Was Pelias a god? I asked myself this as Argo nosed past Sciathos, the summer wind in her purple sail and the oarsmen, two by two, sitting idle and laughing in their seats.
Was I, perhaps, a god also? What was a god? The wind that bent the tall pines over until their tops touched the ground; the seas that tore down high cliffs and toppled them into the water; the proud sweep of the eagle’s wing; the putting of life into the corn-seed, the foal into the mare; God in the thunder, the rolling, rattling drum that shook the village roof-tiles and sent them slithering down into the dust; God in the shaking, quivering earth, that threw men off their feet and flat on their faces in the dirt?
God in power, in fertility, in pride?
After we had run down the channel at Pagasae and had felt the sea bear us up and away towards the distant islands, I think the God had come into my head. There was a fullness in my skull as though what was inside was straining to be let out, a pressing outwards, almost a bursting, so that I felt my eyes starting and wanted to raise my voice and roar at all the world like an immense bull. I wanted to fight with the sea, Poseidon himself, with the thunder, with the winds. I wanted all men to fall flat before me when I approached; all women to surrender themselves to me when I glanced their way, like rutting mares before the great king stallion.
No, I am wrong; it began to happen before we set sail. Perhaps its beginning was in the long hall when Pelias lay upon me and breathed something into me. Then, perhaps, this grew when we all gathered at the dockside before the launching.
That was a very strange morning. Poor Argus was not sure that his ship would take the strain and many of our crew of fifty were set on pulling ropes about it, round the keel and over the gunwales, drawing them tight so that the bolts which held the planks together would gain an extra support when we hit the water.
Then led by Heracles we dug a trench to the sea, for Argo to run down. Not a deep trench, but hard work in the hot sun that day. Even Atalanta took a wooden-bladed shovel and helped to shift the mud, her skirt tucked up so high into her belt that each time she bent one of the sailors whistled or called out some comment. She did not mind; this is what she had intended, for all her paint and gilt and silver ornaments, the silver of the moon-goddess, Diana Virgin.
At last, when Argus gave the word, we got into the ship, reversed the oars, putting the handles outboard, and bound them to the thole-pins; so, pushing like madmen, we all got Argo moving on her rollers down into the water. We were a little surprised when we found that Argo was as steady on the sea as she had been on the sand. Even Argus, the designer, was amazed, though he affected not to be at all excited and said that he knew from his drawings on the clay tablets that the launching would turn out well.
But Heracles, with his dark smile, drew me aside and said, ‘That fool takes all the credit. I wonder where we should have been if I had not laid the child into the trench to help the keel slide through?’
This shocked me at the time for I had not seen this happening, though when I cast my mind back I did recall a smothered gasp from the crowds on the harbour-side when we had got half-way down the trench.
I meant to ask him whose child it was, but in the general rush and excitement, I forgot. Nor did I ever know. It was probably some unwanted creature who would otherwise have been exposed on Mount Pelion and left to the wolves. At least the ship-death was a quick one; there is that to be said for it.
Once we had proved that the vessel was seaworthy, we dived overboard and raced each other back to the shore, shouting in the sunshine, slapping the foam into our friends’ faces as we went.
Pelias, wrapped in his black ram-fleece, stood on his high rock and watched while we raised a cairn of stone to Apollo and lit fires of dried olive wood to burn before it. Then two steers were dragged protesting down the beach and made to stand still while I got on my knees and whispered a prayer to Apollo for the safe conduct of the voyage.
I covered my face with my hands with a great show of devotion for, to tell the truth, I had forgotten the words of the prayer, but I was able to make out that I spoke under the stress of great feeling and so my inaudible words were forgiven, and, indeed, in certain quarters, praised. They said that I was moved by the God.
Afterwards my mother put libation cups of lustral water in my hands, which I cast over the fires, and followed this by sprinkling a sack of barley-meal into the smoke.
Heracles struck one of the steers in the middle of the forehead, such a mighty clout that the dumb creature died where it stood and tumbled, a slack heap, on to the ground. Ancaeus, who was to be our steersman, chose to kill the other steer with his double-headed bronze axe, but in the excitement he made a poor stroke, and though he cut through the sinews on one side of the animal’s neck, so that its great head hung sadly sideways, the steer stayed alive and set up such a bawling that I stopped praying and ran forward with my short dirk. As I cut its throat, the warm blood splashed me from chest to knee and the people raised a great cheer to see me stand steaming before them in the sunlight, my red dirk dripping, my head flung back and laughing.
That was when I first felt entirely like a god. During the flaying of the hides, the burning of the sacred thigh-bones, and the feasting that followed, I still had the roar of that crowd in my ears, still felt the hot blood upon my body.
My mother did not speak to me before we sailed. She and her women were occupied with beating gongs and striking the cords of their lyres. But Pelias drew me aside when all the others were busy with wine or women and whispered to me in his hoarse voice, ‘My son, this day the light has shone in your eyes. Fare forward, for the gods are with you.’
The man I had come to kill, and who now made me love him by calling me his son, by foretelling my godhead.
I had intended to cast overboard Acastus, the son of Pelias, who had been slighting me; but after those words, I could not bring myself to do such a thing. I did not love Acastus but at least I would let him alone, for his father’s sake.
Only one other thing I recall, as we hauled up the sail and drew away from the grey harbour-stones of Pagasae: a fat woman in a bright blue gown was holding up a little boy to watch the Argo go. He was a golden-haired child, and as brown-skinned as a Cretan from the good summer weather we were having. This little child’s face lit up as the purple sail rose and he cried out wordlessly and clapped his hands so that all the folk about him smiled, too, and clapped their hands with joy at his joy.
Atalanta, who stood beside me at the prow, nodded her head and said, ‘That child is called Achilles. He is the son of Peleus, who rows in the fifth bench here. One day little Achilles will be great Achilles and all men will know his name.’
I said, ‘Who will be the greater, Achilles or I, priestess?’
Not that I believed this strumpet, but I was interested in what she might say. Indeed, it had crossed my mind that if she said Achilles would outdo me, I might even leave behind an order that the child was to be attended to; I do not mean killed, but merely crippled, as was the custom then among the Hellene tyrants.
But Atalanta said, ‘Jason will gain a queen; Achilles a dead friend.’
At the time that answer satisfied me; though in later years it would not have done so. We learn by experience not to trust anyone, and least of all the priestesses.
But as we drew from the shore and the wine-dark waves broke over our straining oars and the sea-mews swirled about our mast-top of stout ash, I forgot Achilles and Atalanta, even forgot the task that lay before me in distant Colchis. And all I knew was that for the first time in my life I was sea-borne, free of land, the master of men, the war-leader—I, who had never been in a battle in my life! So one may see the irony of the gods at such a choice.
On the seventh day out, as we were nearing the island of Icos, which lay on the horizon like a blue-grey humped fish, something happened which showed me clearly enough that the hands of the gods are always outstretched to clench about any man who sets himself too high.
Atalanta, laughing, mother-naked and as gold as honey, was amusing herself by diving from the gunwales and swimming about the ship, calling out that she was Aphrodite come again, and bobbing up and down in the blue water like a young dolphin. I watched her from my place behind the oak prow, smiling at her childish antics in what I thought was a masterly way. I saw that she was both a superbly made woman and a great swimmer; still, I put on a show of tolerant contempt.
Suddenly she came alongside and, grasping at one of the oars, smoothed her fair hair back from her broad forehead, looking up at me with twinkling grey eyes that were screwed up in the sunlight. I saw the thin crust of salt on her golden skin.
‘Well, Diomedes,’ she said, ‘you may not be afraid of men with their spears but are you not fearful of the hand of Poseidon?’
I looked over her head and pretended not to hear her, but I knew that many of the men heard her and were staring at me curiously. In those days a man who set himself up to be a leader was expected to accept any wagers, however dangerous, without a second thought.
I still did not answer her, though she asked the question twice more.
Then she changed her approach and called loudly, ‘In my father’s kingdom I took on all comers in the foot-race, and beat them. I, held in the hand of Sea Mother Tethys, challenge you to race me in the waters.’
To tell the truth, most of my time had been spent on solid land and I was no great swimmer. I could have done without this taunting at the start of the voyage. I was just unbuckling my leather breast-plate when Heracles leaned over to me and whispered, ‘I warn you, do not go.’
For once I felt ready to take the advice of my twin without question, for it was what lay in my own mind. And I began to fasten up the buckles once more, despite the smiles of the oarsmen about me.
Then suddenly Meleager jumped up and ripped off his hide tunic. His russet hair flamed in the breeze and for a second he looked a young god, laughing and sneering.
‘If Jason will not take you on, then I will, woman!’ he shouted, and, before we could stop him, he had dived in beside her.
Now this was something I could not control. If I did not jump, too, then I might just as well cut my own throat there and then. I drew away from Heracles and stripped off my breast-plate and kilt and, though I was mortally afraid, I dived in beside the two, taking a great mouthful of salt water as I came up.
Men were looking over the ship’s side, some of them laughing, some of them, my friends, looking grave. But I coughed a time or two, then I yelled out, ‘Poseidon!’ and struck out after Atalanta and Meleager.
It was as though a hand bore me up, thrust me along, and soon I was abreast of them; and then, flailing my arms with all my force, I was before them, riding the powerful waves. I thought a prayer to Poseidon as I swam, thanking him for letting me do this thing in the sight of my watching fellows.
And when I had gone perhaps two hundred paces from the ship, I slowed down, thinking that I had proved my strength over the other two; but, as I glanced over my shoulder, I saw that Atalanta was still coming on strongly, overtaking me, and that Meleager was now far behind for all his sneering face.
I laughed back at the woman and shouted, ‘We have done enough, priestess. Let us return to Argo now.’
But, the water frothing about her and running in swirls over her brown body, she called back, ‘This is only the beginning, sea captain! I do not get into my stride so easily. I will race you to the little island that lies off Icos. That would be a fair trial for one who sets up as a hero.’
The power that Poseidon had put into me was flowing away bit by bit and, to tell the truth, I doubted whether I could even get back to Argo easily. In a way, it seemed just as sensible to keep straight on.
Then Atalanta drew beside me and, flinging her long hair from her face with a nod of the head, lay in the sea and said, ‘You and I, together, hey, Diomedes?’
The strength of Poseidon came into me again at this challenge—yet I fancy that the woman was not putting out all her skill, for though she did not pass me, yet I was never able to draw away from her. Moreover, as we went farther and farther from the ship, she swam so close to me that our bodies caressed each other in the water, hers smooth and shiny, mine rough and brutish, like two dolphins at their courtship.
Once she almost had me under with this teasing play, and I swore rudely at her for I was afraid she would smother me. I even began to wonder who was the stronger, Poseidon or Tethys. . . .
And then we were near the rocky shore of the little island. The waves roared and foamed among the black rocks, deafening me.
Perhaps I was a stroke in front of Atalanta when we were both pitched on to the sand, with the seas running back from us, trying to drag us in again. I was exhausted and coughing, as I got to my hands and knees like an animal. Atalanta was still laughing as she crawled over to me and put her arms about me.
‘Diomedes,’ she said hoarsely, ‘I am your prize, given to you by Mother Tethys. Take me now, Diomedes, in the sunlight, away from the ship. Take me, I beg you. The gods do not offer twice.’
This amused me because she had done little but offer herself since we had set forth from Pagasae, but I hadn’t the strength to wrestle with her and sank down under her in the hot damp sand, gasping for breath. She was more powerful than I would have given her credit for, and pinned me down, laughing, with my arms outspread and the sun above, making me close my eyes.
And then while I was still gathering force to throw her off I heard the thudding of feet on the beach and looked up to see Meleager coming at me, his face stern, his hand dragging at a short knife which he had bound on the inside of his thigh so as not to be seen.
And as he came Atalanta’s grip on me became stronger. It was then that I saw what a trap I had fallen into. They had got me on to the rocky isle, out of sight of Argo, where no one would see what happened to me. Perhaps they would go back and say that I had sunk into the sea on the last stage of the race. . . . The idea infuriated me.
But there was little I could do, for Atalanta had locked her legs about mine and was pressing down on my body heavily. She was sobbing now with the exertion and the smile had gone from her golden face. Her light hair was hanging, wet and heavy, over her features, giving her the look of a sea-goddess claiming her sacrifice. It caused a stir of fear in my heart.
And Meleager was above me, trying to get his dirk into me and finding it hard not to pierce the woman at the same time. I rolled one way and then the other until I felt my mind leaving me from sheer weakness.
I felt Meleager’s hands in my hair, dragging my head back so that he could draw his blade across my throat, and I began to scream with terror and pent-up fury. To have come so far only to fall into such a trap was enough to make a man doubt the gods he prayed to. I could have wept.
Then sand began to fly everywhere and there was a great tramping on the beach by my ears and roars of anger that were not mine.
The weight of Atalanta’s body lifted from me as fast as the lightning strikes, and I suddenly saw her lying yards away from me, her head against a rock, looking like a broken doll. And when I turned, I saw Heracles, naked and drenched, holding Meleager in his hands like a bundle of rags. Whether it was sea-foam or the spittle of rage that flecked the lips of the madman, I do not know. But he seemed a god incarnate at that moment and I thought that he would break Meleager’s limbs from his body, like brittle sticks.
But suddenly came a roll of thunder from behind us, from Icos itself, and Heracles straightened up and shook his head as though to clear it.
‘The Mother speaks,’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘She says that this is not the death that waits for Meleager.’
I tried to get to my feet, but my legs were no stronger than those of a little child and I was quivering in every muscle of my body. I could only lie back, helpless, and watch Heracles as he unwound the hide-thongs that he always wore about his waist and lashed Atalanta and Meleager together, body to body, dragging their hands tightly behind them.
And when he had made such a bundle of the two he said, ‘So, you are together now, my pretties! Take your fill of each other if you can! It will be a bitter coupling, my friends! Yet it will teach you what it means to threaten Diomedes, on whose shoulder rests the hand of Poseidon himself!’
I will give him credit, Meleager did not make a sound, but only glared in hatred at the world about him. Atalanta, though, began to weep and to cry out to Heracles to let her go because it had not been her wish to harm me ever, but that Meleager had persuaded her to this trick.
Heracles stooped and flung sand into her face, which silenced her for a while. Though as he took me up over his shoulder and carried me back to the waves, she began to scream and scream, until the blue sky seemed full of her voice and the white birds in the upper air took up her wailing and carried it across the dark sea towards Icos.
Heracles stayed beside me on the swim back to Argo; talking to me, encouraging me, and even putting his hand under me when I flagged. But at last, when we came within reach of the ship, he swam away from me to let the sailors know that I was capable of making my own way—though, to tell the truth, I was almost out of my mind with fear and exhaustion when they dragged me over the side of the ship.
We put in at Icos that evening for, whenever we could, we spent the night on land, passing from island to island. And the next day, against the will of Heracles, I ordered that Argo should stand off the little isle where we had left the two lovers.
I went ashore myself, fully armed this time, to find them. When at last I did, they were a sad sight, half-covered with mud and drifting weed. Atlanta’s bright hair was dirtied with the droppings of sea-birds, and Meleager’s body scarred by the waves which had rolled him over and over against the sharp-toothed rocks as he had tried to protect the woman who was bound to him.
Their hands were as white as dead shells and when I cut through the hide-thongs which bound their wrists they both came to life and howled with the agony of the returning blood.
Meleager became in later years a great javelin-thrower and won fame according to the poets at the funeral games when Pelias died, but that morning on the shore, he could not have held a twig in his white fingers. In fact, as I gazed down on them, in my kingly armour and with my lance in my right hand, I thought that the kindly thing would be to finish them off, to put the lance-head through both of them, as they lay gibbering in the mud.
But I could not bring myself to do it, though my twin, Heracles, would have done it, I know; I have always been against spoiling lovely women, and, despite her nature, Atalanta was a lovely creature. She cried up at me, her light eyes bleared and her rounded cheeks swollen, ‘Do not hurt me, Diomedes! Do not put the spear into me. I beg you, do not kill me. Kill me later, if you must, but not now!’
Meleager began to weep, a boy who has been savagely thrashed, holding out his two white hands like a blind beggar asking for pity. So I contented myself with kicking them both a time or two, where I thought my metal-shod sandal would hurt them, and then I cut through the thongs which bound their bodies together, little caring if the blade slipped on the wet hide.
It was here that I made one of my many mistakes; for the blade did slip as I passed it between then, not deeply, certainly, but enough to let their blood mingle, to bind them together with a thong more lasting and unbreakable than mere hide.
Then they were truly of one flesh and blood, and so held together throughout the voyage, giving me much reason for uneasiness from time to time. But it is my belief that Poseidon guided the knife and that I was not to blame. The gods often talk to us out of speechless objects like knives, or sea-shells, or even falling tiles from a roof. And it profits no man to question such silent voices; it is the gods who command through them.
I went back to the ship and after a while sent two men to carry the pair aboard once more. No one should ever say that I was vengeful towards my crew.
And this action of mine bore its own reward some months later, when Atalanta remembered my kindness and went alone to pay homage to the Mother on Samothrace, instead of the whole crew going. I know that it has been represented on vases that we all went, to the Festival of Dionysus, but that is not true. If we had gone, one of us would have been the Chosen One, to be torn by the Maenads on the hill-top, and I could ill afford to lose a single man in the task that lay before me at Colchis, at the court of the infamous Eagle King, Aeëtes.
So, chastened, the two sailed on with us, as we set our course across the open sea towards the Hellespont. And no man from that time forward dared to contest my right to speak or act as I chose; not even surly Acastus, the son of Pelias.