The gods were bored, becalmed in the ocean of time. It’s all very well being immortal, but time does start to weigh heavily after a few dozen millennia. Each of them had his or her own provinces and powers, as Aphrodite was the embodiment of sexual attraction, but long since she had exhausted all the possibilities of fun among her fellow deities.
Boredom isn’t stillness; boredom is sameness. The gods’ lives flowed on with endless monotony; no century was really any different from any other century, and there was no prospect that the next century would be any different from the last. They needed amusement and entertainment, but it wasn’t just that: they found themselves longing even for opposition. Opposition would spark interest, create twists and knots in the smooth unwinding yarn of the years.
They decided to populate the earth. It would be the great experiment. Perhaps this would give their lives meaning; if not, they could always scrap that attempt and start again. Zeus, king of the gods, enjoined his extended family to get busy, and they fell to their task with relish. Before long, they had molded all the creatures of the earth out of clay. Once all had their shapes, the gods gave Prometheus the job of equipping each species with its powers.
Now, Prometheus was a Titan, one of the elder gods who had been overthrown by Zeus and his fellow Olympians. The Titans, led by Zeus’ father Cronus, had not given up without a struggle, but they had lost the war. Prometheus’ brothers, Menoetius and Atlas, had been severely punished—Menoetius cast down into the dungeons of Tartarus, and Atlas, the largest of the Titans, forced to carry on his shoulders the burden of the heavens for all eternity.
The Titans Atlas and Prometheus; each paid a heavy price for challenging Zeus’ authority.[1]
But Prometheus had persuaded his mother Themis, the goddess of right and order, to side with Zeus during the war, and so he and his twin brother had escaped punishment and were living in the palaces and high halls of Olympus, along with the other immortals. Prometheus was smart, his mind endlessly shimmering with ideas and schemes. His brother was quite the opposite. In fact, Epimetheus was … average. He could carry out assigned tasks well enough, but lacked creativity and moved dully. He was inclined to make mistakes if left to his own devices.
So Zeus gave the job of equipping the animal species to Prometheus. But Epimetheus was jealous: “You get all the fun jobs,” he complained. “Let me have this one.” When Prometheus hesitated, Epimetheus said: “When I’ve finished, you can inspect my work. You’ll have the last say.”
Prometheus agreed on these terms, and Epimetheus set to work. To some creatures he gave strength, but not speed; others, those he left weaker, he made fleet of foot. Small ones were protected by their ability to take off into the air, or burrow inside the earth; large ones were protected by their sheer size. Some had tusks or claws, while others had thick hides to save them from tusks and claws. Their outsides were designed in various ways to shield them from the extremes of heat and cold to which they would be exposed. Their insides were designed to cope with all the various foodstuffs of the earth, with no species in danger of exhausting its supply: some preferred roots, others leaves or grass, and yet others the blood and flesh of weaker creatures. But then the weaker creatures gained the boon of deep hiding places and many offspring, while the stronger ones produced fewer.
Epimetheus was pleased with his work. He had ensured the perpetuation of all species. His masters would be delighted. But first he had to satisfy his brother. And Prometheus was pleasantly surprised. His brother had indeed done a good job. He inspected all the animal prototypes, hearing Epimetheus’ explanations and nodding in agreement. But there, right at the end: there was the problem.
Lost in the shadows and dust of Epimetheus’ workshop, Prometheus found a neglected clay form. Naked, with no hoofs or claws, no speed or strength, no natural home for refuge, no ability to live well on raw food, no impenetrable hide—nothing. This lump of clay had nothing. But it was time. The day appointed by Zeus for the population of the earth was at hand.
“What about this one? What are your plans for it? Anyway, what is it?”
“It’s a human being,” replied Epimetheus, close to tears as he realized his foolish mistake. “And I have no plans for it. I just forgot it, and now I’ve used up all the powers we were given. There’s nothing left for it.” Prometheus thought for a little while. “All right. There’s nothing to be done now. Zeus wants the earth populated right away, with all the species, and we’ll just have to let this … human … fend for itself for a while. Meanwhile, I’ll try to think of something.” And so, out of the gods’ boredom, the earth was populated with all the animal species.
* * *
The gods were truly delighted with their new toys. Every aspect of life on the earth came into existence on that day. Goodness was henceforth defined as whether the brief part danced by a creature on the earth’s stage was pleasing in the gods’ eyes. It amused the gods to remind their creatures, in various ways, who their masters were, and to test their goodness. Just when everything was going well, they would cause a flood, or earthquake, or famine, or personal disaster. And they devised more and more complex dances for their toys.
Prometheus pondered ceaselessly the problem of what to do to ensure the survival of human beings. He felt a strange kinship with these creatures, as though he had made them himself. He felt that they had the potential to resemble himself and his brother—to reach the same heights of brilliance and depths of criminal negligence. But, as things were, their lives were little better than those of the dumb beasts around them. They soon learned to huddle together in caves, to afford themselves some kind of protection rather than going out in search of food one by one, but still it wouldn’t take long for the other creatures of the earth to eliminate these defenseless men. As a first measure, then, Prometheus simply invested them with his own essence.
It came like a bolt of lightning, illuminating the dark places. It came like the most beautiful dawn, rising up out of the sea. It came like a two-edged sword, dividing and yet forging the possibility of a higher union. It was called intelligence, and with intelligence came speech. At first, the sounds they made were meaningless and confused, but they slowly developed articulate words. By agreeing among themselves which sounds stood for which objects, they established means by which they could communicate and pass on knowledge about the world, starting with their own safety. They began to develop rules to govern their behavior, so that they could live together peaceably, without preying on one another.
But with Promethean intelligence, these first men (for there were as yet no women) also gained the ability to fear the future and felt the need to protect themselves against mere possibilities. Now, the gods were not aware that the intelligence of these human creatures had been the gift of Prometheus; they assumed that this was their special ability, just as other creatures were strong or swift or otherwise formidable. But they were quick to see its potential. Men now feared the future, and the gods had the power to make the future better or worse. So, they said, let’s make it so that men have to ask us, to beg us, to plead with us, for the better instead of the worse. And let’s make it so that they have to ask us in the right way, otherwise we shall just ignore their requests. This idea pleased all the gods. It would afford them endless amusement.
So the gods invented sacrifice. Men were to pray to them for what they felt they needed, and their prayers were to be wafted up to the heavens by the smoke of sacrifice. The sacrificial victim should be something valuable, a gift freely given to the gods. The richer the sacrifice, the thicker the smoke, and the better the chances that the gods on Olympus would smell the prayer. But none of this was going to happen unless men had fire.
Prometheus was not slow to understand the importance of fire to his wards. Fire could make up for his brother’s carelessness by giving humans the essential tool for their survival and development. They could cook their food to make it digestible; heat kilns to make pottery; keep warm in winter; forge metals. Fire is the key that opens all these doors and lays the foundation of human life. Without it, there is no possibility of advancement or civilization. With it, and with Promethean intelligence, who knew whether men might not become as gods themselves? At any rate, fire would be the foundation of a civilized and communal life, which would protect them from other creatures.
So the gods came down from the palaces and high halls of Olympus to earth, to see that this idea of theirs was carried out in the right way. With Prometheus himself acting as the champion of his people, the negotiations were soon over. Zeus would give men fire, and in return men were to sacrifice to the gods, giving the gods the best bits of the sacrificial victim. “And let what is done here today be final,” Zeus proclaimed, his voice like thunder, echoing from the surrounding hills. “This is the Day of Fire!”
An unblemished cow was found for the first sacrifice. Zeus left it to Prometheus to divide the beast into two halves, a portion for the gods and a lesser portion for men. Ever anxious to look after the interests of men, whom he loved, Prometheus the prankster played a trick on Zeus. He wrapped all the fine bits of meat in the cow’s stomach, so that it resembled a gigantic haggis, which should contain only offal; and he covered the cow’s skeleton with a layer of gleaming fat, and stuck the hide back on, to make it look an attractive whole. And Zeus chose the fair-seeming, but less nutritious portion. Not that he or the gods needed meat; they wanted only the smoke of a sweeter sacrifice.
What was done there that day was final, as decreed irrevocably by Zeus. Forever afterward, the gods had to be satisfied with receiving the lesser portion of every blood sacrifice, with the smoke bearing it up to the palaces and high halls of Olympus, along with the prayers and petitions of mortal men. For so it was done on the Day of Fire.
But Zeus was furious when he discovered the trick, and decided to wipe humankind off the face of the earth. He would not do this by flood or famine or overwhelming disaster. He wanted them to suffer, and he wanted Prometheus to see them suffer. He simply withdrew his offer of fire. Without fire, and without the arts and crafts that fire could supply, humankind would die out. It would take time, as the other creatures preyed on them, but that would only make it more interesting, and a more fitting punishment.
Prometheus chose a desperate expedient. He knew the consequences, knew that he was destined to be the wounded healer. He accompanied the rest of the gods back to Olympus, and immediately stole into the workshop of Hephaestus, the blacksmith god. There was always fire to be found there. Concealing and preserving the precious flower of fire in the stalk of a giant fennel plant, he brought it down from heaven to earth. It was still the Day of Fire: what was done that day was final. Prometheus gave fire, life, and civilization to mankind, and it could not be taken back. Men raised high the burning brands and danced all night in celebration. They were safe now; they would survive, and even, in ages to come, make themselves the dominant species on the broad face of the earth.
But the wrath of Zeus fell fiercely on Prometheus. Hephaestus forged adamantine chains and Prometheus, bound, was dragged from Olympus down to earth, to the Caucasian mountains. There he was splayed out naked, and pinned to the rock by his wrists and ankles with the adamantine chains, which for security were driven lengthwise through the center of a mighty pillar and deep into the bedrock of the mountain. He had no chance of escape, but that was not the worst of it. Every day a gigantic eagle came and tore open his stomach and gorged on his liver; every night the wound healed again, to feed the monstrous bird the next day. There was no end to this torment: Prometheus was immortal. Death could not limit his pain, and he was sustained only by the joyful thought of how much grief he had caused the gods.
Even the gods’ anger abates in time. After thirty thousand years had gone by, Zeus reprieved the tormented trickster, sending his favorite son Heracles to kill the eagle. True, Prometheus was still unable to move, but half of his agony was over. In gratitude, he gave Heracles information that would help him complete one of his labors, as we shall see.
Still the remorseless years rolled by, and the time came when Zeus conceived a desire for the sea goddess Thetis. This was the moment Prometheus had been waiting for, for he knew a secret: that Thetis was destined to bear a son who would be greater than his father. If Zeus was the father, then, his son by Thetis would overthrow him, just as Zeus had overthrown his own father Cronus. He bargained the information for his release, which Zeus allowed him, provided that he never again made trouble. He was to wear a garland forever, encircling his head in remembrance of the chains that had bound him. Prometheus was content to sink into obscurity: along with his intelligence, his human wards had inherited the power to tease and trouble the gods. His work was done.
For the theft of fire, Zeus punished Prometheus, but men suffered his wrath as well. Of course: he couldn’t allow such a direct threat to his authority to pass as if unnoticed. But the time hasn’t yet come for that tale. Let’s turn now to the immortal gods. Let’s leave humankind, for a while, with some hope.
Prometheus was chained to the Caucasian mountains, where an eagle feasted daily upon his liver.[2]