, have always had a strong affinity. No one quite knows why, but plenty of money has been made trying to find an answer.

  THE ENCHANTED THRONE

  To cement her position as the universally recognized Queen of Heaven and undisputed consort of Zeus, Hera felt the need to institute a nuptial feast, a grand public ceremony that would forever bind her in wedlock to Zeus.

  Hera’s twin impulses of propriety and ambition motivated almost everything she did. She had been pleased to see her son falling for Aphrodite, yet she did not trust the goddess. If Aphrodite agreed to make a public commitment to Ares, as Zeus was to do to Hera, then that would make everything binding and official, setting a permanent seal on her triumph. The world’s first wedding would therefore solemnize two marriages.

  A date was set and invitations sent out. Presents began to arrive, the most spectacular of which, all agreed, was a marvelous golden chair addressed personally to Hera. Never had so glorious and gorgeous an object been seen. Whoever the anonymous sender might be, it was obvious, Hera declared, that he or she had the most exquisite taste. Smiling with satisfaction, she lowered herself onto the throne. Instantly its arms came to life and sprang inward, enclosing her in a tight embrace. Struggle as she might she could not escape, the arms had locked themselves around her and she was trapped. The screams were appalling.

  Hephaestus—god of fire, of blacksmiths, artisans, sculptors, and metalworkers—at work in his forge.

  THE LAME ONE

  There is doubt, disagreement, and speculation about what happened to Hephaestus after he had been cast down from heaven. Some say the infant god was cared for by the Oceanid Eurynome and either the Titaness Tethys, Eurynome’s mother, or perhaps by THETIS, a Nereid (daughter of Nereus and Doris) who was to g
ive birth to ACHILLES many years later. It seems certain, though, that Hephaestus grew up on the island of Lemnos, where he learned how to forge metal and make exquisite, intricate objects. He quickly showed a remarkable talent for the fashioning of useful, ornamental, and even magical artifacts, which—allied to his strength with the bellows and apparent immunity from scorching in the intense heat of the forges—combined to make him the greatest of smiths.

  In bouncing off the Olympian mountainside he had damaged his foot, which left him with a permanent limp. With his awkward gait, slightly contorted features, and disordered black curls, he was a fearful sight. His later reputation, however, was for faithfulness, kindness, good humor, and equable temper. Greek myth is replete with infants cast into the wilderness or abandoned on mountaintops to die, either because some prophecy foretold they would one day bring disaster on their parents, tribe, or city, or because they were considered accursed, ugly, or malformed. Such outcasts seemed always to survive and return to fulfill the prophecy or win back their birthright.

  Hephaestus longed to come back to Olympus, which he knew to be his home by right, but he was aware that he could not do so without bitterness or on proper terms unless he allowed himself one measured act of revenge, which would prove his strength of personality, his right to divinity, and serve as his calling card to heaven.

  So, as Hephaestus learned his trade and worked his bellows, his quick and clever mind devised the plan that his quick and clever fingers would turn into startling reality.

  THE HAND OF APHRODITE

  Bound fast on the golden throne, Hera howled with rage and frustration. Neither her power, nor even that of Zeus himself had been able to release her from its curse. How could she invite the immortal world to a feast in which she sat pinioned like a criminal in the stocks? It would be grotesque and undignified. She would be laughed at. What magic was at work here? Who had done this to her? How could she be released from the spell?

  The hapless Zeus, bombarded by a shrieked fusillade of questions and complaints, turned to the other gods for help. Whoever managed to release Hera, he proclaimed, could take Aphrodite’s hand in marriage, the greatest matrimonial prize there was.

  Ares was loudly annoyed by this peremptory decree. Was it not understood that he was to wed Aphrodite?

  “Calm yourself,” said Zeus. “You are stronger than all the other gods put together. Your union is safe.”

  Aphrodite was confident too and pushed her lover forward with encouraging words. But none of Ares’s pulling and pushing and kicking and swearing had the slightest effect. If anything, it seemed that the more he strained, the tighter the throne’s hold on Hera became. Poseidon (despite already having Amphitrite as his consort) made a spirited attempt that likewise came to nothing. Even Hades rose up from the underworld to try his hand at freeing Hera from her increasingly embarrassing predicament. All to no avail.

  As Zeus himself tugged frantically and uselessly at the arms of the throne, enduring yet more insults from the humiliated and enraged Hera, a polite but insistent cough cut through the commotion. The assembled gods turned.

  In the very hall of heaven, a gentle smile on his lopsided face, stood Hephaestus.

  “Hello, Mother,” he said. “Having problems?”

  “Hephaestus!”

  He limped forward. “I understand that there is some sort of reward . . . ?”

  Aphrodite looked at the ground, chewing her lip. Ares growled and started forward, but Zeus held him back. The other gods parted to let the ugly little creature hobble through to where Hera sat imprisoned in her throne of gold. At one touch of his fingers the arms of the golden throne swung open and Hera was free.51 She rose to her feet, adjusted her gown and straightened herself in a manner that told the world the whole situation had been under control the whole time. Color flew to Aphrodite’s cheek. This could not be!

  It was a moment of sweet revenge for Hephaestus, but his essential good nature kept him from gloating. Despite—or perhaps because of—the pangs of rejection he had endured all his life, he was motivated not by anger or resentment but only by a desire to please, to make himself useful and give delight. He knew that he was ugly and he knew Aphrodite did not love him. He knew that if he claimed her as his prize she would betray him and slip often into the bed of his brother Ares. But he was simply happy to be home.

  As for Hera—rather than acknowledge that she had been paid back for her cruel and unnatural betrayal of the maternal instinct, she maintained a dignified and frosty silence. Secretly, the better part of her was rather proud of her elder boy, and in time she grew genuinely fond of him, as did all of Olympus.

  Hephaestus would make gifts for Aphrodite and for all the gods and prove himself a worthy member of the twelve. He was given one whole valley of the mountain for his own forge. It was to become the greatest and most productive workshop in the world. For assistants he chose the Cyclopes, themselves craftsmen of the highest order, as we have seen. Anything Hephaestus did not yet know they could teach him, and together, working to his designs, they would fashion remarkable objects that would change the world.

  Hephaestus—god of fire, and of blacksmiths, artisans, sculptors, and metalworkers—was home. His Roman name is VULCAN, which lives on in volcanoes and vulcanized rubber.52

  THE WEDDING FEAST

  Fresh invitations to the marriage of Zeus and Hera, hastily amended to include the wedding of Aphrodite and Hephaestus, were now sent out. All who were summoned to the double wedding accepted with excited pleasure. Such a thing had never been known in all creation, but then creation had never known a goddess like Hera, with her great sense of propriety and intense feeling for order, ceremony, and familial honor.

  Nymphs of the trees, rivers, breezes, mountains, and oceans talked of nothing but the wedding for weeks. The wood spirits too—the lustful fauns as well as the tough, barky dryads and hamadryads—made their way to Olympus from every forest, copse, and spinney. In celebration of the nuptials, Zeus went so far as to pardon some of the Titans. Not Atlas, of course, nor the long-exiled Kronos; but the least threatening and violent, Iapetus and Hyperion amongst them, were forgiven and allowed their freedom.

  To add zest to an already frenziedly anticipated occasion, Zeus issued a challenge: whoever could devise the best and most original wedding dish could ask any favor of him. The lesser immortals and animals went wild with excitement at this chance to shine. Mice, frogs, lizards, bears, beavers, and birds all put together recipes to bring before Zeus and Hera. There were cakes, buns, biscuits, soups, eel-skin terrines, porridges made of moss and mold. All things sweet, salty, bitter, sour, and savory were placed on small trestle tables for the King and Queen of the Gods to judge.

  But first the marriages took place. Aphrodite and Hephaestus were wed, then Hera and Zeus. The service was conducted with charming simplicity by Hestia, who anointed each of the four with aromatic oils, wafting perfumed smoke and singing in a low musical voice hymns to companionship, service, and mutual respect. Family and guests looked on, many of them sniffing and blinking back tears. A faun who made the tactless error of declaring between gulping sobs that Aphrodite and Hephaestus made a lovely couple was given a swift and violent kick in the backside by a glowering Ares.

  The Wedding of Hera and Zeus

  That official business over, it was time to find the winner of the great culinary competition. Zeus and Hera walked slowly up and down, sniffing, tapping, prodding, tasting, sipping, and licking their way round the entries like professional food critics. The competitors behind the trestle tables held their breath. When Zeus nodded approvingly at a wobbling hibiscus, beetle, and walnut jelly, its creator, a young heron called Margaret, gave a single shriek of excitement and fainted clean away.

  But hers was not the prize. The winner was the seemingly modest submission of a shy little creature named MELISSA. She offered up for the gods a very small amphora filled almost to the top with a sticky, amber-colored goo.

  “Ah yes,” said Zeus
, dipping his finger in with a knowledgeable and approving nod. “Pine resin.”53

  But it was not pine resin in the little jar, it was something quite other. Something new. Something gloopy without being unguent, slow-moving without being stodgy, sweet without being cloying, and perfumed with a flavour that drove the senses wild with pleasure. Melissa’s name for it was “honey.” It seemed to Hera that when she took a spoonful the scent of the loveliest meadow flowers and mountain herbs danced and hummed inside her mouth. Zeus licked the back of the spoon and mmm-ed with delight. Husband and wife glanced at each other and nodded. No more consultation was needed.

  “Um, the . . . er . . . standard has been . . . has been agreeably high this year,” said Zeus. “Well done all. But Queen Hera and I are agreed. This . . . ah . . . honey takes first place.” The other creatures, trying to hide their disappointment, put on sporting expressions of pleasure as they formed a large semicircle and watched Melissa zip forward to claim her prize—a wish that was to be granted by the King of the Gods himself.

  Melissa was very small and looked even smaller as she approached the winner’s podium. She flew (for she could fly, despite looking as if she might be too bulky and bulgy in the wrong places to be able to) as close to Zeus’s face as she dared and buzzed to him these words:

  “Dread lord, I am pleased that you like my delicacy, but I must tell you it is quite extraordinarily hard to make. I have to zoom from flower to flower to collect the nectar deep inside. Only the smallest amount can be sucked up and carried. All day, for as long as Aether grants me light to see by, I must sip, search, and return to the nest, sip, search, and return to the nest, often traveling huge distances. Even then, at day’s end, I will only have the tiniest possible fraction of nectar to convert—using my secret process—into the confection that has so pleased you. Just that little amphora you are holding took me four and a half weeks to fill, so you can see that this is a most laborious business. The smell of honey is so intense, so ravishing, and so irresistible that many come to raid my nest. They do so with impunity, for I am small, and all I can do is buzz angrily at them and urge them to leave. Imagine, a whole week’s work can be lost with just one swipe of a weasel’s paw or one lick of a bear cub’s tongue. Only let me have a weapon, your majesty. You have equipped the scorpion, who makes no foodstuffs, with a deadly sting, while the snake, who does nothing but bask in the sun all day, him you granted a venomous bite. Give me, great Zeus, such a weapon. A fatal one, that will kill any who dare to steal my precious stock of honey.”