Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume Two (21 page)

Europa gathered him into her arms and they wept together. That night when he crawled into her lap, mewing piteously, she gave him her breast, which was aching with undrunk milk. She kept him there all night, nestled against her.

The next morning, Europa climbed to the top of the highest mountain in Crete and uttered the eagle scream that Zeus had bade her use as a signal in times of dire trouble. A huge white eagle swooped down to the crag where she stood and took the form of Zeus. She threw herself into his arms, crying: “Oh, my master, plant another child in me, I pray. For the beautiful son you have given me is dead.”

“You seem a bit careless with your children, my dear. I have never seen the first one at all. And now, it seems, I am not to know the second one. Are you sure you want to try again?”

“Please, my lord …”

Zeus still wore the enormous white wings of the eagle. It was midsummer, high noon. Zeus and Europa seemed to be inside a great golden bell humming with light. He spread his white wings, shielding her from the sun's glare and from his wife's vigil. He leaned forward and pressed her to the earth.

The shadows grew long and blue. A breeze stroked them. Zeus spoke: “You have kept the first boy from my sight. I know your intention was good, but the time has come for father and son to meet. Fetch him.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Europa went down the mountain and came up again, bearing Minos on her shoulder. She faced Zeus in the curdling red light of the sunset and held the naked boy out to him.

“Behold, your son.”

Zeus studied the child. He saw a tiny face cocked toward him, alert as a bird's, wary but unafraid.

“Runty, to be sure,” muttered Zeus, “but vicious, greedy, and clever—qualities often enlarged by smallness.”

“Bless me, Father,” said the boy.

“The blessing rests with you, my son. You shall be a king and master of kings, if first you master yourself.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“I do not wish to hear of another accident happening to any brother or sister of yours.”

“Now that we have become acquainted, mighty father, I feel that our family fortunes must improve.”

“Take care, Minos. I am not to be jested with, or disobeyed.”

“Full gravely shall I follow your commandments, Father.”

“Your mother will bear again—more than once. I commend those children to your care.”

“They will find me a tender and watchful brother, my lord.”

“Farewell.”

Zeus spread his wings and flew away.

Minos did obey his father, and in time was rewarded by becoming a man whom others obeyed. One by one he exterminated every aspirant to the Cretan throne, and made himself king. He then began to attack the other lands of the Middle Sea. He married the princess Pasiphae, and she bore him two daughters, Ariadne and Phaedra.

Minos knew that he was hated, and he was content in that knowledge. A beloved king was a weak king to be loudly mourned, as he was insufficiently obeyed. Minos did not wish to be loved; he wanted to be feared. And he was. But if he was heartless toward humans, he was kind to beast and bird, especially cherishing cattle, for which he bore an abiding love. Indeed, he made them the pivotal symbols of his state religion.

Minos invoked his parents, the White Bull and the Phoenician princess, decreeing a reenactment of Europa's abduction as the central rite of the Minoan creed. He ordered that a special corps of vestals be trained to serve the Horned Moon—the Cow Goddess, whose milk was rain—and appointed his daughter, Ariadne, to the sisterhood of priestesses. Whatever he did flourished. He not only wielded temporal power but dominated the priesthood of a successful religion, rich in murder and orgy, appealing to the mob and useful to the throne.

He encouraged public executions. The dungeon cells were thronged with those who had offended Minos or one of his current favorites, and the leather-aproned headsmen wielded their double axes overtime to make space for new prisoners.

4

Aphrodite's Vengeance

In the seventh year of his reign, when he had established absolute rule in Crete, Minos made a move that was to turn him from king to emperor. He invited the great Athenian inventor Daedalus to come to Crete, offering him great wealth for his labors.

Daedalus accepted and was royally welcomed when he came to the island. Minos presented him with the most lavishly equipped workshop in the entire world and gave him strong slaves and clever apprentices. The king also made his wishes clear.

“You have been creating tools of peace,” he told Daedalus. “You have given mankind the ox-yoke, the plough, and the loom, all of which are very useful. But I want you to concentrate on the tools of war. Weapons, man, I need weapons that will make me invincible on land and sea.”

By this time Daedalus had formed a good idea of the person he had sold his talent to, and did not dare disobey. Besides, he was extremely comfortable in the brilliant capital of Knossos, and he had never much cared how his inventions were used, as long as they worked.

So he did as Minos asked, and weapon after fearsome weapon issued from his workshop. He began by providing a unique sentry to patrol the wild sections of the coast. He devised a living statue and cast it in bronze. Talos, he called it, and there was never a sentinel like this one: a giant humanoid figure, tall as a tree, invulnerable to sword, spear, or arrow, and completely obedient to whomever Daedalus designated. Talos circled the island three times a day. Whenever a galley approached, Talos hurled huge boulders at it, sinking it or driving it off.

Then followed a stream of weapons. Giant catapults. Chariots whose hubs were whirling scythes that could winnow a rank of armored men like a reaper moving through a stand of wheat.

Minos was very pleased. He couldn't stop praising his inventor, who became recognized as the most important person at court next to the king.

But not all of Daedalus's creations were so grim. In the intervals of his labor, he found time to make a sisterhood of dancing dolls for the king's daughters, who visited his workroom with their mother, Pasiphae. He made other marvelous toys—a perfume flask that played music when uncorked, and a parasol, lighter than a butterfly's wing, that opened like a flower when it felt the sun. He enjoyed these visits mightily. Pasiphae was beautiful, and her two little girls were exquisite. All three were very affectionate to the one who made them such wonderful gifts.

But one day Daedalus and Pasiphae held a conversation that was to have dreadful consequences.

“Tell me, Athenian,” said Pasiphae, stretching her long, bare arms and yawning. “Do you think I'm good-looking?”

“My queen, I'm supposed to have a reasonable command of the language, but am quite unable to describe how beautiful I think you are.”

“Try.”

“You are simply the most gorgeous woman I have ever met or could hope to meet.”

“How about Aphrodite? Am I as beautiful as she is?”

“I've never had the privilege of meeting the goddess.”

“Well, you've seen statues of her. If the sculptors are getting it right, she's a big cow—the kind my husband's always chasing. Well, he has an excuse, I suppose; his foster mother was a cow, as he's told me a million tedious times. Don't you think she's a bit bovine, that Aphrodite? I'm of pretty good size myself, but those hips of hers.
Massive,
my dear!”

“Try to be discreet, sweet lady, I beg you. The gods are quick to take offense.”

“Do you really think there are such things as gods—an intelligent, sophisticated man like you? I think they're all nursery tales and nonsense.”

“Your husband …”

“Oh, I know, I know; his father was Zeus, who changed into a white bull and came up on the beach after Europa, who didn't have the sense not to ride strange bulls.…”

“You don't believe that?” asked Daedalus.

“Oh my, don't you know anything about politics? Don't you know that any little village chieftain who wants to enlarge his domain begins by blowing up his pedigree?”

“My queen, you are witty as you are beautiful, and as reckless. I don't consider myself superstitious, but I have had personal experience with the vengeful gods, and I beg you not to mock them.”

“I'm bored, Daedalus—bored, bored, bored! Quickly—make me something marvelous!”

He made her a silver pitcher that could fly from guest to guest, pouring wine into their cups and never allowing itself to get empty. Pasiphae was pleased. Now she knew her banquets could progress even if the serving maids were being flogged.

At this time, Minos had begun to plan a series of campaigns against other island states of the Middle Sea. He asked Daedalus to do what he could to improve the quality of his war fleet. Within a year Daedalus had replaced the great clumsy sternsman's oar with a pivoting steering board called a rudder, and had also devised a sliding bench for the rowers. These improvements made the ships of Crete swifter and more maneuverable by far than any that had ever sailed the waters of the world.

Minos was more than pleased. He couldn't praise Daedalus enough and heaped so many gifts on him that the old man was bewildered; he already had more than he could use. Nevertheless, Daedalus was fully aware of how important it was to have earned the esteem of an all-powerful ruler like Minos.

It was at this point, at the very flower of the old craftsman's career, that he fell into deadly peril. The image of Pasiphae had begun to scorch his sleep, and he realized that he would have to do something about it.

He took a lump of pure crystal and wrought a special mirror, which he laid on the altar in the temple of Aphrodite. He hoped the goddess might be pleased because, viewing herself in this wondrous glass while combing her long yellow hair, she would be able to see the back of her head.

That night Aphrodite appeared to him. “Thank you for your gift,” she said.

“Beautiful goddess, you are more than welcome.”

“Now, what is it you wish of me?”

“Are you sure I want something?”

“In my experience, mortals do not make gifts to gods without expecting much in return. What is it you wish?”

“I'm desperately in love with Queen Pasiphae and need your help,” said Daedalus.

“Tell me, how long do you think you'd last if Minos knew you were trying to take his wife?”

“Oh, Goddess, if she returned my love I'd be so filled with creative energy, with such brilliant inventiveness that I'd be able to surmount all difficulties.”

“It's hard to be brilliant without a head. And your venerable pate, my friend, would be whisked off your shoulders by the king's executioners before you could kiss Pasiphae twice. Besides, it's ridiculous. You're much too old for her.”

“I thought you could arrange anything in the love line, no matter how ridiculous.”

“I can. I can. As a matter of fact, I'm planning something truly grotesque for that Pasiphae of yours. She's a boastful, sacrilegious slut and I've always disliked her.”

“Aphrodite, please.… I have asked you to help me, and you offer a disservice.”

“I haven't forgotten the mirror you made me. Find yourself another girl and I'll send her your way no matter how young and beautiful she is. But take my advice and keep away from Pasiphae. Dreadful things are in store for her and bad luck is contagious.”

With this, she vanished.

The next morning Pasiphae was strolling in the paddock when a bull ambled her way, the largest and most splendid animal she had ever seen. This was no bull of the Minos herd, but a prize stud belonging to Helios, the Sun's Charioteer, whose golden suncattle were the envy of all the gods.

Aphrodite had borrowed the animal for her own purposes, coaxing the miserly Helios to lend him out. The bull's hide was a hot, dazzling gold, and his eyes were pools of amber light. His hooves and long, sharp horns were of polished ivory, and he snorted joyously through coral-pink nostrils.

As soon as Pasiphae saw him, she felt herself strangling with passion. She fell violently, monstrously, permanently in love with the bull.

She went to Daedalus and told him. He listened quietly as she told her tale; by the end of it, she was sobbing. He stroked her arm timidly and trembled at the touch.

“Do not fret, beautiful queen,” he said. “No living creature can possibly resist you—god, man, or beast.”

“Please don't flatter me. This is tearing me to pieces. I know that bull has a loving heart. One look into those golden eyes and I understood him to the depths of his sweet, straightforward soul. But how can he possibly return my feelings? I'm sure he must prefer his own kind. I'm going to kill myself.”

“No, Pasiphae. Don't despair. I'll help you.”

“How?”

“I've thought of a way.”

“If you can do anything, old friend, I'll be eternally grateful.”

Daedalus went to work. He fashioned an exquisite wooden cow, hollowing it out so that Pasiphae could comfortably position herself inside. It had amber eyes, ivory horns, and ivory hooves with wheels in the hooves and springs in the wheels. As a last touch, he tenderly upholstered his wooden heifer in pliant calfskin and painted the entire piece so artfully that it seemed to have a hide of dappled moonlight.

After finishing the cow, he began to peg another frame together. His son, Icarus, who was also his apprentice and a formidably bright lad, was watching him all this while. He knew why his father had made the wooden cow, but he didn't understand what he was doing now. However, when the youth saw the frame taking shape under his father's incredibly swift carpentry, he began to understand.

“Don't tell me you're making a wooden bull,” he said.

“You see that I am.”

“Yes. I see that it will be a wooden bull to match the wooden cow. What I can't believe is that you're actually doing it.”