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It was the Anthesteria, the spring “festival of flowers.” Creusa, the younger and by then the only daughter of the old Athenian king Erechtheus, was to descend from the Acropolis to the meadow below on that day to gather flowers to adorn the tomb of her mother, Praxithea. Knowing of this intention, her nurse, Eurynome, entered her chamber to dress her in the dark garment fitting for a day of remembrance.
She found her still asleep, a blissful smile upon her lips, but the daylight streaming through the open door evidently dispelled her slumber. She rose, seized Eurynome by the hand, but for a long time could not utter a word. Finally, she came to her senses; seeing the ash-grey chiton in the old woman’s arms, she recoiled in horror:
“No, no, not that one. Bring me from the sacred chest the white chiton with the golden border, embroidered by my mother.”
“Child, what are you saying! Have you forgotten what day it is? And even on another day I would not give it to you: your mother’s wish was that you wear it for the first time on your wedding day.”
“Listen, nurse, to what I dreamed. A wondrous youth approached me, of a beauty I have never before seen. He took me by the hand and said: ‘Creusa, put on the chiton embroidered by your mother and go out to the meadow below the hill, near the Long Rocks.'”
“But the law, child, the law!”
“Nurse, from whom does the law come, if not from the gods? And is a dream not from those same gods? And if a god gave the law, then he can also release one from it.”
“Oh, child, you are far too clever; how can I, an old woman, keep up with you! Only remember this. Your mother, the late queen Praxithea, was the foremost weaver in Athens: indeed, I think you will not find another craftswoman like her in all of Hellas now. Her chiton is of indescribable beauty: look, cherish it!”
Soon, Praxithea’s chiton covered the young body of her daughter. The nurse was right: its beauty was astonishing. Embroidered upon it was the victory of Pallas Athena over the giant Enceladus. In the center stood the goddess; in her right hand she brandished the aegis with the Gorgon’s head; to the left lay the giant in the dust, trying to turn his face away from the terrible sight; on the other side, Earth herself, the upper half of her body rising from her element, begged the victress to spare her son.
2
It was already noon when Creusa, having descended from the Acropolis, found herself on the meadow by the Long Rocks.
First of all, passing by the Clepsydra spring, she approached the cave, which at that time still penetrated quite deeply into the bowels of the rock. It was dedicated to the nymphs; here, people believed, they lived, from here their songs were sometimes heard, from here they blessed the meadow, the moistest and most flower-filled in the entire area. Their altar stood before the cave; Creusa offered a prayer before it and adorned it with the first flowers she plucked from the meadow.
Then she returned to the meadow. There was no greenery yet—the season was early—but a multitude of flowers had sprung up: anemones and poppies, violets and narcissi. Creusa had a basket; carefully lifting her chiton so as not to tear it on the thorns of last year’s brambles, she set to work.
When she had descended from her native mountain, a warm southern wind blowing from the Saronic Gulf had caressed her; now, by noon, it had died down, all was quiet. There was something binding in this motionless noon silence. The sun, despite the early time of year, was already noticeably warm, but its rays, too, seemed frozen and lay upon her like a confining armor. Creusa felt an unknown languor pouring into her veins: she felt both eerie and sweet, as never before.
Still, she had to set to work. Anemones and poppies, violets and narcissi—yes, that was precisely what was needed. Little by little, they filled the maiden’s basket. She could go home.
But what was this? A flower unseen until now, scarlet with large petals and a golden center. And next to it another, and then another, blue, even more beautiful than the first; crimson, yellow, blue—all the colors of the rainbow. And their calyxes were so diverse: some rounded into little balls, others scattered in clusters, some hung like little pouches, others tapered into arrows. And fragrant, so fragrant—such a scent is heard only in the garden of Zeus, where the Hesperides maidens grow the rejuvenating apples for the gods.
Creusa overturns the basket: farewell, anemones and poppies, violets and narcissi! She plucks new, unseen flowers, as many as can be held. How the nurse will be surprised! And it is not difficult to pluck them: the flowers themselves beg to be taken, springing up everywhere her hand touches the earth.
Hark, someone is calling… No, it is the larks singing. How clear, how sweet! These trills positively penetrate the soul, together with the rays of the sun. The whole air is imbued with them. It trembles with them, trembles…
Still, someone is calling. It is from the cave, she distinctly hears her name. The nymphs are singing—well yes, noon: it is their hour. “Creusa! Creusa!” How sweetly that name floats through the motionless air and ripples on the waves of sun, waves of fragrance, waves of lark trills. “Creusa! Creusa!” And then what? “Hymen! Hymenaeus!” A wedding song? For whom? For her! Well yes—that is why she wears the wedding attire. Sing, nymphs—and join in, larks!
No, these are no longer larks. Sounds are heard, and the air trembles from them, but these are not larks. As if from a lyre—only no mortal plays on such a lyre. “Hymen! Hymenaeus!” It sounded—and broke off. The nymphs fell silent: with such sounds even they dare not compete. And the flowers are no longer visible; nothing is visible. She drinks in the heavenly sounds with her whole being, they fill her entirely. And it is eerie, and sweet. No, not eerie, but only sweet, so sweet, as never before. Never? Was it truly never?
She closed her eyes—her dream came back to her. “How wonderful, how wonderful! I think if he were to suddenly appear before me—I would not be surprised.”
She opened her eyes… He stood before her.
3
Spring, summer, autumn passed; the stormy Maimakterion had raged and gone, but the cold month of Poseideon that followed it, after a few quiet “halcyon” days, brought an even worse storm. All day clouds raced over the plain, brushing the Acropolis with the hem of their wet robe; by evening they whirled, danced to the whistle of the hurricane.
In one of the rooms of the women’s quarters, having tightly shut the door leading to the peristyle, two old women were warming themselves by a brazier—the nurse Eurynome and the housekeeper Nicostrata. Both were spinning by the light of a resinous splinter, and their old-woman’s talk accompanied the thread drawn from the wool.
“On such a night,” said Nicostrata, “a shepherd came to us from Hymettus with the sad news that our elder princess, Procris, and her husband lay slain on the shore of Charadra. Then the songs fell silent in our house; King Erechtheus sprinkled ashes on his head, and Queen Praxithea took to the bed from which she was never destined to rise.”
“On such a night,” said Eurynome, “Boreas carried off our middle princess, Oreithyia, to Thrace. Then we all donned mourning; King Erechtheus did not take food for three days, and Queen Praxithea died.”
“On such a night,” continued Nicostrata, winding the thread onto the spindle, “what is our youngest princess, Creusa, doing?”
“What is she doing? She sleeps in her chamber; what else should she do?”
But Nicostrata shook her head.
“And have you not noticed how she has changed this summer? Where has her laughter gone, and her clever childish speeches? She is always silent, blushes occasionally; she has abandoned her friends, clings to us old women and asks about things which young maidens should not even know.”
“She takes after her mother,” Eurynome objected fervently. “She, the blessed one, knew all the herbs that nurse-earth grows. And there was no illness for which she did not know a remedy. So will Creusa be—she will be a mother to her household, believe me… Apollo the Protector, what is this? Thunder in winter?”
A gust of hurricane burst the door open with a crash and blew out the splinter. Lightning flashed. In the peristyle appeared Creusa, in her mother’s chiton, but without its left border.
“Apollo the Protector!”
A dry laugh sounded from the peristyle plunged into darkness; then all fell silent.
Both old women stood as if stunned. After a long silence, Eurynome said:
“We must go to her.”
Nicostrata rummaged in the coals of the brazier and, blowing on the fire, lit the extinguished splinter. Hiding it under her cloak, she, accompanied by Eurynome, went out into the peristyle. The precaution, however, was unnecessary: it was quite calm, and stars flickered through the tears in the torn clouds.
They went up the stairs to Creusa’s chamber. The first thing they saw there was Creusa’s festive chiton hanging from a nail; rainwater was streaming abundantly from it. Eurynome straightened it: yes, the left border was torn off, two cubits wide. Pallas still stood, raising her right hand, but the aegis with the Gorgon was no longer in that hand, just as the giant Enceladus, laid low in the dust by the fearsome goddess, was also gone.
Creusa lay in her bed under the blanket. Was she asleep? Her eyes were open, but she saw nothing; a bright flush played on her cheeks, her lips murmured something incomprehensible.
“Child, what is the matter with you?”
Creusa did not answer. The nurse wanted to stroke her, but when she touched her breast, a light cry was heard. And again her lips moved; now they whispered distinctly:
“Long Rocks, guard my secret!”
“A secret, do you hear?” the nurse said to the housekeeper in a half-whisper. “Not a word to anyone of what we have seen and heard!”
4
Spring began again, but it brought anxious news to King Erechtheus. The Euboean host was pressing; they had crossed the strait and carried off many head of cattle from the Marathonian plain. The peasants of the Tetrapolis demanded help and grumbled.
The king had to encase his old body in armor and set out on campaign.
“Yes, my daughter,” he said to Creusa, bidding her farewell, “it is hard for an old king if he has no sons. It is still good that I managed to come to terms with the brave Thessalian fighter, Xuthus, the younger son of the late Aeolus. He will help me array my host and will bring his own.”
“And what is his reward for this?” asked the maiden.
“A third of the spoils.”
The campaign lasted all summer, but ended in victory. The Euboeans were punished, the Marathonians had their stolen goods returned, and the royal treasury was enriched with considerable spoils. Joyfully the Athenians met the old king-hero and his glorious helper.
The day after his return, Erechtheus summoned Creusa.
“Xuthus asks for your hand,” he declared to her.
Creusa bowed her head, as if to say: so I expected. But neither joy nor maidenly shame was noticeable on her stern face.
“I am inclined to grant his wish,” the father continued. “True, he is not in his first youth, nor of the first beauty; but he is brave, active, and honest. And that he is not a crown prince heir actually suits me. A crown prince heir would have taken you away with him; but Xuthus will remain with us and will be like a son to me. His blood is noble; you know—Aeolus was the son of Hellen, and Hellen was the son of Zeus. But I would like my will to coincide with yours.”
Creusa listened to him calmly and then said:
“Father, allow me to speak with Xuthus alone.”
Erechtheus, nodding his head, opened the door leading to the small hall.
5
Here for the first time Creusa saw her betrothed, sitting on an honorary folding chair. Opposite him was another such chair, between both a low table, on it two goblets and a sword—apparently Xuthus’s, removed by him according to Hellenic custom before hospitality.
Xuthus did not expect Creusa’s appearance; the sight of her threw him into extreme confusion. The brave fighter, who had just crushed the Euboean host and slain its leader in single combat, felt a sudden timidity before the young beauty. He could not even rise; frozen in his place, he looked at her as at a heavenly vision, not daring to speak to her.
Creusa approached him with her head lowered; her eyes fell on the sword. She took it in her hands, as if admiring its ivory hilt.
“A fine sword you have, guest,” she said, to start the conversation. “How did you come by it?”
These words loosened Xuthus’s tongue; he immediately liked that Creusa handled his thing already as if it were her own, and at the question about the sword he finally felt himself in his habitual element.
“I bought it, fair princess, straight from a Phoenician ship; then it was still quite new, but now—now you would find many notches on both its blades. And it cost me dearly: I gave for it… very dearly.”
He actually wanted to say: a young Pierian captive, but wisely caught himself in time and clumsily finished the phrase, blushing to his ears.
Creusa noticed nothing; she seemed entirely absorbed in contemplating the sword.
“And tell me, guest,” she continued with a slight tremble in her voice, “if it had come to you from the hands of another, would it be equally dear and honorable to you?”
“From a sword we require,” Xuthus answered fervently, “that its blade be of strong and flexible Chalybian steel, otherwise it may shatter on an opponent’s helmet. Also, that it be well set into the hilt; our smiths still have not properly learned this craft. And whether the sword belonged to another before or not—that is unimportant; we do not keep it for show, but for battle.”
Here for the first time Creusa looked at her betrothed—and found that she liked him after all. “He does not shine with keenness of mind,” she thought, “but he is straightforward and, it seems, kind.” Still not releasing the sword from her hands, she approached him even closer:
“Tell me one more thing, Xuthus…” He beamed, hearing his ill-sounding name from the lips of his bride for the first time. “…do you sometimes have to use weapons hung as trophies on the columns or walls of god’s temples?”
“In case of need we do that, Cre… that is, princess, I meant to say; we reckon that in case of victory we will richly compensate the loss, and a god will not claim from a dead man. And Delphi confirmed to us that there is no sacrilege in it—ask your own exegetes. But, of course, when taking down sacred weaponry, one must pray to the god to whom it belongs.”
“Then blessed be Delphi and its exegetes,” answered Creusa with a slight smile.
Then, looking kindly at Xuthus, she laid his sword on his knees.
“Tell my father that I consent. But before the wedding, do not forget to pray—to Apollo.”
Not waiting for his expressions of delight, she quickly hurried away to her quarters.
6
Twenty years passed.
King Erechtheus, having grown completely old, died. The country was ruled by Xuthus; he ruled wisely and efficiently, always consulting with the members of the Areopagus in difficult cases. But it was not easy for him: he was not forgiven for not being an Erechtheid, not a son of the sacred Attic soil. Often matters came to disputes; in such cases Creusa would come to the council—before the daughter of Erechtheus all passions instantly subsided. But with time, even this weapon grew dull: the royal couple had no children, and the citizens said to themselves with anxiety that soon the blood of Erechtheus would dry up forever.
For what such wrath of the gods?
Of course, this question did not cease to trouble Xuthus and Creusa. Whole hecatombs of cattle fell at the altars of the gods: rich offerings were promised to Artemis of Brauron and the river god Cephisus; all local soothsayers were questioned—all in vain. And what most puzzled those questioned—the gods gave not so much unfavorable as unintelligible, empty answers: the prophetic birds called with voices not their own; the pattern on the prophetic liver of the slaughtered animal consisted of tangled lines that defied any interpretation.
Xuthus insisted on equipping a sacred “theoria” to Delphi, but Creusa would not hear of it.
One day, a supplicating crowd of women appeared before the royal palace—at their head the venerable priestess of Pallas, then matrons, maidens, and girls; all had green olive branches in their hands, bound with woolen fillets. Xuthus came out to the crowd; but the priestess said to him:
“We demand the queen as well.”
Creusa came too—timidly and with her head bowed, as if guilty. Then the priestess said:
“King and queen, you know that in time past our goddess brought a mysterious ark to the three maidens—the dew-nymphs of this mountain—forbidding them to open it. One of them kept the goddess’s commandment, but the other two violated it. In the ark they saw an infant whom two serpents fed with the food of immortality. Had they not opened the ark prematurely—the infant would have gained immortality, and the grace of the goddess would have been eternal for our country. They, punished with madness, threw themselves from the cliffs of the Acropolis; the infant, however, growing up within the goddess’s precinct, received from her royal power over her country. This was Erichthonius, also Erechtheus the First, the progenitor of our kings—the Erechtheids.”
After a long, happy reign he died, passing power to his son Pandion. Under him the favor of the gods shone even more brightly over Attica: Demeter and Dionysus came to our country and taught its people agriculture and viticulture. And when the envious Theban neighbor wished to invade our borders, we gave him a courageous rebuff, showing Hellas that the city of Pallas is as mighty in military matters as in the affairs of peace.
Pandion was succeeded by Erechtheus—your father, queen. Heavy were the trials with which the gods visited his house, but the country prospered under him, and the royal couple was loved by the people for their justice and kindness.
For what wrath of the gods has fallen upon you, Creusa—this none of us knows. But Zeus knows it, and his prophetic son, Apollo, knows it. Queen, before we bid farewell to the hope of seeing an heir of his blood on the throne of Erechtheus, we demand that a theoria be equipped to the common hearth of all Hellas, to Delphi.
Creusa listened to the priestess’s word in silence; but it was evident how painfully her soul suffered. When the priestess, having finished, respectfully stepped back into the ranks of the supplicants, she said:
“Your demand is just, citizens. Take your supplicant branches, announce to all Athenians that tomorrow I myself will set out for Delphi to inquire the will of the god.”
7
Three days later, Creusa, a modest pilgrim, mingled with the Panhellenic crowd that had come to seek counsel from Apollo. To the priest who received sacrificial animals from the pilgrims, she handed over a ram bought right there with gilded horns, tying to its neck a symbol of Athena—a clay image of an owl. Then the Pythia came; after a brief prayer she conducted a lottery among the arrivals, whereby Creusa’s lot was among the first; then she withdrew into the holy of holies, leaving the crowd to admire the decorations of the foremost sanctuary in all Hellas while awaiting the sacred rite.
Finally, the cry of the Pythia announced to all that the prophetic power had entered her; then from the temple emerged a servant of Apollo, a youth of unspeakable beauty, and began to approach the pilgrims in the order determined by lot. The turn came to Creusa; seeing the youth up close, she could not restrain an exclamation:
“Happy is she who bore you! What name did you receive from her?”
“She who bore me is probably very unhappy; and my name is simply—servant of Apollo. But this is not the time to speak; what question do you have for the god?”
“My question is enclosed in this bound and sealed tablet,” answered Creusa, “mortal eyes must not read it. And how shall I receive the answer?”
“You will read the answer in the same tablet; for the god there are no secrets and no barriers.”
He withdrew into the temple; several eerie minutes passed. Suddenly, a cry from the Pythia rang out from the temple, making all present shudder. Soon after, the youth appeared again—all noticed that a deathly pallor covered his face. He handed the tablet to Creusa.
The seal was untouched. Breaking it, Creusa opened the tablet—but immediately dropped it, staggered, and covered her face with her hands. The tablet was empty; the wax of the tablets was as if scorched by torch fire, and they themselves were black as coal.
At the same moment came the priest who had received the sacrificial animals from the pilgrims; he was leading the ram with the gilded horns.
“Where is that Athenian woman who gave me the ram with the image of the owl? Let her take it and leave quickly; the god has rejected her sacrifice.”
Here the crowd recoiled from Creusa as from one plagued. Voices were heard:
“Sinner!”
“Impious sacrilegious woman!”
“You have defiled us all!”
“Such are stoned!”
“Stones! Stones!”
The mood of the crowd grew ever more threatening; stones did not delay in appearing in its hands; one more minute—and a bloody reprisal would have begun.
Creusa rushed to the youth, as if seeking salvation from him; here for the first time he discerned her features, looked into her beautiful, wide-open eyes, frightened. A strange, unknown before feeling stirred in his heart.
“Throw down the stones!” he cried to the crowd. “Who is empowered to interpret the will of the god? He often humbles a man only to exalt him later. Let us all go to the Castalian spring, wash in its cleansing streams. And you, guest, go in peace, and may the god be more merciful to you henceforth!”
8
The meeting of the two spouses in Athens was not joyful.
“The god did not deign to answer my question.”
Xuthus looked at his wife perplexedly, but she added not a word—and he, knowing her, did not even attempt to elicit anything from her.
“And still we cannot neglect the entreaty of the citizens,” he said. “I shall have to go to Delphi myself.”
And he set out, moreover with a rich treasury and a royal retinue; the young moon had already waxed full when he returned. He returned, visibly pleased; to his wife’s question he answered evasively:
“All for the best.” And immediately added: “Allow me to commend to your grace my new guest-friend: Ion, son of Aeolus, a Delphian.”
Creusa glanced at the guest—and cried out: she recognized the youth who had saved her life in Delphi. He seemed no less surprised.
“So you had a name?”
“So you were the queen?”
At another time these involuntary exclamations would have aroused Xuthus’s suspicions; but now he himself seemed the most confused.
“As the king of Athens, I offered the Delphians a feast worthy of Pallas,” he said, as if justifying himself. “Thought it would please the god as well. On behalf of the Delphians, Ion gave a return feast—so the lot willed. Thus we became guest-friends. Now I wish to show him Athens. He will stay with us for some time.”
Creusa silently nodded her head and went to her chambers.
Ion indeed prolonged his stay. He was inseparable from Xuthus: learned horseback riding and military science from him, in which he was a novice, visited members of the Areopagus with him, toured the villages. Very often Xuthus, with a certain deliberateness, asked his opinion in the presence of others—and it happened that each time it was a sound, reasonable opinion. His charm in manner, his beauty also won him people’s affection; they grew accustomed to him, came to love him, and even grieved at the thought that he was still only a guest and would in time depart, though not very soon.
The queen, however, the youth visibly avoided; in her presence he always felt awkward, as if guilty before her. The household attributed this to the natural reserve of a young guest before the mistress, though not young, still youthful and beautiful, and fully approved of it.
“Clearly, he grew up under grace,” they said.
Still, a time came that perforce forced Ion and Creusa to soften this severity somewhat. The age-old neighbor-enemies of the Athenians, the Euboeans, stirred again and occupied with military force the lands taken from them by Erechtheus; Xuthus had to set out on campaign.
Before his departure, he gave a final feast to his friends—the Areopagites—and at the third goblet, summoning his household, solemnly proclaimed:
“Wife, I entrust Ion to your care, as mistress and—in view of his youth—as mother. Ion, I entrust the queen and the house to your protection. The holy Panhellenic law is known to you both.”
After these words he spilled a few drops of wine.
“To Zeus the Saviour!” all exclaimed.
“To our victory!” cried Ion.
Xuthus drained the goblet.
“To your return!” added the senior Areopagite.
Xuthus wanted to pour himself more wine, but in doing so dropped the goblet, and it shattered.
“So may the happiness of our enemies be shattered!” Ion hastened to add. All took up his interpretation, stifling the feeling that had arisen in their breasts.
9
The war dragged on; full moon followed full moon—the Athenian host did not return.
The kingdom was governed by Creusa together with the council of the Areopagus; she resorted to Ion’s help rather for settling the disputes of peasants in the villages; he therefore often had to be absent—which was, apparently, her intention.
During one of his absences, the following occurred.
The aged Eurynome, who rarely left her old woman’s bed, entered the queen’s chamber in extreme agitation; with one hand she leaned on a staff, with the other she led a young slave woman, also agitated and begging for mercy.
“Don’t beg, don’t beg!” Eurynome repeated. “I won’t hear of it. Tell the queen everything you told Eutychis yesterday—everything without concealment! Remember, I know everything! If you think to lie—it will go ill with you!”
Creusa set aside her spinning. “What is the matter?” she asked the slave sternly. “What do you know?”
“I know nothing, mistress,” the slave began plaintively, “except what Straton, whom you gave me as a husband, told me.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“He was in the retinue of King Xuthus in Delphi.”
“In Delphi?” Creusa asked again, a tremble in her voice. “Continue!”
“Well, there, as is customary, Straton said, a feast; another feast; then, Straton said, the day of oracles. That youth, then still without a name, asks the king: ‘What question do you command me to convey to the god?’ And the king in response: ‘I myself before the face of the god will propose my question to him.’ And he went, then, into the temple, and the youth, then, remained before the temple and began to walk back and forth, waiting for the king’s exit. And the youth then was completely without a name, Straton said…”
“I know, I know; what then?”
“And then, then, the king comes out—the youth goes to meet him. The king starts embracing him: ‘Hail, my son!’ He breaks free; have you lost your mind, he says? And the king: ‘I have not lost my mind at all, but thus Apollo said to me: whoever, he said, first meets me, he is my son.’ And he gave him the name Ion because he came out to meet him. And he strictly ordered all the retinue: ‘If your life is dear to you, not a word to anyone.’ And for the gods’ sake, mistress, don’t betray me. For if the king finds out—he will kill Straton, and Straton will kill me.”
“Son, you said, son… How is he his son?”
“That’s what he asked about: ‘How,’ he says, ‘am I your son, when I am a Delphian and you are an Athenian?’ And the king began to recall—you understand, old affairs. And he recalled that once, some twenty years ago, a festival of Dionysus was celebrated in Delphi, and the Delphian bacchants…”
A rending cry that burst from the queen’s breast did not let her continue. Tearing herself from her place, she ran out onto the platform before the palace. She raised her hand menacingly towards Cithaeron and the Delphian road.
“Be cursed, be cursed, be cursed!” she cried in a frenzy. “Why to him, and not to me? What has he become to you? Ah, his blood will blossom in the house of Erechtheus, and mine…”
Her strength left her. When she came to, she saw the nurse beside her.
“God be with you, my daughter, what is the meaning of your terrible words? Curses will not help the matter, we must act, and quickly, before your husband returns. We cannot allow him to seat his illegitimate son, begotten with some mad Delphian woman, on the throne of your father.”
Creusa listened submissively, answering nothing.
“Listen to what I tell you, my daughter. Your mother, the blessed queen Praxithea, knew all the herbs that nurse-earth grows—knew which heal, which kill. She left that knowledge to me too. You leave him to me, when he returns—and the deed will be done.”
But Creusa shook her head:
“He saved my life, and am I to kill him? No, nurse, your counsel is not good; it is not the business of the daughter of Erechtheus to take that path.” Her eyes flashed with pride and courage. “I want clarity—clarity and truth. In our Athens, god’s truth found its first abode. Pallas herself established here the first court in the world—a court just and incorruptible. Even the gods did not disdain to appear before this court—Ares answered before it for the blood of Poseidon’s son, whom he killed in just vengeance for his daughter’s honor; and since then that court is called the court of the Areopagus.”
Here she rose and for the second time stretched out her hand towards Cithaeron and the Delphian road.
“And I want to summon the god to the Areopagus!”
10
When Ion returned, he, according to established custom, sent to the queen to ask her when he could give her an account of his trip into the hinterland. But the queen refused to receive him and bade him told through the chief of the palace guard that he was to give a general account of all matters before the court of the Areopagus.
Ion understood that she had learned everything and that his power in Athens had come to an end: “For me, life in Delphi under the grace of the god was dearer than all thrones in the world. But I pity good Xuthus; what a bitter, lonely old age awaits him!”
He entered his chamber, put into a chest the rich attire of a prince that Xuthus had given him, and took out of it the modest garb of a servant of Apollo, in which he had walked in Delphi. He also took out an old but elegant and sturdy basket that the Pythia had given him when bidding him farewell. “With what I came, with that I shall leave,” he said to himself, “let all else remain in the house of Erechtheus.”
Meanwhile, Creusa, learning of Ion’s return, sent for the senior Areopagite.
“Cephisodorus,” she said to him, “I have a matter for the Areopagus. I wish to tell it of my grievance, and let it decide according to truth, obedient to the precept of Pallas. Order that Ion be told to appear in court.”
“As the accused?”
“No, as a witness.”
“And who is the accused?”
“I will name the accused before the court; fear not, he will hear my summons. So, assemble immediately on the rock of Ares.”
“Queen, the Areopagus does not assemble on the rock of Ares these days.”
“Where then?”
“Below the Acropolis, on the meadow by the Long Rocks.”
Creusa shuddered: “Why there?”
“A solemn theoria to Delphi is impending, queen; but the signal for it must be given by Apollo himself with a flash of lightning from the mountain of the Beacon, in the chain of Parnes. And so now the Areopagites on duty, taking turns, keep watch from the Long Rocks, from where a view of Parnes opens, for when the lightning appears; if the Areopagus needs to assemble in full—it assembles there.”
“Excellent,” answered Creusa with concealed malice in her voice, “that is even better. So, await me on the meadow by the Long Rocks.”
11
The Cave of the Long Rocks no longer held the appearance it had twenty years prior, when Princess Creusa gathered flowers here for the festival of the Anthesteria. A thick curtain of laurel trees now barred the way, leaving but a narrow opening; and even this was forbidden to all mortals. So had Queen Creusa decreed; on the eve of her wedding, she had consecrated certain objects within and from that time forth, each year on the cold night of the month of Poseideon, she performed certain sacred rites there, of which none were ever to know.
Now, on the meadow before the cave, twelve folding chairs were arranged in a semicircle; upon them sat the Areopagites, crowned with green wreaths, in an order determined by their seniority; within the semicircle stood Ion—just as he was known in Delphi—and the Pythia’s basket lay at his feet. All awaited the arrival of the queen.
At last she came—pale, trembling, leaning on the arm of the priestess of Pallas. Behind her followed all that crowd which had come to her with olive branches on that fateful day and had persuaded her to journey to Delphi. “I have not yet given you the answer of Apollo,” Creusa said to them, “I shall give it now.”
“The judges are present, the witness is also here,” began Cephisodorus. “Tell us, Queen, whom you accuse.”
Creusa raised her head, and an angry blush spread across her cheeks.
“Him!” she cried, pointing towards the cleft of Parnes, upon which three of the Areopagites had not taken their eyes.
“I was yet a maiden; my beauty found favour in his eyes. He summoned me—by a dream on the night of the Anthesteria. Ah, did you think my bridal bower was in the chambers of Erechtheus, near the house of Pallas? No; my bridal bower—there it is!”
She stretched out her hand towards the cave.
“Then I did not complain; an unearthly bliss filled my entire being, I considered myself the happiest of wives, blessed to carry within my womb a child of divine blood. I kept thinking: the god will come, he will look with favour upon my hope. But the months passed, and he did not come.
In secret from all, I bore the divine fruit; in secret I gave birth to him in the house of Erechtheus, biting my lips until they bled, so that they would not release a treacherous cry from my breast; in secret I carried him here, to this cave, before the eyes of his forgetful parent. And that is all I know of him.
Twenty years have passed—not once did the god remember me. And when I was compelled to go to him as a pilgrim and I, in the sealed repository, did not pose to him the question of where my son—and his—might be, he burned away my question and gave me no answer.
After me, my husband Xuthus also went to him; and what then? To him, he granted what he had denied me—he granted a son to his youthful love. That son—here he stands!”
She pointed at Ion.
“Judges of Pallas,” Creusa continued. “To you, the mighty daughter of the Thunderer granted the great right to pass judgment upon both gods and men: Ares and Poseidon have submitted to your verdict. Judge now between me and my offender, demand of Apollo that he return my son to me!”
At that moment, an armed messenger, quite out of breath, ran up to Cephisodorus and whispered something in his ear. Cephisodorus sighed and removed the wreath from his head. All the Areopagites turned their gaze upon him: “What has happened?”
“The court of the Areopagus continues,” Cephisodorus proclaimed loudly. “Queen, not all in your story is clear. Why did you not confide in your father, Erechtheus? He was kind and loved you; he surely would have found means to ease your suffering and, having no sons of his own, would have gladly welcomed a grandson of divine blood, whom you had borne.”
Creusa frowned.
“In his command before parting, the god forbade me to reveal it to anyone; this was the culmination of the wrong. No one knew anything—not my father, not my nurse. I endured it all alone.”
“You speak of a command; do you remember it firmly?”
“Indeed! It was seared into my heart with fiery letters.”
“Repeat it then to the court, in the very words of the god.”
“He said to me thus: ‘Thank you, Creusa, for your love; your reward shall be a wondrous infant, whom you shall bear when Selene for the tenth time shifts her horns. But you must not reveal to anyone that his father is Apollo…'”
“Is that all?”
Creusa did not answer immediately. “No, not all,” she said at last, almost in a whisper.
“Before the court there must be no secrecy; what else did the god command you?”
“‘…and you must lovingly nurse and raise him yourself, never sending him away from you.'”
“And you dared to disobey the will of the god?”
“Could I have obeyed it? Consider! To keep a child born in maidenhood, evidence of my shame—and to reveal to no one, not even my own father, that which would have justified me in his eyes—that I had conceived him by a god! Oh, it was easy for the god to demand this! At first, I too was obedient to him, hoping he would come to strengthen me. But when the months passed, and he was not there, when the day came that tore my body, and still he was not there—then my soul too grew powerless.”
Cephisodorus sadly bowed his head.
“We have heard the accuser; let us now hear the witness. Ion, son of Aeolus, what do you know of your origin?”
“Apollo gave me as a son to King Xuthus,” Ion declared modestly, “this I know from the king’s own words. I did not seek this honour for myself; if I am displeasing to the queen, I shall return to the shelter of the god. As she bade me farewell, the Pythia, who was a mother to me in Delphi, gave me this basket. ‘By it,’ she said, ‘you shall know your true mother.’ ‘When?’ I asked. And she answered: ‘When the god wills it.'”
“Hand the basket to the court,” said Cephisodorus.
Ion obeyed. Creusa, who had been looking at the cleft of Parnes all this time, now for the first time turned her attention to it. Her heart began to beat convulsively.
Cephisodorus untied the cords, removed the covering, and looked inside. “A rather modest inheritance your mother has left you,” he said with a smile to the youth.
Indeed, the entire inheritance consisted of a piece of white cloth, resembling a child’s swaddling clothes. “And yet,” the judge continued, “in women’s work she was a master. Look what is embroidered here: a fallen giant, above him the head of a Gorgon. A pity the hand of Pallas that held it is torn off.”
Creusa ran up to the judge. Beside herself with excitement, she rushed into the cave and immediately emerged from it with a chiton in her hands. She unfolded the chiton: “Look, here is the hand of Pallas. Do you see? It all matches, the entire embroidery is complete—the embroidery of my mother, Praxithea.”
She looked at Ion. “Judges, judges! Now I myself ask for the accused to be acquitted. I have suffered much, but this moment redeems all: Apollo has returned my son to me!”
All the Areopagites, save one, rose from their seats. Cries of acclamation were heard: “Long live Ion! Long live the son of Apollo! Long live the royal grandson of Erechtheus!”
Cephisodorus allowed the joy to subside and then proclaimed with deliberation:
“Long live King Ion!”
All were astounded. What? King Ion? Why king?
Cephisodorus continued:
“It grieves me to sadden the queen and all of you in such a joyful moment; but the news I have just received states: the Euboean host is defeated by the army of Pallas—but in the battle, fighting bravely, our king, Xuthus, son of Aeolus, has fallen.”
The Areopagites removed their wreaths. Creusa bowed her head, the joyful smile on her lips vanished, two large tears rolled down her cheeks.
“He was kind and honest,” she said, “and he fell a hero’s death; may he be granted a tomb in the sepulchre of the Erechtheids!”
“And I, mother,” added Ion, “I shall avenge his death. Fear not, sons of Pallas, Euboea shall be ours!”
“Long live King Ion!” rang out again from the lips of the Areopagites.
But then rose that one Areopagite who had remained seated; he was a citizen of grim demeanour, but righteous, respected by all for his scrupulous honesty.
“Hold, citizens, beware of a hasty judgment. We gladly believe you, Queen, but the court of the Areopagus demands not belief, but proof. How will you prove that the youth,” he pointed towards the cave, “was indeed Apollo, and not a mortal?”
But before he could finish his words, a cry rang out:
“A flash from Parnes!”
All turned their eyes there. Two more times, ever brighter and brighter, the cleft above the mountain was illuminated.
“I yield; where a god bears witness, there man falls silent.”
“Glory to Phoebus! Paean, paean!” the women began to sing.
The whole procession moved towards the ascent to the Acropolis—at the forefront Creusa, leaning on the arm of her son, then the Areopagites, then the rest of the crowd.
“Glory to Phoebus! Paean, paean!”
And the echo of the Long Rocks repeated the joyful cries:
“Glory to Phoebus! Paean, paean!”