In behalf of his creatures, he slaughtered a mighty bull and bade the immortals take whatever parts of it they pleased. Now when he had cut up the animal, he made two heaps of the pieces. On one side he put the flesh, the entrails, and the fat, covered these over with the hide, and placed the paunch on top; on the other, he put the bare bones cleverly concealed in the suet of the victim. And this heap was bigger! All-knowing Zeus saw through his trickery and said: “Son of Iapetus, illustrious king, my very good friend, how unequally you have divided the portions!” At this Prometheus was sure that he had deceived him, smiled to himself, and answered: “Illustrious Zeus, you, who are supreme among the immortal gods, take what your heart bids you choose.” And Zeus was vexed and felt his anger swell within him, but he deliberately took the white suet in both his hands. When he had pried it apart and saw the picked bones, he pretended only then to have discovered the trick and said dourly: “I know very well, my friend, O son of Iapetus, that you have not yet forgotten the art of deception!”

To punish Prometheus for his knavery, Zeus denied mortals the last thing they needed to perfect their civilization: fire. But the shrewd son of Iapetus improvised a way to provide even this lack. He broke a stalk of pithy fennel, approached the chariot of the sun as it spun through the heavens, and held the stalk to its blaze until it smouldered. With this tinder he descended to earth, and soon the first pile of brushwood was flaming to the sky. Pain pierced the soul of Zeus the Thunderer when he saw fire rising among men and casting its radiance far and wide.

To offset the advantages of fire, which could not be taken from men, now that they had it, he instantly devised a new evil for them. He ordered Hephaestus, the fire-god, famed for his skill, to fashion an image in the shape of a beautiful young woman. Athene herself, who had grown envious of Prometheus and withdrawn her favor from him, clothed the image in a robe of shimmering white, placed over her face a flowing veil, which the girl held, parting it with her hands, garlanded her head with fresh flowers, and bound it with a fillet of gold. This was also the work of Hephaestus, who—to please his father—had wrought it with great art and adorned it exquisitely with the many-colored shapes of various animals. Hermes, the messenger of the gods, bestowed language on the lovely mischief, and Aphrodite tricked her out with all possible charms. Thus, under the guise of something most desirable, Zeus had contrived a dazzling misfortune. He named the girl Pandora, which means, “she who has gifts from all,” for each of the immortal gods had given her some baleful gift for man. Then he led the girl down to earth, where gods and mortals were walking about and taking their pleasure. And they were all filled with wonder at this incomparable creature, for never yet had men laid eyes on a woman. She, in the meantime, went up to Epimetheus, “Afterthought,” the brother of Prometheus, and less wily than he.

In vain had Prometheus warned his brother never to accept a gift from the ruler of Olympus, lest men take harm from it, but to return it without delay. Epimetheus forgot this warning; he received the beautiful young woman with the utmost delight and failed to recognize evil until it was upon him. For up to this time—thanks to Prometheus’ counsel!—men had been free from misfortune and had lived without excessive toil or the long sufferings of disease. But this woman came bearing a gift in her hands, a large box tightly closed. Hardly had she reached Epimetheus when she flung back its lid, and out fluttered a host of calamities that spread over the earth with the speed of lightning. Yet one single good thing lay hidden at the very bottom of the box: hope! But on the advice of the father of the gods, Pandora shut the lid before it could fly forth, and closed her box forever. And now misery in countless forms filled the earth, the air, and the sea. By day and by night sicknesses prowled among men, secretly and silently, for Zeus had not given them a voice. A flock of fevers beleaguered the earth, and Death, who had been coming to mortals on slow, reluctant feet, now walked with winged steps.

When this had been accomplished, Zeus turned to the matter of taking revenge on Prometheus himself. He handed the culprit over to Hephaestus and his servants Cratos and Bia. Force and Violence. These he bade drag him to the wastes of Scythia and there—above a sinister chasm—forge him to a steep cliff of the Caucasus with stout, unyielding chains. Hephaestus carried out his father’s commands unwillingly, for he loved the son of the Titans because he was his kin, his peer, the child of gods, a descendant of Uranus, his great-grandfather.