The Slaying of Marsyas

by Richard Titlebaum

The Slaying of Marsyas as a Theme of Humility.

Marsyas, a satyr and superb player of the woodland flute was of such expertise that the nymphs, naiads, shepherds, and all the gentle creatures of the forest often drew near in silence to listen to the beautiful melodies that came forth form Marsyas and his instrument. Marsyas grew proud and boasted that he could out-play even the Lord of Music and all the Arts: the God of the Sun, Apollo. Apollo, hearing of this boast came to Marsyas who did indeed challenge the greatest of all musicians. A bargain was sealed: the winner should have the privelege of using the loser in whatever manner he chose. All of Olympus and the great City of Athens drew nie for this auspicious concert, and the Senate of Athens should decide the winner. Marsyas played as he had never played before, moving all, even Apollo, to smiles and then tears with the sweetness and sorrow of his air. With great and final flourish he finished and bowed. Great applause thundered in the vale until Apollo loosed his cloak and drew forth his lyre to play. As the Sun slowly sank behind the God, radiating all about him, there poured forth from his dulcete harp and nimble fingers the stories of Men and Gods from the beginning to the end of time. The strains rose and filled the Air as if the youthful God were riding upon his firey chariot across the dome of heaven, racing here, resting there, until as surely as the sun does set the music slowly, softtly drew to its sweet honey close until all was still as death. The hush that fell across the vale found all who listened, even Marsyas, so moved as to be unable to even speak. One could only let the glow of warmth and fleeting beauty flush over ones flesh with the utter desire to be with this God of Youth and Lovliness. Slowly, all eyes moved with pity towards the visage of Marsyas, who knew without a vote that he was lost, lost indeed. Apollo raised this head and the cool Saphirre of his eyes sought and found the wells of the eyes of the mortal Satyr. Marsyas found no pity there and made no cry as he was bound upside down to a great black oak. Apollo, wielding now not his harp but a silvered blade of exquisite wrought and finish, approached... and thus, poor Marsys learned as his skin was slowly cut from his flesh that one does not challenge a God of Olympus.