The Song of Orpheus (8 page)

Moria wasted no time. She picked up the flower of Zeus and laid it against her Tylos’s nostril. Then she waited.

At first, she thought the flower must work only on monsters, because her brother lay as pale and motionless as before. Just as she was about to give up and begin preparations for Tylos’s funeral, she thought she saw a faint color come to his torn cheek. Then one foot twitched, and he raised his head and blinked. Slowly and shakily, he stood. He looked around, bewildered, and then he raised his hands to the gods in thanks as the blood flowed back through him.

Tylos lived for a long time after that, but on his face and body, he always carried the deep scars that the drakon had inflicted on him.

I’m running out of ideas! Let’s see…the last story was about coming back to life. How about something similar for number eleven—about a guy who was born twice. Does that sound too strange?

I have to admit that once you really look at them, some of the stories my people told don’t make a lot of sense. Sometimes that’s because the Greeks were great travelers; they went to a lot of different lands, and when they got home, they’d tell the stories they’d heard. If they didn’t really understand what was going on, they’d make up something to explain whatever it was they didn’t get.

Once in a while, a tale they brought home had something in common with a story already known in Greece, and the two got mixed together. That’s why you’ll read a myth that says someone’s mother is a particular goddess, and in another version, the mother is someone else. Or someone will die in one myth, but in another one, that person is still alive a long time later. These contradictions didn’t seem to bother anyone in my day, and I don’t see why they should bother anyone now.

That kind of confusion looks like what happened with the tale of Zagreus, which might have come from Turkey. It got mixed up with a myth about Dionysos, the Greek god of wine. Sometimes you hear that Zagreus and Dionysos are the same god with two different names; other times, they’re two separate gods. You can believe whichever version you want. Or neither one.

Anyway, Zagreus, according to the blended myth, was the son of Zeus, king of the gods. His mother was Persephone, the goddess of the underworld. Given this parentage, you’d think Zagreus would be no ordinary baby, and you’d be right. He was born with horns on his head, and when he was just a few hours old, he climbed onto a tiny throne and grasped miniature thunderbolts, a gift from his proud father, in his pudgy hand.

Zeus declared that this son would be his heir, although it’s hard to imagine what he would need with an heir. Zeus is immortal—what’s the point of being his heir if he’s never going to die? See what I mean about the myths not always making sense?

Sorry, back to the story. In any event, it’s an honor to be declared someone’s heir, and Zeus’s wife, Hera, became enraged at this insult to Ares, her own son with Zeus.

“I’ve just about had it with my husband!” Hera declared. “It’s bad enough that he sneaks around chasing one girl after another, but when he puts their children above mine, well, that’s going too far.”

She made up her mind to get rid of the baby. Zeus was well aware of his wife’s jealousy, so he summoned a gang of spirits of the wilderness, the Kouretes, to guard the child. These wild spirits performed ferocious dances around Zagreus’s throne, brandishing their weapons to scare off anyone who might try to harm him. Whenever he cried, they clashed their shields and spears together so that no one, especially Hera, would hear him.

To keep his son content to stay put and not go wandering into danger, Zeus gave him lovely toys: a spinning top, a ball that returned on its own to the hand that had thrown it, dolls with moving legs and arms so cunningly crafted that the little god thought he was playing with living beings. Nymphs brought him golden apples, and many others gave presents to the little god who was supposed to rule them one day.

Hera soon figured out where the baby was. She knew that the Kouretes would never allow her to get close to the infant, but, determined to cause him harm, she summoned a group of Titans. These gigantic sons of the earth goddess, Gaia, had once ruled over the world and even the other immortals. Years earlier, Zeus had sent some of the Titans to dwell in the deepest pit of the underworld so that he could take over as ruler. Understandably, the whole tribe had resented him ever since. Hera knew they would be more than happy to help her out.

“I need you to do something for me,” Hera said to the four Titans who obeyed her call. They looked at one another, not knowing whether to trust the wife of their greatest enemy. Most of the Titans were not terribly intelligent, but they knew enough to be wary. “My husband has a new son, and he dotes on the child. I want you to get rid of him. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.” These words set their dull minds at ease, since the Titans were eager to make Zeus pay for taking their power away from them.

Hera departed, leaving them to make a plan. Despite the dim wits of these four, Titans in general were clever craftsmen. After all, the Titan Prometheus had created humans, as well as many of the powerful spirits called
daimones
, and his brother Epimetheus had made all the marvelous variety of animals. Working together, the Titans came up with a wonderful new toy for Zagreus—so marvelous, they figured it would distract even the guardian Kouretes, and the Titans would have their chance to do what the queen of the gods had ordered.

Now, how to get close enough to the baby to give him their gift? Luckily for the Titans, the Kouretes weren’t any brighter than they were. All the Titans had to do to disguise themselves was to rub chalk over their hands and faces. When they walked in carrying something wrapped in brightly colored cloth, the unsuspecting Kouretes put down their spears and bows and shields to see the gift these huge, strangely white men were bringing to the child in their care.

Little Zagreus eagerly tore the wrapping off his present. He held it up, and at first he was disappointed. It was only a circle of highly polished bronze with a handle—a simple mirror. He pouted as he looked at his own chubby face, at his dark eyes, at the small horns poking out from among his curls—and then he started. Instead of a round, dimpled face, what stared back at him from the mirror was a face with a long, hairy muzzle, eyes with square pupils, and a waggling beard. It looked like he had turned into a goat! His free hand flew to his cheek. To his astonishment, he felt his own face, while in the mirror, he still saw the goat’s face, now with a cloven hoof caressing it. He was still the same; the only thing that had changed was his reflection.

As Zagreus watched, the goat face dissolved and his own reappeared, only to change again, this time into the golden, furry features of a lion cub. The baby pulled back his lips, and instead of toothless gums, long fangs glistened at him from the polished bronze. He laughed in delight, and the Kouretes gathered around to see and marvel. One of them snatched the mirror away, and they all clamored for a turn. None of them paid the least attention to the baby god, who was crying and reaching for his new toy.

The Titans didn’t wait. Their leader picked up Zagreus, while the others drew out the knives they had concealed in their robes. From afar, Zeus saw what was happening and hurled a thunderbolt to stop the Titans, but it was too late. The giants quickly hacked Zagreus to bits. The Kouretes fled, terrified of what Zeus would do to them for failing to protect his son.

And the rage of the king of the gods was indeed terrifying. He went on a rampage, throwing so much lightning from Mount Olympos that the whole world—which was Gaia, the Titans’ mother, remember—burst into flame. Mountains ran with snowmelt. Forests were destroyed, rivers boiled, cities fell. Still the king of the gods showed no mercy, and he continued to attack the earth.

Zeus didn’t stop his ferocious assault until his daughter Athena appeared before him, holding something out to him. He paused in his furious attack long enough to take a look, and on her outstretched palm, he saw a small red heart, beating.

The heart had to belong to someone or something immortal, for no mortal heart can continue to beat outside its body. The king of the gods looked at Athena with sudden hope, and she nodded. “It’s your son’s heart,” she said softly. “His mother snatched it from the flames and gave it to me to bring to you.”

Zeus laid down his quiver and carefully carried his son’s tiny heart to a princess with whom he had recently fallen in love. (He had already forgotten Zagreus’s mother.) He inserted Zagreus’s still-beating heart in her chest, and in a few months, the princess gave birth to the same baby boy, only this time, they named him Dionysos.

So according to the story I just told you, the god of wine, Dionysos, was born from the heart of a burned-up god named Zagreus. Zagreus’s father was Zeus, king of the gods, and his mother was Persephone, queen of the dead.

In the myth that’s coming up, Zagreus’s father was still Zeus, but his mother was a human princess. According to this version, Dionysos wasn’t born from the heart of Zagreus that was implanted in the chest of a princess, but from his own self implanted in his father’s thigh. Clear? I didn’t think so.

It’s probably easier not to worry about where Dionysos came from or whether he was one god or two, and just listen to the story. If you’ve heard part of it, just be patient. Most of it is new—I hope. I’m running out of time. I really need to tell Eurydice how bad I feel for what I did. If you’ve ever had a fight with your best friend and they moved away before you could apologize, you know what I mean.

So Zeus was having a romance with a princess named Semele. When Zeus’s wife, Hera, found out that Semele was going to have a baby, she became jealous, understandably. She convinced Semele to ask Zeus to prove that he was truly the king of the gods and ruler of the sky, as he had told her he was. Hera knew that challenging the proud lord of the immortals was risky. She hoped that Semele would be injured or killed if Zeus did what she asked, and Hera wouldn’t have to take the blame for her death.

At first, Zeus said no, he wouldn’t prove who he was—that if she really loved him, she’d take his word for it. But Semele was stubborn, and she became so insistent that he reluctantly agreed to appear to her in his true form. He tried to protect her from his immortal splendor, but even revealing himself only partially proved fatal: His glory was so brilliant that she burned to death.

Zeus saved the unborn Dionysos from his mother’s ashes and sewed the tiny body into his own thigh until his son was ready to be born. Somehow, the baby turned out healthy, but the king of the gods still had a problem: what to do with his little son? How to keep him safe from the furious Hera? Zeus’s mind turned to Semele’s favorite sister, Ino. Semele had always said that Ino was kind and willing to help people.

Ino was married to a king named Athamas. He had a son and a daughter by his first wife, and he and Ino had two sons. So the household was already pretty full when a servant told Ino one day that a man carrying a baby had appeared at the door and had asked to see her. Ino hurried to see what the stranger wanted.

Ino was the daughter of a goddess, so she immediately recognized that the man standing in the sunshine with a sleeping baby in his arms, the wings on his cap and sandals fluttering in the breeze, was no mortal. He was far taller even than her royal husband, and a strange and beautiful light shone from his face. “I know you!” she exclaimed. “You’re my cousin Hermes!”

The gods were all related to one another, though it took Ino and Hermes a little while to figure out exactly what their relationship was. Once that was established, Ino invited the messenger of the gods to have something to eat and drink. Servants brought out platters of bread and cheese and goblets of wine well diluted with water, as was the Greek custom.

“Let me hold the baby,” Ino said, reaching for the little boy. Hermes passed her the tiny newborn, who immediately lunged for her goblet. “Goodness!” said Ino.

“I know,” Hermes nodded, munching on a piece of bread. “He’s already crazy for wine.”

This was odd, but Ino forgot about it when Hermes explained the predicament that Zeus found himself in, with his furious wife wanting to kill his child. He concluded by saying, “So he wants you to raise the baby.”

Much as Ino wanted to help her dead sister’s son, she hesitated. She already had two stepchildren who were older than her own sons, which threatened any inheritance her boys might get from their father. And if they welcomed Zeus’s child into their family, what would that mean for her darling boys? On the other hand, it was hard—actually, it was impossible—to say no to the king of the gods. Besides, with his dimples and his curls, her nephew was so cute that she hated the thought of any harm coming to him. So she agreed and Hermes left, twirling his sandals on his toes as he flew off, relieved to be free of the child so hated by Hera.

When King Athamas returned home, he was astonished to see a baby in a cradle in their bedroom. Ino closed the door hurriedly and explained the situation. “We’ll pretend he’s a girl, to throw Hera off the track,” she said. “You know she has spies everywhere, and they’ll be looking for a little boy. We’ll keep him hidden indoors until he’s old enough to take care of himself. Zeus will be very grateful, I’m sure.”