 ZEUS and Io Now you see her, now you don’t  From his golden
throne on Mount Olympus Zeus scanned for beautiful women. Soon after his long honeymoon with Hera,
the sky god caught sight of the river nymph Io and instantly blazed with passion. His choice was awkward by mortal standards, for she was a priestess consecrated to Hera. Io served as the “guardian of the keys” in the Heraion, the oldest shrine in the world. From this site the Greeks measured time by the number of succeeding priestesses.
But the Lord of All recognized only his own inclinations. Forsaking his usual thunder, Zeus wooed Io sweetly, persuading her with gentle words: “Why are you so long a maid? The arrow of desire has pierced Zeus. For you he is on fire! With you it is his will to capture love.” Dazzled by the splendor of the god and inflamed by his ardor, Io deserted the sanctuary of the goddess. She fled to meet Zeus in Lerna, where her father’s river flowed along a grassy meadow among the wildflowers. There she found the love that was to be the rapture and torment of her life. As the affair sizzled on, Zeus began to suspect that Hera might discover his infidelity. If they were caught, Io might not expect much of a life span. To avoid trouble Zeus created the Sudden Night that ousted the daylight, tossing an opaque blanket of clouds over heaven and earth. But the scheme backfired, for the untimely darkness aroused Hera’s suspicion. Surely this eerie fog signified that the sky god was up to some deceit! The goddess searched heaven and found no trace of Zeus. “Either I am wrong or I am being wronged,” she said. Hera swept quickly to earth with such an aura of fury that the surrounding clouds dispersed. As daylight returned, Hera dimly sighted Zeus in the meadow and sped in his direction. Aware of her approach, the god did some lightning-fast thinking. Zeus transformed the slender figure of Io into a glossy white heifer. Even in this form Io was beautiful. Heifer? What heifer? Hera was puzzled by the presence of the gleam-ing little cow that stood by the side of Zeus. “How is she here? Where is she from?” Hera asked. The god pretended to be astonished at the beast’s presence and declared that she must have just sprung, well, just sprung from the earth. Did Hera believe this explanation? Of course not. Would any wife? Of course not. Hera knew that her husband was up to no good and that the mysterious heifer was involved in some amorous enterprise. But the goddess dared not risk the ire of the All Powerful One by asking too many questions. Instead she begged, “The heifer is so pretty, I would like her as a present.” Unable to refuse such a modest request without arousing suspicion, Zeus agreed. One hundred eyes on guard When Hera learned that the heifer was her priestess transformed, outrage compounded from adultery to heresy. Wrathful in both guises as protector of marriage and supreme goddess, Hera exacted an ironic punishment – to keep Io trapped in the cow’s body for eternity. To ensure that Zeus would never come to the rescue, Hera set the giant Argus to guard the pretty heifer. Argus was the busiest watchman in Greece, for he had a hundred eyes set around his head and could see in all directions at once. He slept closing his eyes two at a time while the other ninety-eight kept guard duty over his charge. Argus watched Io constantly, even when his back was turned. Poor Io! Poor little cow! Still lovesick for Zeus, she staggered here and there, dazed by her metamorphosis into the kingdom of beasts. And Argus missed no opportunity to pile affliction on affliction. According to the Roman poet Ovid, “He let her graze in the light. But when the sun sank below the earth, he penned her and fastened a rope around her innocent neck. She grazed on the leaves of trees and bitter herbs. She often lay on the bare ground and drank water from muddy streams. When she wished to stretch her arms to Argus in supplication, she had no arms to stretch. When she came to riverbanks where she often used to play and saw her gaping mouth and her new horns in the water, she grew frighted and fled, terrified of herself.” The most boring story ever told Zeus had not forgotten the pitiful plight of Io, but rescue required subtlety. He summoned Hermes, the divine trickster, always reliable for swift dispatch of devious errands. Zeus’s orders were simple. “Kill Argus.” Hermes strapped on his winged sandals, donned his winged cap, picked up his sleep-inducing wand, and flew from Olympus. On mortal ground the god removed his wings and changed into the clothes of a herdsman, keeping only his wand. On the way the divinity, also the god of thieves, stole a few sheep. Playing a reed pipe, he approached Argus, who was enchanted by the song. The monster invited Hermes to sit and talk, letting the flock rest in the shady grass. Hermes began the most boring story in all history, and that takes in plenty of territory. He spoke incessantly in a low monotone, droning, droning, droning the day away, a nasty experience I hope the reader has been spared in this lifetime. The trickster chuckled inwardly at his own creative banality. Argus closed his eyes a few at a time, while others remained vigilant. But by dusk every eye had closed and the giant dozed. Hermes touched the eyes lightly with his wand to enforce deep sleep. Then he cut off the head of Argus and threw it over the cliff, staining the rocks with blood. One hundred eyes would never again open, but Hera seized them to set into the tail feathers of her favorite bird, the peacock, where their many eyes gleamed “like starry jewels.” |
Page 1 | 2 |