Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (28 page)

Melicertes bred horses; he fattened his coffers by betting vast sums on himself in chariot races. This kind of sport was the favorite pastime of ancient royalty, and Melicertes never lost a race. Nor did he depend on the speed of his horses; he had trained them to be killers.

Whenever a rival chariot threatened to pass his, Melicertes would whistle in a certain way; his steeds would swerve in their traces and attack the other team like a pack of wolves, throwing them into a panic, causing them to bolt frantically in the wrong direction. Then, bugling and snorting and tossing their manes, the Corinthian team would gallop off again, pulling the royal chariot across the finish line.

Early in the history of these races, one defeated driver claimed a foul. But protests were cut short by the sudden death of the complainant. An arrow sticking out of his throat aroused certain suspicions, but no one was prepared to accuse the king of foul play, nor did anyone ever again protest a Melicertes victory.

The king had brought his horses to this pitch of viciousness by raising them on a diet of raw meat. As soon as the foals stopped drinking mare's milk, they were fed bloody hunks of beef and pork. When they became yearlings, they were introduced to forbidden food. Into the stalls of the gigantic colts were thrown those unfortunate enough to have offended the king, who was easily offended. This diet also saved the cost of jailers and hangmen. Every crime was punishable by death; a crime was whatever the king said it was; and there was a steady supply of human flesh for the royal stables.

So the king prospered as a charioteer; his only problem was keeping help. But he solved this in his own way. Since his particular administration of justice left many orphans, he formed them into a labor pool to be tapped whenever he needed a new groom or stable boy.

2

The Smallest Archer

Melicertes was about forty-five, and had already run through nine wives. No one knew what he did with them; they simply vanished. As soon as he discarded one, he would choose another—no older than eighteen and always the most beautiful maiden in the land. No girl dared refuse him, and if she were so inclined her parents would overrule her. For anyone who crossed the king became horse fodder.

Naturally, people wondered what happened to the ex-wives, but didn't dare discuss it. In fact, they hardly dared
think
about it. For they feared the king so much that they believed he could read minds at a distance—that anyone who entertained any critical opinion of royal behavior would soon find himself being fed to the horses.

For all the secrecy and terror that surrounded Melicertes, however, there was one rumor that stubbornly refused to fade away. It was said that some years before, after only five wives, the king had been refused by a girl whom he wished to make his sixth. She couldn't marry him, she had said, because she was already the bride of the sea. A year before, Poseidon had ridden in on a tidal wave, swept her up, and carried her away, then returned her to her village the next day. When the king refused to believe her, she produced an infant, who, she said, was Poseidon's son. Melicertes still refused to accept her story, and insisted that she be his. She fled. He pursued. She raced to the edge of a cliff and flung herself into the sea. The king, enraged, was about to throw the baby in after her, but something stopped him.

“I'm not quite sure there are such things as gods,” he said to himself. “I've never seen any, and I dislike the idea that anything can be more powerful than I am. Nevertheless, I'm not certain that they don't exist, and there's no use taking unnecessary chances. If there should be a sea god named Poseidon, he might be annoyed with me. And if this child is really his, as she said, I'll only make things worse by drowning it. My kingdom is an isthmus, after all, and a sea god, no doubt, can whistle up a storm whenever he pleases and bury this strip of land under fathoms of water. So I think I'll assume that Poseidon exists and try to appease him by raising his brat as my own.”

So the king had the gray-eyed babe taken to the palace and dropped among a horde of other motherless princes and princesses who romped through the royal park, wild as bear cubs. The little boy was nameless at first. Then the other children began to call him Bellerophon.

He was as friendly and affectionate as a puppy. His one ambition was to grow big enough to join the violent play of the older children. They played outdoors from morning till night, and their favorite game was “War.”

Each morning, the biggest and strongest appointed themselves chiefs and chose up sides. Armed with wooden swords and blunted javelins, the little warriors would then rage over the fields and into the woods in whatever form of the game they had picked that day—“Ambush,” “Pitched Battle,” or “Siege.” They played rough. Any bruise or cut was a badge of honor, and no child ever complained. The king approved of these games. They were good training for the real thing. He chose his young officers from among his sons. He also watched for symptoms of dangerous ambition. A prince who showed signs of aspiring to kingship simply vanished, and no one asked why. The Corinthians had learned not to.

Now, little Bellerophon couldn't wait to be chosen in a game of “War.” He hung about the outskirts of the battles, watching everything, picking favorites among the players, and studying their weapon play. Finally, one day, a boy slightly older than he sprained his ankle, leaving the sides uneven. Bellerophon's heart began to gallop as the chiefs counted their troops. He almost burst with joy when one of them beckoned to him and ordered: “You! Get out here!”

Bellerophon was prepared. Ever since he could toddle he had been getting himself ready for this glorious day. He had made himself a little bow and a quiver of arrows. The chief guffawed when he saw the tiny bow and the arrows no bigger than darts.

“What are you going to do with that?” he cried. “Shoot grasshoppers?”

Bellerophon grinned at him, and darted off, so swiftly that it seemed he had been swallowed by the meadow. He lay in the tall grass amid the buzz and click of insects. Notching his arrow to his bow, he pointed it straight up, and waited.

It was a drowsy place, full of sleepy sounds. Bellerophon was lying on his back, but he had never felt more awake. For the enemy's natural line of advance was across this meadow, and he knew that he was invisible. He waited. Then he heard someone yelling. He raised himself enough to take a quick peek, then sank back into the grass.

They were coming—in a long skirmish line. The grass trembled; insects departed. He drew back his arrow until the bow was bent double. And when the charging boy stumbled over him, stared down in astonishment, and then raised his wooden sword, Bellerophon released the bowstring. His arrow hit the attacker under the chin. Had it worn a sharp head it would have pierced the boy's throat. As it was, it knocked him to the ground, making him gasp for breath.

“You're dead!” cried Bellerophon. “Take yourself out.”

The fallen boy picked himself up and staggered away, dazed. Bellerophon snatched up his arrow and notched it again—just in time. Someone else was coming. He shot him too. Then another. And another. Nestling like an adder in the meadow grass, he stung fifteen of the enemy with his little arrows, knocking them out of the game, and sealing victory for his side.

It was upon this day that he earned his name, Bellerophon, which meant “archer.”

3

The Horse-Breaker

Poseidon, it is said, created the first horse as a gift for Demeter, and had always loved the animal. For himself he kept a string of white-maned stallions, which he rode at full gallop when the sea was rough. So it was that all his sons were ardent horsemen, could gentle the most vicious steed, and ride anything that moved. And now his smallest son was growing up among the mob of children sired by Melicertes.

Bellerophon was the youngest of this child swarm and different in other ways. They were not especially unkind to him, his adopted brothers and sisters, but they didn't completely accept him either. Bellerophon didn't let this bother him, though. While delighted when they played with him, he was nevertheless quite satisfied with his own company when left alone. In fact, he welcomed these hours of solitude, for he was making certain plans, which he preferred to keep to himself.

These schemes became the pivot of his lonely hours, and, finally, the theme of his young life. What happened was that he had become fascinated by the king's horses and had determined to ride them.

Paddock and stables had never been declared off limits to the royal children. No one ever dreamed of going anywhere near the man-eating horses if he could help it. This paddock was no small fenced area. It was an open range, acres of grassland girded by the great circular track where the chariot races were run. The stallions roamed as freely as a wild herd; actually, they were almost wild, broken only to chariot work and obeying only the king.

One big meadow held a stand of apple trees, however, and Bellerophon had chosen this place for his own. He could climb like a squirrel. In a flash, he was off the ground, up a trunk and balancing on a huge limb. Here he would perch for hours, watching the horses—gazing rapturously as they ran free, studying them intently when the king came out to work them.

The boy was a natural mimic. He amused himself by imitating the call of lark and thrush and the hectoring crow. He also taught himself to whistle exactly as the king did when summoning the horses or ordering them to attack.

All this time, an intention was ripening within him—crowding his heart, following him into the night, and painting pictures on the walls of sleep. Finally, one day, the idea hatched.

He waited in his tree, trying to stifle his impatience until the king had finished his morning's work with the horses and departed. The boy filled his pouch with apples, waiting until he was sure the king was out of earshot. Then he whistled the piercing whistle that meant “Come!”

The nearest horse, a huge reddish brown colt, swiveled the keg of its head and rolled its eyes. The boy whistled again. The horse arched its neck, whisked its tail, and pranced sideways, then turned and trotted toward the sound.

The horse came under the apple tree. Lightly as a leaf, the boy dropped down onto its back. But the colt had never been ridden. It bolted through the orchard, brushing against tree trunks, trying to knock the boy off. But Bellerophon drew one leg up, then the other, and finally sat cross-legged, riding this awful power as comfortably as a petrel bobbing on a stormy sea.

The colt burst through the orchard and entered the open meadow—bucking, sunfishing, landing jarringly on stiff legs, trying to get rid of its weird little burden. The boy felt no fear. This was where he belonged. Not for a moment did he consider that he might be thrown, smashing his head against a rock; or that the great jaws might catch his leg and tear it off; or that the furious horse might roll over on him, crushing him beneath its enormous weight.

No, nothing bad would happen. They were bound in a dance. The boy's small body was adjusting itself to the huge one. They were connected by a secret bond, throbbing with life. The colt didn't know it yet. It was slower to know things. But it would learn. It had to. He loved the animal too much for it not to become aware.

He perched on the raging animal and laughed with joy. The colt bugled suddenly, as if answering his laughter, then reared on its hind legs, pawing the air with its forehooves. Bellerophon clung to its mane. The horse came down with a jolt, stood on braced forelegs, and kicked out its back hooves in a terrific whiplash movement. But the boy was part of the horse now; he could not be thrown.

The colt's neck was satiny with sweat, wrapping the boy in its fragrance. The animal's strength was entering him, nourishing his courage, tuning his reflexes. He pulled an apple from his pouch, clasped the horse's neck with his legs, and slid around, hanging upside down with his face under the horse's mouth. He thrust the apple between its huge teeth, and twisted away, perching again on its wide back.

The beast ate the sweet fruit. It stood stock still, crunching. Bellerophon leaped off, stood before the animal and thrust another apple into its jaws, then another. The great, glossy wild eyes looked into his. The big head sank. The velvet lips began to nuzzle at him, searching for apples.

The boy turned his back and began to walk away. The colt reached again, seized the belt of his tunic between its teeth, swung the boy off the ground, and flipped him into the air. Bellerophon turned a backward somersault and landed on the horse's back. He stood there for a moment, laughing. When he slid to riding position, the colt trotted off.

The sun was sinking behind them now and cast a great humped shadow that swung before them as they moved toward the rest of the herd.

4

The Warning

For the next year, Bellerophon visited the horses every day, and, one by one, mastered them all. He was able to do all this without being observed, for everyone shunned the royal paddock except the king and whatever stable help had survived the month.

Finally, however, another craving began to gnaw at the boy. He found himself wanting everyone to know that he alone could manage these terrifying animals. He pictured himself riding toward the other children just as they were choosing up sides for the war game—riding in on one of the great stallions, vaulting on and off its back at a full gallop, doing handstands on its back, sliding around its neck and feeding it apples, performing all these marvelous tricks as the other children gaped in wonder.

How they would admire him! How they would fight among themselves for the privilege of being on his team. Why, he would be named a squadron of cavalry all by himself. His heart swelled with these visions of glory; it got so that he couldn't sleep.

One night he grew so excited that he sat bolt upright in bed, preparing to dash out into the moonlight, race to the stables, and ride one of the horses right up the palace steps and among the sleeping children.