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September 1
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Greek Mythology I: Gods

Hermes and Hephaestus

Daily history and lit
Nerd out on the subjects you love
Try a free lesson from Hermes and Hephaestus
Readings
• "Homeric Hymn to Hermes" by Anonymous
• Book 1: 588-686, 713–47 from "Metamorphoses" by Ovid
• Hephæstus (Vulcan) from "The Myths and Legends of Ancient Greece and Rome" by E.M. Berens
• "Fragment 282" by Aeschylus
• Book 8: 256-366 from "The Odyssey" by Butler
• Ares (Mars) from "The Myths and Legends of Ancient Greece and Rome" by E.M. Berens

Hermes

Newborn Hermes invents the lyre, then turns from song toward mischief.
Hermes (Mercury) is the emissary of the gods and a messenger between realms. He’s often busy task-running for Zeus or conducting souls into Hades. He can be spotted by his winged sandals (talaria), winged cap (petasus), and golden herald's staff (caduceus).
Hermes looks after heralds, travelers, thieves, and merchants. Carvings of his head (Hermae) were placed at crossroads and in town squares to facilitate trade and travel.
He is known as a clever god and a trickster. Poets tell how he "borrowed" all sorts of things: Aphrodite's girdle, Artemis's arrows, Ares's spear, and even the Gorgon head that adorned the shield of Athena. (His good humor usually won him quick forgiveness.)
We'll read about his first theft in the "Homeric Hymn to Hermes". Here an unknown poet (perhaps Homer; though probably not) tells us how Hermes was clever from the very beginning...
Homer
Muse, sing of Hermes, the luck-bringing messenger born to Zeus and the shy, rich-tressed nymph, Maia, who dwelt apart in a deep, shadowed cave.
There, while white-armed Hera slept, Zeus came by night unseen by gods or mortals; when his fixed purpose ripened, Maia bore a child of many shifts, blandly cunning and destined for marvellous deeds.
Born at dawn, by noon he played the lyre, and at evening he stole far-shooting Apollo's cattle; no sooner born than he sprang from the cradle to seek Apollo's oxen.
Crossing the threshold of the high-roofed cave he found a tortoise and took endless delight. He lifted the tortoise in both hands and returned within.
Hermes then cut off its limbs, scooped the marrow with grey iron, fixed measured reeds across the shell, stretched ox-hide, set horns and a cross-piece, and strung seven sheep-gut strings.
He proved each string with the key; at his touch it sounded marvellously, and the god sang sweet random snatches like youths trading taunts at festivals, praising Zeus and his mother, neat-shod Maia, and telling the glorious tale of his begetting.
He celebrated the handmaids, the bright home, the tripods round the house, and abundant cauldrons; yet while he sang, his heart bent elsewhere. He hid the hollow lyre in his cradle and slipped out to plot night-born trickery and taste flesh.

Hermes Steals Apollo's Cattle

Hermes steals Apollo's herd, covers every trace, and demands divine standing.
Homer
As the Sun went down, Hermes hurried to Pieria where Apollo's divine cattle grazed. He cut off fifty loud-lowing kine, drove them straggling across sand, and reversed their hoofprints while he himself walked the other way.
Then by the sea he wove wicker sandals—unthought-of, unimagined—mixing tamarisk with myrtle-twigs, tying fresh young wood, leaves and all, securely under his feet as light sandals, makeshift gear for haste upon a long journey.
An old man tilling his flowering vineyard saw him hurrying through grassy Onchestus; Hermes called out with a smile and a warning wrapped as advice.
Young Hermes
Old man, bowed over your vines, you will have much wine if you obey me: remember not to have seen what you have seen, nor heard what you have heard; keep silent when nothing of your own is harmed.
Homer
Through shadowy mountains, echoing gorges, and flowery plains he drove the cattle; night, his dark ally, was passing, and dawn stirred folk to work, as he reached the river Alpheus.
He brought the cattle unwearied to high-roofed byres and the drinking-troughs before the noble meadow, fed the loud-bellowing cattle with fodder, and packed them chewing lotus in the byre, close and content.
Then he began to master the art of fire; choosing a stout laurel branch, he expertly trimmed it with his knife.
Holding it firmly, he ignited it, letting hot smoke rise as Hephaestus's power came to life. Next he piled many dried sticks into a sunken trench until a fierce flame glowed brightly.
As the fire raged, empowered by Hephaestus's glorious strength, he dragged two lowing horned cows close to the blaze, drawing on great strength.
He threw them panting on their backs, rolled them on their sides, bent their necks over, pierced the vital cord, cut rich fatted meat, spitted and roasted the flesh, the honourable chine, and the paunch full of dark blood together.
He laid them on the ground and spread the hides on a rugged rock. Then he set rich meats on a smooth stone and divided them into twelve honourable portions by lot.
Glorious Hermes longed for the sacrificial meat; the sweet savour wearied him, god though he was, yet his proud heart would not consent to devour it. He stored the fat and flesh high in the byre as a token of youthful theft.
Afterward he gathered dry sticks and destroyed with fire all the hoofs and heads, then cast his sandals into deep-eddying Alpheus, quenched the embers, covered black ashes with sand, and spent the night beneath Selene's soft untroubled light.
At dawn he returned straight to Cyllene's bright crests; no god or mortal met him, no dog barked. He slipped edgeways like an autumn breeze through the key-hole, into the rich inner chamber, and hurried to his cradle with the lyre.
He wrapped his swaddling clothes about his shoulders like a feeble baby and lay playing with the covering about his knees, keeping his sweet lyre close at his left hand, soft-footed and silent upon the cave's floor. His mother, Maia, saw him and scolded him.
Maia
How now, you rogue; back by night-time wearing shamelessness like a garment. Leto's son, Apollo, will haul you forth with unbreakable cords about your ribs, or you will live a rogue's life in the glens robbing by whiles.
Young Hermes
Mother, do not frighten me like a fearful babe; I will seek the best plan and feed us both. We will not remain alone among gods unfed; better fellowship and honour than sitting always in a gloomy cave.
I too will claim the rite Apollo has; if my father refuses, I can be prince of robbers. Should Apollo pursue me, a greater loss will befall him, for I will plunder Pytho's splendid house.
In the next lesson, the angry Apollo learns his cattle have gone missing...

The Trickster

Apollo follows a witness, an omen, and impossible tracks toward the infant thief.
We're learning about the newborn god, Hermes, god of thieves and merchants. We'll pick up the story with the Sun God, Apollo, who is furious to find his cattle missing.
Homer
Apollo came to sacred Onchestus and found an old man grazing his beast beside the courtyard fence; the all-glorious son of Leto began to question him.
Apollo
Old man, weeder of grassy Onchestus, I come from Pieria seeking cows of my herd, all with curving horns; the black bull grazed alone, the fierce-eyed hounds followed four in accord, yet the cows strayed at sundown.
Tell me truly, old man born long ago: have you seen anyone passing behind those cows along the path, anyone driving them away from the soft meadow when the sun was going down?
Homer
The old man answered that "many pass to and fro—some for evil, some for good—and it is hard to know each one." He said that he had seen a child with a staff driving long-horned cattle backward, their heads turned toward him.
Hearing this, Apollo hastened on; a long-winged bird confirmed the omen. Cloaked in a dark cloud he sought his shambling oxen, and, seeing the tracks, cried out in wonder.
Apollo
Oh, oh—these are straight-horned oxen's tracks, yet turned backwards toward the flowery meadow; but these others are no prints of man or woman or wolves or bears or lions—some swift-footed wonder has marked them.

Born Yesterday

Apollo confronts the swaddled thief; Hermes turns infancy into an audacious alibi.
Homer
He came to forest-clad Cyllene and the deep-shadowed cave where the divine nymph had borne the child, sweet odour spreading over the lovely hill. Far-shooting Apollo stepped hastily over the stone threshold into the dusk.
Seeing Apollo enraged about his cattle, Hermes snuggled into fragrant swaddling; as ash covers deep embers, he drew head, hands, and feet into a small bundle like a newborn, wide awake yet feigning sleep with the lyre under his arm.
Apollo perceived the beautiful mountain-nymph and her craftily swathed child; he peered in every corner, unlocked closets bright with nectar, ambrosia, gold, and garments, as in sacred houses.
Apollo
Child in the cradle, tell me of my cattle quickly, or I will cast you into dusty Tartarus and awful, hopeless darkness. Neither mother nor father shall free you; underground you will wander, leader among little folk.
Young Hermes
Apollo, what harsh words; is it field-cattle you seek here? I have not seen or heard of them, nor been told; I cannot report and win reward, for I care for sleep, milk, wrappings, and warm baths.
Let none hear this dispute; a newborn child bringing cattle through the forepart of the house would amaze the deathless gods. I was born yesterday with soft feet and rough ground; I will swear by my father’s head I am not guilty.
Apollo
O rogue, deceiver, crafty in heart, you speak so innocently I believe you stripped more than one poor wretch this night, gathering goods without a sound; come, comrade of dark night, rise, for you shall be titled prince of robbers.

The Lyre and the Whip

Zeus judges the brothers; music turns restitution into friendship and shared powers.
Homer
They disputed stubbornly and went to fragrant Olympus where Zeus held council; before the thundering father, the lovely children of Zeus stood for judgment after Dawn, to weigh their quarrel on snowy heights.
Zeus (jupiter)
Phoebus Apollo, whence come you driving this great spoil—this new-born child—to the council of the gods; tell me what weighty matter you bring before us now.
Apollo
Father, you shall hear no trifling tale: a burgling robber I found in Cyllene's hills, pert beyond gods or men who catch folk unawares. He stole my cows at evening along the loud-roaring shore, making straight for Pylos.
Young Hermes
Zeus my father, I will speak truth; he came at sunrise without witnesses, ordering confession and threatening Tartarus. I was born yesterday; I did not drive his cows nor cross the threshold—this I say truly.
I reverence Helios and the gods; I love you and dread him. By these rich-decked porticoes I will swear; and later I will punish him for this pitiless inquisition—now help the younger, who stands before you.
Homer
Zeus laughed to see his cunning child deny guilt; he ordered concord and a search, guiding Hermes to lead and show without malice where the strong cattle lay concealed, and Hermes obeyed the aegis-bearer's nod.
Together they hastened to sandy Pylos, forded Alpheus, and reached the byre; Hermes drove out the cattle, and Apollo, glancing aside, saw two cowhides on the sheer rock and marvelled at such power in a newborn.
Apollo
How were you able, crafty rogue, to flay two cows, new-born and babyish as you are; I dread the strength you will gain—there is no need, Cyllenian Hermes, that you keep growing long.
Homer
Hermes slung the lyre and played, softening Apollo. Harping sweetly, Hermes sang of deathless gods and dark earth, their first beginnings and allotted portions, honouring Mnemosyne first and then the immortals in order as he struck the lyre.
Apollo
Slayer of oxen, trickster, busy one, comrade of the feast—your song is worth fifty cows. Tell me, resourceful Hermes, whether this marvel came with your birth or some god or mortal gave and taught it.
What skill is this—what song for desperate cares—what way of song; here are mirth, love, and sweet sleep together. Sit down, dear boy; you and your mother shall have renown among the deathless.
Young Hermes
You question carefully but I am not jealous you should enter my art—this day you will know it. I seek friendship in thought and word; wise Zeus loves you, and from his utterance you learn honours and oracles.
Learn what you please; since your heart is set on the lyre, take it from me as a gift—sing well with this clear-voiced companion at feast, dance, and revel, a joy by night and by day.
Whoso enquires with wit, it teaches delights easily; whoso enquires ignorantly and violently, it chatters vanity and foolishness. Take this lyre for yourself.
Homer
Phoebus took it and placed his shining whip in Hermes' hand. Apollo tried each string with the key and sang sweetly as the lovely sound awesomely answered.
Together they turned the cows back to the sacred meadow and hastened to snowy Olympus; wise Zeus rejoiced and made them friends.
Apollo made his new friend an omen giver. While only Apollo could interpret the will of Zeus, Hermes became the prophet of "street-level" omens: a bird veering, a dice rattling, a friend sneezing...
Apollo also gave Hermes charge over the honey-dazed "bee-women" on Parnassus, who speak truth when sweetened and babble falsehood when dry. Like their prophecies, Hermetic omens point sometimes to the good, sometimes to the bad, sometimes to the useful, sometimes to the misleading. Such are the various winks of mischief-making Hermes.

Hermes and Argus

Io becomes Argus's prisoner; shepherd-disguised Mercury defeats the hundred-eyed guard.
Mercury (Hermes) is called the "Giant Killer" (Argeïphontes) because he killed Argus Panoptes, the hundred-eyed giant. Let's visit the myth behind his most common epithet.
We start, as we often do, with one of Jupiter's (Zeus's) love affairs. Jupiter was smitten with Io, a princess from the Greek city of Argos.
One hot day, Jupiter descended to the river Lerna to persuade the princess to join him in the shade.
Zeus (jupiter)
O maiden, worthy of immortal Jupiter, behold these overhanging shades; seek their cool recess while the sun stands at midheaven. Fear no beasts: a God will guide you.
Ovid
She fled through Lerna's pastures and Lyrcea's thick arbors. Then the God cast a heavy shadow over the wide earth, checked her flight, and in that cloud violated her chastity.
Juno, looking down, saw night-dark clouds enfold bright fields. Suspicious from oft-exposed amours, she descended and bade the mists withdraw.
Jupiter had changed Io to a milk-white heifer. Juno questioned, begged the heifer, and Jupiter, ashamed, surrendered her.
Mindful of his cunning, Juno placed Argus — a giant crowned with a hundred eyes - to watch over the heifer.
By day Io fed; by night Argus tethered her tender neck. She ate bitter herbs, slept on cold ground, and feared the sound of her own bellow.
Argus led her to other pastures, and, withdrawn upon a lofty mountain, watched her undisturbed—a tireless sentinel whose many eyes kept endless ward.
The sovereign God Jupiter could not endure Io's woes. He called his son, Mercury, and bade him slay the star-eyed guard. With wand and winged feet Mercury descended, shepherd-like, piping among straying goats.
Argus and Mercury talked of many things. Mercury softly piped to lull the watchful eyes; though some grew drowsy, others kept their vigil.
Finally, all of Argus's eyes were dim, and Mercury hushed his voice, touched the lids with his wand, compelled sleep, and struck where neck and head unite. The hundred lights went dark.

Io at the Nile

Pursued to Egypt, Io regains her humanity and founds a vast mythic lineage.
Ovid
Inflamed with towering rage, Juno raised in Io's breast a dreadful Fury: invisible, pitiless stings drove the heifer over the world until she reached the Nile.
She placed her tired knees on that river's edge and laid there. She raised her neck to the stars and bellowed: trying to plead, by all her means, that Jupiter might end her miseries.
Repentant Jupiter embraced his wife Juno, and entreated her to end the punishment: 'Fear not,' he said, 'For our affair shall trouble you no more.'
He spoke, and called on bitter Styx to hear his oath. And now imperial Juno, pacified, permitted Io to resume her form.
At once hair fell from her snowy sides; horns absorbed, eyes shrunk; jaws contracted; hands appeared and shoulders; and each transformed hoof became five nails. The glad Nymph rose, and her speech returned.
Ovid
And since that time, the linen wearing throng of Egypt have adored her as a God; for they believe the seed of Jove prevailed; and when her time was due she bore to him a son called Epaphus.
Epaphus descendants include some of the most famous figures in Greek mythology: Cadmus, Europa, Minos, Perseus, and Heracles. In the next lessons, we’ll learn about Europa, a young Phoenician princess who gave Europe its name.

Hephaestus

Outcast smith traps Hera, forges destiny
E.m. Berens
Hephæstus (Vulcan to the Romans) was the god of fire in its beneficial aspect, and the presiding deity over all workmanship accomplished by means of this useful element.
He was universally honoured as the god of all mechanical arts and [considered] a beneficial influence on civilized society.
As the god of controlled fire, Hephaestus could also be considered the god of technical breakthrough. After the Stone Age, you get the Copper, Bronze, and Iron Ages. Humanity progresses up the phase curve by making its furnaces hotter and hotter. That's all the work of Hephaestus and his blacksmiths.
E.m. Berens
Unlike the other Greek divinities, he was ugly and deformed, being awkward in his movements, and limping in his gait.
In an earlier reading, we met baby Hephaestus as he was hurled from heaven by his mother, Hera. He spent a whole day falling from Mt Olympus to earth, whereupon he broke his leg and “remained ever afterwards lame in one foot.”
ad hoc
He was raised by the nymphs Thetis and Eurynome on the banks of Oceanus. There he spent nine years mastering metalwork and plotting revenge against his mother. He now returns to Mt. Olympus bearing a gift…
E.m. Berens
It is said that the first finished work of Hephæstus was a most ingenious throne of gold, with secret springs, which he presented to Hera.
It was arranged in such a manner that, once seated, she found herself unable to move. Though all the gods endeavoured to extricate her, their efforts were unavailing.
Hephæstus thus revenged himself on his mother for the cruelty she had always displayed towards him, on account of his want of comeliness and grace.
[The gods pleaded with Hephæstus to release Hera but he refused.] Dionysus, god of wine, contrived, however, to intoxicate Hephæstus, and then induced him to return to Olympus.
Finally, after having released the queen of heaven from her very undignified position, he became reconciled to his parents.
He now built for himself a glorious palace on Olympus, of shining gold, and made for the other deities those magnificent edifices which they inhabited.
He was assisted in his various and exquisitely skilful works of art, by two female statues of pure gold, formed by his own hand, which possessed the power of motion, and always accompanied him wherever he went.
With the assistance of the Cyclops, he forged for Zeus his wonderful thunderbolts, thus investing his mighty father with a new power of terrible import.
Zeus testified his appreciation of this precious gift, by bestowing upon Hephæstus a most exquisite gift…
ad hoc

Ares

A damaged Aeschylus fragment still reveals Ares's appetite for violence.
We’re studying Greek and Roman mythology directly from the source texts. We started in 700 BCE with Hesiod’s “Theogony” and “Works and Days.” We then bound and unbound Prometheus with Aeschylus (456 BC) and Percy Shelley (1820s AD).
We’ve also begun Metamorphoses by Ovid, who lived in the time of Augustus, retelling Greek myths for his Roman countrymen. We’ve read classical mythographers (Apollodorus and Callimachus) and modern ones (Fry, Haynes, and Vandiver). And we’ll soon read Homer.
Some of these myths have survived 2,500 years; some have been lost; some survive as mere fragments. When you see something labeled “Fragment” you’re not being given the whole work—you’re getting a few scraps that survived.
For instance, we’ll now read a “Fragment 282” from the Oxyrhynchus Papyri collection, unearthed a hundred years ago in Egypt.
Here, our friend Aeschylus tells us how Hera has finally borne a handsome child, redeeming her shame after the ugly Hephaestus.
Aeschylus
Hera has reared a violent son [Ares] whom she has borne to Zeus, a god irascible, hard to govern, and one whose mind knew no respect for others.
He shot wayfarers with deadly arrows, and ruthlessly hacked . . ((lacuna)) with hooked spears . . he rejoiced and laughed . . evil . . scent of blood.”
“Lacuna” is Latin for “pit,” “hollow,” or “gap,” a diminutive of lacus (“lake,” “pond”). Historians use it to mark the part of a text that’s illegible or missing.
Let’s fill in the lacunae in our fragment. Try to imagine and recover the words that are now lost to history:“Ares shot wayfarers with deadly arrows, and ruthlessly hacked . . ((lacuna)) with hooked spears . . he rejoiced and laughed . . evil . . scent of blood.”
Even with the missing words, the passage is clear: Ares, the god of war, is a loathsome god who loved violence for its own sake.

The Most Hateful God

Athena opposes chaotic Ares; Zeus names him the most hateful Olympian.
E.m. Berens
Ares loved the tumult and havoc of the battlefield, and took delight in slaughter and destruction; indeed, he shows no benevolent aspect that could favorably influence human life.
Epic poets portray the god of battles as a wild, ungovernable warrior, who sweeps through armies like a whirlwind, casting down the brave and cowardly alike; shattering chariots and helmets, and triumphing over the grim desolation he creates.
In every battle, his sister Athena opposed him. Where she stood for disciplined war and just causes; he stood for chaotic rage and bloodthirst.
E.m. Berens
He took delight in upsetting that peaceful course of state-life which it was pre-eminently the care of Zeus to establish, he was naturally disliked and even hated by Zeus.
When once wounded [at Troy], he complained to his father, but received no sympathy from the otherwise kindly and beneficent ruler of Olympus, who thus angrily addressed him.
Zeus (jupiter)
Do not trouble me with thy complaints, thou who art of all the gods of Olympus most hateful to me, for thou delightest in nought save war and strife.
The very spirit of thy mother lives in thee, and wert thou not my son, long ago wouldst thou have lain deeper down in the bowels of the earth than the son of Uranus.
Soon all the Olympians grew to dislike Ares—all except Aphrodite. As we’ll soon learn, desire and destruction become inseparable…

The Bed

Hephaestus converts betrayal into an invisible, unbreakable bed-snare.
E.m. Berens
For his thunderbolts, Zeus bestowed upon Hephaestus the beautiful Aphrodite in marriage, but this was a questionable boon.
The lovely Aphrodite, who was the personification of all grace and beauty, felt no affection for her ungainly and unattractive spouse, and amused herself by ridiculing his awkward movements and unsightly person.
Aphrodite greatly preferred Ares to her husband, and this preference naturally gave rise to much jealousy on the part of Hephæstus, and caused them great unhappiness.
Homer
Ares and Aphrodite first lay together secretly in the dwelling of Hephaestus. Ares had offered many gifts to the garlanded goddess and brought shame upon the marriage bed of Lord Hephaestus.
But Helios, the sun-god, had seen them in their dalliance and hastened to tell Hephaestus; to him the news was bitter as gall, and he made his way to his smithy, brooding on revenge.
He set the great anvil on its base and began to forge chains that could not be broken or torn asunder, crafted to bind lovers fast.
Having made it, he went to the room where his own bed stood; all around the bed-posts he draped the chains, while others in plenty hung from the roof-beams, gossamer-light and invisible even to the blessed gods.
When the snare around the bed was complete, he made it as if to depart to Lemnos, the pleasant-sited town, which he loved more than any place on earth.

The Lovers' Trap

Ares and Aphrodite spring the trap; gods laugh while Poseidon negotiates release.
Homer
Ares, god of the golden reins, saw Hephaestus depart. He approached the great craftsman’s dwelling, yearning for love of Aphrodite Kytherea.
As for her, she had just returned from the palace of mighty Zeus, her father, and was seated in the house as Ares entered.
Ares (mars)
Come, my darling; let us go to bed and take our delight together. Hephaestus is no longer here; by now, I think, he has gone to Lemnos, to visit the rough-spoken Sintians.
Homer
So he spoke, and to lie with him was a welcome thought to her. They went to the bed and lay down, but the cunning chains of crafty Hephaestus enveloped them, keeping them from raising their limbs.
The lame craftsman god approached. Cut to the heart, he neared his house and paused in the porch; savage anger gripped him, and he roared hideously, crying to all the gods.
Hephaestus (vulcan)
Come, Father Zeus; come, all you blessed immortals with him; see what has happened here—no matter for laughter nor yet forbearance.
Aphrodite has never ceased to wrong me, giving her love to destructive Ares, for he is handsome and sound-footed, while I am crippled from birth having wished I had never been born.
You will see the pair of lovers now, embracing in my bed; the sight sickens my heart. Yet I doubt they wish to linger there, fond as they are. They will soon regret their posture.
Homer
Thus he spoke, and the gods came thronging before the house with its brazen floor. Laughter they could not quench rose on the lips of these happy beings as they gazed at the stratagem of Hephaestus.
Poseidon, however, didn’t laugh. He implored Hephaestus to let them go, promising that Ares and Aphrodite would pay for their mistake.
The couple continued their affair, desire ever coupled to destruction. With Ares, Aphrodite bore Phobos (Fear) and Deimos (Terror) — “breakers of shields” — and Harmonia (Harmony), whose wedding we’ll attend in a later reading...
Daily history and lit
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