It so happened that, at this very moment, the King of Phrygia had just died in his bed. Since he left no heir or obvious successor, the people of his capital hurried to the shrine of Zeus Sabazios to find out what should be done. The oracle told them to anoint and crown the first man to enter the city in a cart. So it was that the townspeople were clustering excitedly round the gates at the very moment that Gordias and the prophetess arrived. The eagle flew from his perch with a great cry as they crossed the threshold. The populace threw their caps in the air and cheered until they were hoarse.
In a very short time Gordias had gone from scratching a lonely living in the Macedonian dirt to being wed to a beautiful Telmissian seer and crowned King of Phrygia. He drew up plans to rebuild the city (which he immodestly named Gordium in his own honour) and settled down to reign over Phrygia and live happily ever after. Which he did. Sometimes, even in the world of Greek mythology, things go well.
The oxcart became a holy relic, a symbol of Gordias’s divine right to rule. A carved post of polished dogwood was placed in the agora and the yoke of the cart secured to it with a rope tied up in the most intricate knot the world had seen. Gordias was determined that the cart should never be stolen from the town square. The legend arose, in that mysterious and unattributable way that legends do arise, that whoever untied this fiendish knot would one day rule Asia. Many tried – master mariners, mathematicians, toymakers, artists, artisans, tricksters, philosophers and ambitious children, but none could even begin to unpick its elaborate interwoven hitches, loops and twists.
The great Gordian knot lay unsolved for more than a thousand years until a reckless and brilliant young Macedonian conqueror and king called Alexander rode with his army into town. When told of the legend he took one look at the great tangle of rope, raised his sword and swept it down, cutting the Gordian knot and earning the delighted praise of his own and future generations.fn2
Meanwhile, back in time, Gordias’s son Prince MIDAS grew up to be a friendly, merry young man, loved and admired by all who knew him.
Midas
The Ugly Stranger
In due time Gordias died and his son Midas succeeded him as king. His life was simple but elegant – who had grown up to be a friendly, merry young man, bred and admired by all – Phrygia was not an especially rich kingdom, but most of the time and money that Midas did possess were lavished on a magnificent rose garden in the palace grounds. It became known as one of the wonders of the age. Midas loved nothing more than to roam this paradise of colour and fragrance and tend to his plants – each one of which bore sixty glorious blooms.
One morning, as he wandered the garden, noting with habitual delight how exquisitely the beads of dew twinkled on the delicate petals of his darling roses, Midas tripped over the slumbering form of an ugly, pot-bellied old man, curled up on the ground and snoring like a pig.
‘Oh,’ said Midas, ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.’
With a belch and a hiccup, the old man rose to his feet and bowed low. ‘Beg pardon,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t help but be drawn by the sweet scent of your roses last night. Fell asleep.’
‘Not at all,’ said Midas politely. He had been brought up always to show respect for his elders. ‘But why don’t you come into the palace and partake of some breakfast?’
‘Don’t mind if I do. Handsome of you.’
Midas had no way of knowing that this ugly, pot-bellied old man was Silenus, boon-companion of the wine god Dionysus.
‘Perhaps you would like a bath?’ he suggested as they made their way indoors.
‘What for?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just a thought.’
Silenus stayed for ten days and ten nights, making deep inroads into Midas’s meagre cellar, but rewarding him with outrageous songs, dances and stories.
On the tenth night Silenus announced that he would be leaving the next morning.
‘My master will be pining for me,’ he said. ‘Don’t suppose your people could conduct me to him, could they?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Midas.
The next day Midas and his retinue led Silenus on the long journey to the southern vineyards that Dionysus liked to frequent at that time of year. After many hours of struggling through the heat and tangle of choked lanes, steep hills and narrow byways they came upon the wine god and his attendants picnicking in a field. Dionysus was overjoyed to see his old friend.
‘Wine tastes sour without you,’ he said. ‘Dances go wrong and music falls flat on the ears. Where have you been?’
‘I got lost,’ said Silenus. ‘This kind fellow –’ he pushed the reluctant Midas forward to face the god, ‘– took me in to his palace and gave me the run of the place. I drank most of his wine, ate most of his food, pissed in his water jars and sicked up over his silk cushions. Never complained. Thoroughly good soul.’ Silenus slapped Midas on the back. Midas smiled as best he could. He hadn’t known about the water jars and the silk cushions.
Dionysus, like many deep drinkers, could easily become very emotional and affectionate. He pawed gratefully at Midas. ‘You see?’ he declared to the world in general. ‘You see? Just when you lose faith in humanity, they show their worth like this. This is what my father means by xenia. Makes my heart burst. Name it.’
‘Excuse me?’ Midas was keen to leave. Ten days and nights of Silenus had been quite enough. He yearned now to be alone with his flowers. A drunken Dionysus with a full entourage of Maenads and satyrs might just be too much even for his patience.
‘Name your reward. Anything. Whatever you – hic! – desire I will providely divine. Which is to say,’ Dionysus amended with dignity, ‘I will divinely provide. So there,’ he added belligerently, turning suddenly round to face off no one in particular.
‘You mean, my lord, that I can ask anything of you?’
Which of us has not entertained joyous fantasies of genies and fairies granting us wishes? I am sorry to say that, at this offer from Dionysus, Midas had rather a rush of blood to the head.
I have mentioned that Phrygia was one of the poorer kingdoms, and while Midas was not considered by his friends to be rapacious or avaricious, he did long, like any ruler, for more money to spend on his armies, his palace, his subjects and his municipal amenities. The expenses of a royal household mount up and Midas had always been too benevolent a king to burden his people with heavy taxes. And so he found a most extraordinary wish making its way from his fevered brain to his mouth.
‘Then I ask this,’ he said; ‘that everything I touch be turned to gold.’
Dionysus smiled a rather diabolical smile. ‘Really? That’s what you want?’
‘That is what I want.’
‘Go home,’ said the god. ‘Bathe yourself in wine and go to bed. When you arise in the morning, your wish will be granted.’
Goldfinger
It is probable that Midas did not believe that anything would come of this exchange. The gods were notorious for dodging, twisting and sliding out of their obligations.
Nevertheless, just in case – after all, what harm could it do? I mean, one never knows – that night, Midas poured a few hogsheads from his diminishing store of wine into the royal bath. The fumes from it ensured that when he went to bed he enjoyed a deep and untroubled sleep.
Midas awoke to a sparkling morning that cast all ideas of wild wishes and drunken gods from his mind. With thoughts only for his flowers, he sprang from bed and hurried to his beloved garden.
Never had the roses looked more beautiful. He leaned down and sniffed a pink young hybrid that was in that perfect state midway between bud and full bloom. The exquisite fragrance made him giddy with joy. He lovingly made to unfurl the petals. In an instant the stem and flower had been transformed into gold. Solid gold.