When Apollo Was Herdsman

Apollo had made his father, Jupiter, very angry. He had interfered with Jupiter's will, and for a good reason.

Jupiter had the right to hurl thunderbolts whenever he pleased and to strike down anyone he chose. He kept the Cyclopes busy day and night, forging bolts for him deep under the mountains, so he would never run out. One day, a thunderbolt aimed by Jupiter hit Aesculapius, a Greek healer who could cure almost any sickness with his herbs. Apollo thought of this physician as an adopted son, because Aesculapius's healing art brought so much joy and light to humankind. Apollo was furious at the harm done by Jupiter's hand, and he did what even mortals do when they are angry: he took out his wrath on whoever was nearest. He aimed his arrows at those innocent workers, the Cyclopes, and wounded several of them.

Jupiter could not let his authority be challenged like that and knew he had to punish Apollo. So he commanded Apollo to go down to the earth and serve as a herdsman for Admetus, the king of Thessaly.

It was humble work for a god like Apollo, who was used to living in the splendid palace of the sun. He had to wear a dark shepherd's cloak and let his flocks graze in the meadows outside the city. Apollo's slender hands were not made for plowing, sowing, or reaping, but he took excellent care of the ewes and lambs and even grew to enjoy his task. In his spare time, he found an empty tortoise shell and stretched some strings tightly across it. Then he ran his slender fingertips over the strings and drew out the most beautiful music. That was the first lute, and Apollo played it every day.

King Admetus heard the music and came out to listen to the tunes his herdsman played. He sat beside Apollo on a mossy bank, but the king looked very sad. The sweet melodies seemed unable to cheer him or lift his sorrow.

"Why do you mourn, O King?" Apollo asked Admetus at last.

"I long for the hand of the fair Alcestis," the king explained, "the princess of a neighboring kingdom, so I can make her my queen. But she has made a strange demand. She insists that her suitor appear before her in a chariot drawn by lions and bears, in which she will ride home with him. In no other way will Alcestis come to my court, and it is impossible for me to harness wild beasts to any of my chariots."

Apollo could not help but be amused by the foolish whim of this wayward princess, but he always wanted to spread happiness wherever he went. So he decided to humor her. He went with his lute to the edge of the forest next to his pasture and played a tune so sweet that it tamed any wild animal that heard it. Out of the forest came two lions and two bears, walking as quietly as sheep. The king harnessed them to a gilded chariot and drove off to fetch Alcestis with great rejoicing.

And Apollo had the pleasure of seeing the two return and Alcestis crowned as the queen of Thessaly.

It seemed as if Admetus was destined to enjoy a long and successful reign. But not long after he brought his queen home, he fell ill with a deadly plague. Aesculapius, the physician, could no longer come to the king's aid, and there seemed no hope. But Apollo, his heavenly herdsman, came to his rescue again. Apollo could not remove the plague entirely, but he decreed that the king could live if someone who cared enough for him would die in his place.

Admetus was full of joy at this hope. He remembered the vows of loyalty and attachment that bound all his courtiers to him, and he expected that many would at once offer to sacrifice their lives for him. But not one could be found. The bravest warrior, who would gladly have given his life for the king on the battlefield, did not have the courage to die for him on a sickbed. Old servants, who had known the king's bounty and that of his father since childhood, were not willing to give up the rest of their few days. Each subject wished someone else would make the sacrifice.

"Why don't the parents of Admetus give their lives for their son?" people asked, but these aged parents felt they could not bear to be parted from him even for a short time, and they looked to others.

What was to be done? Apollo's decree was final, wrung from the Fates only after much persuasion. There was no remedy for Admetus except this sacrifice.

Then a very strange and wonderful thing happened. Queen Alcestis, the fair princess who had once wanted to ride behind lions and bears as a girl, had grown wise and gracious since becoming queen of Thessaly. It had never crossed anyone's mind that she might be offered to the gods in the king's place. But Queen Alcestis offered herself to save Admetus. As she sickened, the king revived and was restored to his former health and strength.

Of all the mourners in Thessaly, Apollo was the saddest to see Alcestis so ill. She had often found her way to the pastures where he led his flock and had sat on a bank, twining wreaths of wild flowers—she liked them better than a crown—while he entertained her with the music of his lute. For once, Apollo did not know what to do. Banished from the council of the gods for a while, he could not summon Aesculapius to help.

He knew that only great strength could bring Alcestis back from the stupor in which she lay, neither moving nor speaking, her rosy cheeks pale and her eyes closed. He also knew that of all heroes, Hercules was the strongest. Hercules had performed feats no one believed possible. Would he try to keep Alcestis safe from death, Apollo wondered, especially when asked by a lowly herdsman?

Hercules agreed, however. He took his place at the palace gates and wrestled with Death, throwing him just as he was about to enter and claim Alcestis. She lost her weakness, opened her eyes, the color came back to her cheeks, and she was restored to Admetus by this last labor of Hercules.

So the matter that had threatened to be so disastrous for so many people turned out very well after all.

Apollo returned to Mount Olympus when his time of exile on earth was over, and he delighted the Muses with the sweet tones of his lyre. He even pleaded with his father, Jupiter, to take pity on Aesculapius, and at last Jupiter made a place for the physician on the road of stars that stretches across the sky.