enrich: tier deploy (Zaley enrichment)

deity/gorgons/index.html

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 <p>The apotropaic Gorgon-face is everywhere in archaic and classical Greece. The oldest surviving Greek stone pediment, on the <strong>Temple of Artemis at Corfu (Kerkyra)</strong>, about 580 BCE, is dominated by an enormous running Gorgon flanked by panthers, with the tiny figures of Pegasus and Chrysaor at her sides — a monstrous guardian set over the god&#39;s house to ward it. Gorgon-faces were moulded onto the <strong>antefixes</strong> that capped temple roof-tiles, so that a ring of grimacing Gorgons warded the sacred building from its edges. Warriors bore the gorgoneion on the boss of the <strong>hoplite shield</strong> and on the breastplate — most famously on the aegis of <strong>Athena</strong> herself, whose great cult-statues (including Phidias&#39;s Athena Parthenos) wore the Gorgon at the breast. Cities stamped the face on their <strong>coins</strong> — Neapolis in Macedonia, Parion on the Hellespont, and others — as a civic guardian. In every case the logic is the same: the face that killed the living was set to guard the living, its terror turned outward against whatever might do harm.</p>
 <h2>The Gorgons in the ancient imagination</h2>
 <p>Beyond the guardian-face, the sisters lived in poetry and on painted pottery as the very type of monstrous terror at the edge of things. Vase-painters loved the <strong>beheading and the pursuit</strong>: the running Gorgons with their frontal staring masks, the fleeing Perseus, the falling Medusa — among the earliest identifiable myth-scenes in Greek art, painted with relish for the horror. The archaic Gorgon-type is unmistakable: a broad grinning mask, tongue thrust out between boar&#39;s tusks, snakes knotted in the hair or writhing at the chin, the eyes huge and staring straight out of the picture at the viewer — a face deliberately made to be looked <em>at</em>, breaking the fourth wall to fix the beholder as the myth said it fixed men into stone. Whether over a temple door or on the inside of a drinking-cup, the Gorgon&#39;s frontal glare did in art what it did in myth: it stopped you where you stood.</p>
+<h2>From the running Gorgon to the beautiful face</h2>
+<p>The way the Gorgons were drawn changed strikingly across the centuries, and the change is itself part of their story. In archaic art the sisters in motion — above all the running Gorgon of the Corfu pediment and the fleeing Medusa of black-figure vase-paintings — are shown in the <em>Knielauf</em>, the &quot;kneeling-run&quot;: one knee dropped almost to the ground, the other leg flung forward, arms pumping, wings spread. This stylised convention was the archaic painter&#39;s shorthand for a monster rushing at full, unnatural speed, and combined with the frontal grinning mask it makes the creature seem to hurtle straight out of the picture at the viewer. Then, from the fifth century BCE onward, the Gorgon&#39;s face was slowly made <strong>beautiful</strong>. The grotesque archaic mask — bulging eyes, boar&#39;s tusks, tongue thrust out — softened; the tusks and the lolling tongue fell away, and in their place came a calm, still, and often sorrowful woman&#39;s face, the snakes now knotted decorously in the hair or bound beneath the chin. This is the so-called &quot;beautiful Gorgon,&quot; known best from the marble type called the <strong>Medusa Rondanini</strong> (surviving in a later Roman copy), whose lovely, mournful features are worlds away from the leering monster of Corfu. The two images bracket the whole ancient life of the type — the horror that guards by frightening, and the humane, pitiable beauty that would let later ages re-imagine Medusa as a wronged woman rather than a monster.</p>
 </div></section><section class="prose-section" data-astro-cid-wdanigbj><h2 class="kicker" data-astro-cid-wdanigbj>Worship — Modern</h2><div class="prose-body" data-astro-cid-wdanigbj><h2>The emblem that never died</h2>
 <p>No monster of antiquity has had a longer afterlife as a <strong>symbol</strong> than the Gorgon, and the ancient logic of the gorgoneion — a guardian-face that protects by frightening — survives in surprising places. The serpent-wreathed Gorgon head sits at the very centre of the <strong>flag of Sicily</strong>, the Trinacria, where it marks the meeting-point of the island&#39;s three legs. The luxury house <strong>Versace</strong> took the Medusa head as its logo, chosen (the designers said) because whoever fell under her gaze could not turn back — beauty and danger fused into a brand. Heraldry, coats of arms, tattoo art, and countless modern emblems still deploy the frontal Gorgon-face for exactly the reason the archaic Greeks did: it is arresting, and it wards.</p>
 <h2>The three sisters and the one we remember</h2>

deity/minotaur/index.html

@@ -8,7 +8,7 @@
 <h2>Asterion, the child named for the stars</h2>
 <p>Pasiphaë bore a son with the head and often the tail of a bull upon the body of a man, and she named him <strong>Asterion</strong> — &quot;the starry one.&quot; It is the most quietly heartbreaking detail in the whole myth: the name of a mother who, for a moment, tried to love the child she had borne, and gave him a name fit for the grandson of the Sun. But Crete could not have such a creature in the daylight. He was living proof of Poseidon&#39;s curse and of Minos&#39;s broken faith, an heir to the throne who could never be shown, and as he grew he grew dangerous, for he would eat nothing but human flesh. The name Asterion faded, and in its place the people gave him the only name history kept — <strong>Minotauros</strong>, &quot;the Bull of Minos&quot; — as though he were not a person but a possession, the king&#39;s animal, the king&#39;s shame. Consulting an oracle on what to do with him, Minos was told to shut the creature away where he could never be found.</p>
 <h2>The Labyrinth</h2>
-<p>For this Minos again turned to <strong>Daedalus</strong>, and the craftsman built the thing his name has been bound to ever since: the <strong>Labyrinth</strong> (Λαβύρινθος), a structure of such intricate and winding passages that whoever entered it could never find the way out again. Ovid describes Daedalus confounding the usual marks of direction and leading the eye astray with a maze of turnings, so that the maker himself could scarcely return to the entrance he had made. Somewhere at the unreachable centre of this maze the Minotaur was walled in — sealed away from the sun and from every human face, fed on the only food that would keep him, and left to pace the dark. Whatever else the Labyrinth was, for him it was a prison and a life sentence, imposed for the circumstances of his birth. The later Greeks and Romans placed the Labyrinth at <strong>Knossos</strong>, the seat of Minos&#39;s power, and the very word became the name for any inescapable maze.</p>
+<p>For this Minos again turned to <strong>Daedalus</strong>, and the craftsman built the thing his name has been bound to ever since: the <strong>Labyrinth</strong> (Λαβύρινθος), a structure of such intricate and winding passages that whoever entered it could never find the way out again. Apollodorus describes it as a house &quot;that with its tangled windings perplexed the outward way&quot; (Bibliotheca 3.1.4), and Ovid describes Daedalus confounding the usual marks of direction and leading the eye astray with a maze of turnings, so that the maker himself could scarcely return to the entrance he had made. Somewhere at the unreachable centre of this maze the Minotaur was walled in — sealed away from the sun and from every human face, fed on the only food that would keep him, and left to pace the dark. Whatever else the Labyrinth was, for him it was a prison and a life sentence, imposed for the circumstances of his birth. The later Greeks and Romans placed the Labyrinth at <strong>Knossos</strong>, the seat of Minos&#39;s power, and the very word became the name for any inescapable maze.</p>
 <h2>The tribute of Athens: seven youths and seven maidens</h2>
 <p>The Minotaur might have remained only a family secret walled up in Crete, but for a death far away. Minos&#39;s son <strong>Androgeos</strong> was killed while visiting Athens — cut down out of envy after winning every event at the Panathenaic games, some said, or destroyed by the very Cretan Bull that Athens&#39;s king set him against. In grief and fury Minos made war on Athens, and when the city was brought low (by his fleet, by plague, by famine, the sources differ), he imposed a monstrous peace. At fixed intervals Athens was to send <strong>seven youths and seven maidens</strong> — its finest young people, chosen by lot — as tribute to Crete, where they were driven into the Labyrinth to be devoured by the Minotaur. (How often the tribute fell is disputed even in antiquity: Apollodorus says every year, while Plutarch reports the more famous tradition of once every nine years, &quot;the third year.&quot; Either way, it was a horror renewed on schedule.) So the imprisoned creature became the instrument of a kingdom&#39;s terror: a caged thing weaponised against a rival city, fed on the children of the conquered. It is worth seeing plainly that the youths were sent to be <strong>eaten</strong> — the tribute is a story of human sacrifice — and that the Minotaur at the centre of it was, in his way, as much used by Minos as the Athenians were.</p>
 <h2>Theseus, Ariadne, and the thread</h2>

deity/sphinx/index.html

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 <em>then is the speed in its limbs the feeblest of all.&quot;</em>
 (ἔστι δίπουν ἐπὶ γῆς καὶ τετράπον, οὗ μία φωνή, / καὶ τρίπον… — schol. Eur. <em>Phoen.</em> 50; Athenaeus 10.456b)</p>
 </blockquote>
+<p>It is worth noting that the phrasing most people know today — <em>&quot;what walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?&quot;</em> — is <strong>not</strong> how the ancient Greek sources put it. They speak only of a thing that is &quot;four-footed and two-footed and three-footed,&quot; and let Oedipus supply the three ages of a human life. The elegant &quot;times of a single day&quot; metaphor, in which morning, noon, and evening stand for infancy, prime, and old age, is a later popular reshaping of the riddle; it makes explicit and vivid the compression of a whole lifetime into a day that the Greek only implies, and it is by this modern form that the riddle is now almost always quoted.</p>
 <p>The Thebans had an oracle that they would be freed of the Sphinx only when someone read her riddle; so they met and argued the answer, and when they failed she took another life.</p>
 <h2>Oedipus answers, and the Sphinx falls</h2>
 <p>In desperation, <strong>Creon</strong> proclaimed that whoever could solve the riddle would be given the kingdom of Thebes and the hand of the widowed queen, <strong>Jocasta</strong> (Laius&#39;s widow — and, though neither of them knew it, Oedipus&#39;s own mother). The stranger <strong>Oedipus</strong>, arriving from Corinth, faced the Sphinx and gave the answer: <strong>man</strong>. For a human being crawls on all fours as an infant — &quot;four-footed&quot; in the morning of life — walks upright on two legs in his prime, and leans on a staff, a &quot;third foot,&quot; in old age. The single voice is the one human voice that carries through every stage. At the sound of the true answer the Sphinx was undone: she <strong>hurled herself down from her rock (or from the citadel) and was killed</strong> (Apollodorus 3.5.8). Some later sources say Oedipus killed her, but the older and more resonant version is her self-destruction — the riddler destroyed by the solving of her own riddle. <em>(Oedipus&#39;s terrible reward — the throne of Thebes and marriage to his own mother — belongs to his own story, told on his page.)</em></p>

deity/typhon/index.html

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 <p>Hesiod places Typhoeus&#39;s birth at the very end of the Theogony, after Zeus and the Olympians have thrown down the Titans and shut them away below. Grieved and enraged, <strong>Gaia</strong> — Earth herself — lay with <strong>Tartarus</strong>, the black abyss at the bottom of the world, and brought forth her last and youngest child: a monster made to be the undoing of the god who had beaten her earlier children. (This is the parentage the Theogony gives: Earth mating with the Pit to avenge the fallen Titans and Giants.) A later and different tradition is worth flagging: in the <strong>Homeric Hymn to Apollo (305–355)</strong>, it is not Gaia and Tartarus but <strong>Hera</strong> who produces Typhaon — bringing him forth alone, without Zeus, out of spite after Zeus had borne Athena from his own head — and gives the infant monster to the she-dragon of Delphi to rear. Both versions agree on what he is: a birth of pure resentment, a weapon shaped against the king of the gods.</p>
 <h2>The hundred-headed horror</h2>
 <p>Picture him as Hesiod does: a being of appalling scale and multiplicity. From his shoulders sprang <strong>a hundred serpent-heads</strong>, the heads of a fearful dragon, their dark tongues flickering; fire flashed from the eyes beneath every brow; and from all those heads at once came a chaos of voices — sometimes a sound the gods could understand, sometimes the bellowing of a proud bull, sometimes the roar of a lion, sometimes a sound like a pack of hounds, sometimes a hissing that the great mountains threw back as an echo. Later poets pile on the same horror: <strong>Apollodorus</strong> makes him so tall his head scraped the stars and his hands reached out to the sunrise and the sunset, with wings, with a hundred dragon-heads, with viper-coils for legs that hissed and reached up to his own head, his whole body winged and his hair and beard streaming in the wind, fire pouring from his eyes and mouth. He is the biggest, loudest, most monstrous thing in all of Greek myth.</p>
+<h2>The battle in Hesiod: thunder and the scorched earth</h2>
+<p>Before the later poets embroidered the fight with stolen sinews and cunning tricks, <strong>Hesiod (Theogony 820–880)</strong> told it as raw force against raw force — and it is the oldest and starkest version we have. When the monster rose up against him, Zeus wasted no time: seeing the danger, he gathered his strength, seized his weapons — thunder and lightning and the blazing thunderbolt — and leapt down from Olympus to strike. He hurled his bolts, and the whole cosmos caught fire around the two of them. The hundred heads of the monster were scorched; and as Zeus lashed him down, the great earth <strong>groaned</strong>, and a heat seized the dark-blue sea — the heat of the thunder and lightning, of the fire from the monster and the scorching squalls and the flaming bolt. The <strong>earth itself boiled</strong>, and the streams of Ocean, and the barren sea; the hot blast rolled about the earth-born Titans where they lay far below, and a boundless flame shot up to the bright upper air, the divine <strong>aether</strong>. Hesiod reaches for a smith&#39;s image to say how total the burning was: the earth <strong>melted as tin melts in the forge</strong> under a craftsman&#39;s care, or as iron — the hardest of things — softens in the fire and melts in the divine ground under Hephaestus&#39;s hands. So the earth ran molten under the god&#39;s onslaught. And in the end Zeus, his anger full, <strong>hurled the maimed and thunder-blasted Typhoeus down into wide Tartarus</strong> — cast him crippled into the same pit from which he had come. In this earliest telling there is no dismemberment of Zeus, no flight to Egypt, no theft of sinews: only the sky-god&#39;s overwhelming fire, the world set boiling, and the monster flung down into the dark. From the beaten Typhoeus, Hesiod adds, spring the wild, wet-raging <strong>storm-winds</strong> that fall upon the sea and wreck the ships and works of men — the one thing of the monster that escapes the pit and stays loose in the world.</p>
 <h2>The gods flee to Egypt</h2>
 <p>When this creature came storming up against heaven, the Olympians — in the version Apollodorus preserves — panicked. The gods fled all the way to Egypt and, to hide from him, disguised themselves as animals: the tradition that the Greeks used to explain why the Egyptians worshipped gods in the shapes of beasts. Only Zeus stood, and (in some tellings) Athena with him, to shame him into turning back. This flight-of-the-gods motif measures how terrible Typhon was: not one Olympian among them, save the king of the gods himself, dared face him head-on.</p>
 <h2>Typhon cuts out the sinews of Zeus</h2>