My name is Bellerophon. That was a name that once meant something, but I’ll forgive you if you’ve never heard it before now. In my day I was a great hero, but I have been erased from history within my own lifetime, any ripples masked by the rain.
I grew up in the palace at Corinth, the eldest son of King Glaucus and Queen Eurynome. As a prince and king in-waiting, most of my childhood was spent learning about law and governance, but these lessons bored me. I was an adventurous youth and would sneak out of the palace grounds to mingle with the people below. My tutor, Iason, would often find me sitting cross-legged in front of the local bard, enraptured by tales of great heroes performing mighty deeds in distant lands.
More than any other hero at this time, the people celebrated Perseus. Son of Zeus, slayer of Medusa, and King of Mycenae. He was truly the man of the moment and I longed to follow in his footsteps. As I approached adulthood, it became clear that I was by far the most athletic and vigorous youth in Corinth, so I was well-placed to make my own mark.
One key difference separated me from my idol. He was a god-fearing type and performed his deeds deferentially, in the name of his holy father. But I was determined to be a hero of the common man. You see, unlike most people who live in simple awe of the divine, my family were fully aware of the gods’ tyranny. In fact, we had experienced it first-hand.
My paternal grandfather was Sisyphus, the only mortal cunning enough to cheat Death himself, at least for a time. Well, Zeus couldn’t have that! He focused all his energy on devising a suitable punishment for my crafty grandfather. And so, after much contemplation, Sisyphus was tasked with rolling a boulder up a hill — difficult certainly, though surely not impossible for a burly — and clever — man like my grandfather. But there was of course a cruel Olympian twist. Whenever the boulder was about to crest the summit, just as the weight was beginning to lift from Sisyphus’ shoulders, the boulder would magically slip from his grasp and roll back down to the bottom of the hill.
This happened every single time. An endless, infuriating toil.
Only Zeus is capable of such banal wickedness. I wonder, does he check in with my grandfather from time-to-time, watching his torment with glee? Somehow, I doubt it. Zeus has probably forgotten all about him — he was yesterday’s upstart mortal, plenty more to deal with today.
Sisyphus rolls, still. I am older now than he was when his torture began — his spirit must be crushed, like a ship caught between the Clashing Rocks. And yet a morbid thought always leaps unbidden into my mind whenever I think of him: when my grandfather reaches the crest of the hill, does a small part of him dare to hope: “maybe, maybe this time”?
In Zeus’ eyes, Sisyphus deserved such punishment because he had the audacity to challenge the so-called “natural order”, which, one remembers, had been established by Zeus himself. He is surprisingly insecure for an all-powerful deity.
Why shouldn’t we humans use our god-given intellect to avert calamity? After all, the gods themselves strive to avoid their own downfall — yes, we have all heard the prophecy of the giants’ overthrow of Mount Olympus, and I for one hope that their doom arrives soon. Perhaps then my grandfather will be freed, one way or another.
Anyway, back to my own youthful ambitions, which were so inspired by the famous Perseus. And yet, as time went on, his shine began to dim. I thought hard about the stories we had been told and began questioning Perseus’ heroism. Ever the favourite of the gods, he was crutched upon their divine gifts to complete the deadly task of slaying Medusa: Hades’ cap of invisibility, Hermes’ winged sandals, and the sword of Zeus himself. With such potent trinkets, how could he possibly fail? Where was his innate heroism, his strength of character? These doubts and lingering questions only spurred on my heroic aspirations.
As soon as I was old enough, I left the comforts of my courtly upbringing, much to the chagrin of my parents. They warned I would come to harm, like all would-be heroes, but I was not to be dissuaded. Meanwhile, I felt confident that I could exceed the modest benchmark set by Perseus. In the end, we were both right.
Before long, my deeds far outshone my inspiration, all achieved without a single godly handout. I just used my own intellect and strength. Patience too, with which I tamed the magnificent, winged stallion, Pegasus. Together we slew the fire-breathing Chimera, routed the fierce Amazons, and destroyed a horde of dread pirates marauding south of Lycia.
For these triumphs, I was venerated by the people, even over their favourite Perseus. For a time, I was the champion, not just of my native Corinth but of all Greece. I wanted to repay the love of the people and be worthy of their adulation. Slaying monsters and driving off marauders is one thing, but it was becoming clear that the root cause of all the evils in our world lay elsewhere.
For centuries, the gods had toyed with humanity — we were at the mercy of their whims. They had cast firestorms and unleashed floods for their own amusement. They doled out arbitrary judgements and cruel eternal punishments with no hope of pardon. Their petty feuds provoked countless wars and their unrestrained rutting sired most of the abominations in the world. Examples of their many cruelties are not hard to find — I am sure you know a few yourself. For me, it was once again the example of Perseus that prompted a turning point in my life and sent me on a path to challenge the divine.
What little remaining respect I still had for Perseus completely evaporated when I discovered that his quarry, Medusa, had not been some irredeemable, innate evil. No, she was once a dutiful priestess of Athena who had the misfortune of attracting the noxious attentions of the God of the Sea. In a temple of Athena, as she prayed to her patron, Medusa was raped by Poseidon. And how did Athena, oh wisest and fairest of all the gods, avenge this desecration? Rather than punish her divine counterpart Poseidon — the individual responsible for this heinous act — Athena took out her anger on the victim, turning the poor woman, her own priestess, into the horrid, snake-haired abomination eventually slain by Perseus.
A man I once revered as a great hero was a mere instrument of the gods, a tool used to erase their mistakes. The gods had shown themselves to be beyond reproach, even the wise, supposedly compassionate Athena.
At the same time, mortals, with my help, were beginning to clear the world of the monsters in the wilds. Our confidence was growing. Slowly and tentatively at first, the people began to lift an accusing gaze skyward.
Full of the bravura of youth and certain of the righteousness of my cause, I decided to take a stand, on behalf of the people. In the great plaza of Corinth, I stood before the masses and made my pledge:
“I will end our endless torment and together we can make this world anew!”, I beseeched, my hand on my heart. “It will be a world where every mortal will feel safe, without fear of monsters — or of gods. Today, I will seek an audience with Zeus on Mount Olympus and ask him for justice. Then, together, we can start again, as mortals and as equals!”
The cheers were deafening. I had the belief of the people. They dared to imagine another world was possible, and I did too.
Hubris, they call it. The worst of all sins, according to the gods. What about murder, you might ask? Tyranny? No, these barely qualify as crimes in the eyes of the Olympians. Meanwhile, to a mortal, hubris is simply another word for ambition, or creativity.
Before embarking on my mission, perhaps I should have considered the ultimate fates of those who dared challenge the will of Zeus, like Prometheus or my own grandfather, but I was young, headstrong, and emboldened by my triumphs. Zeus will understand, I just need to speak with him and explain what we want, I told myself. Even if the Pythia herself had counselled caution, I doubt I would have listened. My mind was set.
So, Pegasus and I took flight one last time. We arced through the sky, the tips of his wings gracing the clouds, and soon, the summit of Mount Olympus drew near. An agitated whinny from Pegasus warned of danger ahead, but I took no heed.
A bright flash from the mountain top, a bolt thrown faster than sight. I felt searing pain in my chest, followed by a jolt of numbness that streaked through my arms, legs, and the rest of my body. I was paralysed in the saddle, the reins drifting from my frozen hands. I tumbled backwards off Pegasus’ back, spiralling sickeningly over and over. As I fell through the clouds, I caught a few glimpses of my winged friend gliding on towards the mountaintop without me. To join his new master. I lost consciousness before the final, shattering impact.
I had departed for Mount Olympus a shining hero and returned to earth a broken man, blind and paralysed from the waist down.
I landed in a farmer’s field west of Corinth and he nursed me back to health, fashioned two wooden crutches, and then sent me on my way. This simple kindness was not shown by my adoring admirers back in Corinth, who simply pretended I did not exist. To be fair, they were justifiably fearful that Zeus’ wrath had not yet subsided, and they could not be seen to fraternise with an enemy of the gods.
Even my own parents refused to give me shelter. I did not blame them; they had endured enough of the gods’ punishment. Sadly, the gods were still not finished with my family. A few years later, I heard of the death of my father, devoured by his own mares in revenge for some trivial slight of Aphrodite. I do not know what happened to my mother. I hope she found some peace.
As for me, I was an outcast, a pariah. I retreated into the background and watched a new generation of would-be heroes emerge. My envy at their lithe graceful bodies was intermingled with genuine concern. I knew that most of these young men and women would only be rewarded with a premature visit to Hades.
For a long time, I raged at the uncaring cruelty of the gods, their unwillingness to use their powers for anything other than destruction. They were like an incestuous, murderous mob of feral children, except they also happened to be omnipotent. I tried to imagine the tortures I would inflict on Zeus and the others if I had the chance and the ability, but I found I did not have the requisite malice or ingenuity. My fury turned inwards, like burning peat in my innards, and I fuelled the fires by continually turning over my mistakes in my fractured psyche all day and all night. I would have welcomed pursuit by the Furies, if only for the distraction from the incessant unquiet battering my mind like a blacksmith’s hammer.
But before I was consumed by outright madness, a timely realisation cut through the din. I should not be alive. Zeus’ thunderbolt, not to mention the terrible plummet to the earth, should have killed me many times over, and yet I persisted: frayed and wizened, but alive. A random miracle? No, this had to be the gods’ doing. But why would they prolong my existence? Clearly, I was supposed to wallow in the dirt and rediscover the incontestable supremacy of the gods.
Did I learn their lesson? I’ll let you be the judge of that.
I now live as a nameless hermit on the outskirts of Pamphylia at the edge of the world, a place even the gods may struggle to reach. Even in my old age, my fingers remain dexterous, so I scrape a living weaving calathus from willow rods.
Sometimes, lone pilgrims stop by on their journey west to Delphi. I ask them for the latest tales of the gods and heroes. I hear new stories and new names, like Heracles and Theseus, but they still speak earnestly of Perseus’ great deeds: how he slew Medusa, yes, but also how he defeated the Chimera, the Amazons, and the Lycian pirates. Sometimes they even say he tamed Pegasus using Athena’s golden bridle or slew the Chimera with Poseidon’s spear. How predictable: poor Perseus always needs a helping hand, even with deeds he did not accomplish!
The name of Bellerophon is never heard, but I do not correct them. Perseus and the rest are welcome to my triumphs, they brought me nothing but misfortune. No doubt Perseus himself will soon be replaced by Theseus, Heracles, or some other hero yet to be born. I admit that provides some amusement and some solace.
Heroism is overrated because heroes invariably die young. Young and unfulfilled. Men speak of posthumous fame as if it bestows immortality, but if you’re not alive to enjoy it then what good is adulation? Stories are nothing but words, and words are of little use to the dead. To play the hero is to play the gods’ game. I have come to embrace obscurity and appreciate the long life it offers.
With the help of a young shepherd from the mountains, I have begun planting olive trees in a valley not far from my farmstead. One day, long after I am gone, an orchard will grow here. It will have been sown by an unknown gardener, their name lost to the ceaseless march of time.
