Wrath of the Gods Page #25

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the same seer who had advised Bellerophon (beh-LARE-uh-fon)

on how to tame the flying horse Pegasus (PEG-uh-sus). True to

his reputation, he soon found the boy, smothered headfirst in

a huge jar of honey. In thanks for this service, Minos locked

Polyeidus in a room with the dead boy, telling him that he’d

be released when he had returned Glaucus to life.

Polyeidus, a visionary not a magician, hadn’t an inkling

what to do, until a snake crawled into the room and died.

Its mate slithered away and returned moments later with

an herb, which it rubbed on the body. The first snake was

brought back to life. Polyeidus applied the same herb to

Glaucus, and it did the trick. Reasonably expecting thanks

and a reward, he was stunned to be told by Minos that he

couldn’t even go home again until he had taught Glaucus all

his mystical powers. Resignedly, this he did. And in the end,

Daedalus

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with his freedom in sight, he bid King Minos farewell. “One

last thing,” he said to young Glaucus. “Spit into my mouth.”

With what distaste may be imagined, Glaucus did as

instructed—and instantly forgot everything he had been

taught.

King Minos behaved with similar ingratitude to Daedalus.

In return for numerous services, notably the building of the

Labyrinth (LAB-i-rinth), Minos had Daedalus imprisoned,

either in his workroom or the Labyrinth itself. Admittedly,

Daedalus had been compelled to design the Labyrinth in

the first place owing to an indiscretion on his part. Minos’s

queen, Pasiphaë (pa-SIF-ay-ee), had fallen in love with a bull—

through no fault of her own but in consequence of divine

vengeance on Minos for—you guessed it—ingratitude to

the gods. To help the queen, Daedalus fashioned a lifelike

hollow cow inside which Pasiphaë could approach the bull.

As a result she gave birth to the Minotaur (MIN-uh-tawr), halfman,

half-bull.

The Labyrinth was invented by Daedalus in order to

confine the Minotaur and, some say, Pasiphaë and her

accomplice. But there was no cooping up a genius like

Daedalus. Having been locked up in his own architectural

masterpiece, the great inventor knew better than to attempt

the portal. Naturally Minos had placed this under heavy

guard, knowing that if anyone could negotiate the twisting

passages to the exit it was the creator of the Labyrinth

himself. So Daedalus gave thought to other means of escape.

Minos had been kind enough to provide him with a

room with a view, looking out over the Cretan landscape

many stories below. The king was quite confident that his

prisoner would not be leaping to his freedom. What he had

overlooked was the possibility that the caged bird might

fly. Indeed, Daedalus might well have been inspired by the

soaring flight of the birds outside his window. It is certain

that there were in fact birds in the vicinity because Daedalus

managed to possess himself of a goodly supply of feathers.

Like the great Leonardo da Vinci many centuries yet in

the future, he sketched out on his drafting table a winglike

framework to which these feathers might be applied.

Building a wooden lattice in the shape of an outsized

wing and covering it with the feathers, he set to testing his

prototype.

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It must have created quite a stir in the dank passages of the

Labyrinth when Daedalus began waving this monumental

feather duster around. The trials were important, though,

for the ultimate invention would be freighted with the risk

not just of his own life but that of his son Icarus (IK-uh-rus) as

well. For Minos had wickedly imprisoned the guiltless boy

together with his father.

At last the day was at hand to take to the skies. As he

attached one pair of wings to Icarus and another to himself,

Daedalus cautioned his son repeatedly.

“Remember all the trouble I had getting these feathers to

stick?” he said for the sixth or seventh time. “The beeswax I

used as a binding agent is unstable,” he pointed out as Icarus

fidgeted impatiently. “I had to heat it to make it work. If it

gets heated again—by the sun, say—it’ll give way and the

feathers will come loose. Do you understand, boy?”

To judge by Icarus’s expression, he felt his father was

belaboring the point. As it turned out, he might have given

his old dad more credit for a caution worth repeating. For

as soon as they had leapt from the windowsill and caught

an updraft which bore them high into the sky about Mount

Juktas (YOOK-tas), Icarus became giddy with exhilaration.

Now he knew what a falcon felt like, dipping and soaring at

will.

Perhaps with some notion of going down in the annals

of aviation with the first high-altitude record, he started

flapping with a vengeance. And as he climbed into the

thinner air aloft, the sun’s proximity began to work as

Daedalus had anticipated. The feathers came loose and

Icarus plunged headlong into the sea, which—scant

consolation—henceforth bore his name.

You enter a cluttered room in which a man labors at a

workbench. He’s made a framework consisting of simple

shafts and cross-pieces (not unlike those of a broken

ceremonial axe), and amongst the other props is a brazier

for heating the binding agent. Talk to him and he mutters to

himself:

DAEDALUS:

Hold me prisoner, will he? If that fool King

Minos thinks he can put one over on me, the

great Daedalus, he’s got another think coming.

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Once these wings are ready, I’m out of here. Now

if I could just get these feathers to stick…

If you try to touch anything:

DAEDALUS:

Don’t touch that! Hands off!

The fact is, though, you can take a candlestick from his

collection of tools and bric-a-brac.

Snake Priestess

DOOR AND FRESCO. For thousands of years now, a

large part of humankind has thought of the great power

of creation and rebirth as male in gender. But for tens of

thousands of years before that, it is likely that the essential

source of life and death, the terror and fruitfulness of nature,

was conceived of as female.

The Great Mother—known often simply as the Goddess—

took a number of forms. She was sometimes worshipped

in conjunction with other deities, some male. Snakes were

sacred symbols because they shed their skin and were in that

sense reborn. And the rebirth of the crops and edible plants

in the springtime was humankind’s greatest preoccupation.

So a snake might be worshipped or serve a ceremonial role,

either as a symbol or an embodiment of the goddess herself.

You come to a impressive portal next to a fresco depicting

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the sport or ritual of bull-leaping (see below). Click on the door

and a Snake Priestess materializes.

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