by Gene Stiles
“Tartarus is dying,” the Governor concluded gravely. “Atlantis will not help us, Lord Hades. We hope that you, Lord Zeus and the Olympians will. In return, we will pledge our fealty to the Olympian Empire and support you in your fight against the Twelve.”
Hades gazed down on the men and women gathered before him with stern onyx eyes that sparkled in the flickering flames of the fire crackling in the huge stone hearth nearby. His bushy, black eyebrows came to a sharp, arched point above his aero-straight nose and deep lines creased his broad forehead. Hades forced himself to remember that the city leaders who had at one time relished in the torment of the miners, punishing them for not making unreasonable quotas, were long gone from Tartarus. These people were among the good ones who agreed readily to his miner’s demands for equality. These councilmen stayed behind when all others had left not for wealth and privilege, but for the sake of their city and their people. He could not hold them accountable for the atrocities of the past.
“Firstly,” Hades said at last, “though we thank you for your gracious offer, Olympus is not an empire. Unlike Cronus and the Twelve, we do not demand tribute and loyalty on bended knee. Our goal is not to rule you, but to allow you the freedom to rule yourselves.”
Hades arose from the throne, his narrow hips grateful for the respite from the hard granite rock. Standing there in his ebony leather pants, black, sleeveless linen tunic and midnight blue robe with his raven hair held in a short braid knotted just below his brawny neck, he cut a stunning figure of immense power. His slender waist seemed out of place against the massively muscled torso and flat, square shoulders above it. Hades spread out his burly arms and brought a warm smile to his almost perfect lips.
“You are here because you love your city and your people,” he said, his deep voice echoing off the richly paneled oak walls. “For that, you have my greatest respect and we will do what we can to help.”
Their eyes followed him as Hades walked around the long rectangle of a table, his hands clasped behind his floor-length black robe. “As most of you know, I grew up in the steaming hot pit of this city. In many ways, Tartarus is as much my home as it is yours. The people of the underworld know of passages through the mountains which none of you above are aware. Through them, we can bring supplies and free trade with settlements all across Prubrazia.”
Hades saw in the eyes of the council both amazement and hope. However, in a few, he saw tinges of anger. He let them mutter among themselves for a time before saying more.
“If this was possible,” Narifet, Quartermaster to the city, asked, his blue eyes sparkling and his thin lips terse in his narrow oval face, “why have you not used them before this? Our people have been starving!”
“Because we did not know on which side you stood, for one,” Hades replied bluntly. “Why would we want to help our enemies, if that was who you were? You forget. Your predecessors were cruel and vicious to the people below ground. I, myself, suffered torments you could never understand beneath their iron fists. They stood for Atlantis and themselves, not for good of the people above or below. Why would we support that?”
Narifet dropped his head for he did know. Hades had no idea the pillar of a man had grown up in the upper levels of the mine. His family grew their wealth and power on the backs of those beneath them. To his credit, Narifet felt a deep shame for it. That is why he stayed. It was his penitence for the horrors of his ancestry.
“Secondly,” Hades continued, his tone softening, “as I told you before, we have no desire to rule you. How you handle the problems of your city is completely up to you. I will also add, I am impressed with your devotion to Tartarus and how well you have included all your citizens in your concerns. I do not hold you accountable for the actions of the past. I applaud you for the present. That is why I now extend this offer.”
“And what, exactly, do you want in return, Lord Hades?” Sperticus asked, suspicious, but truly interested in the possibilities. “You did come here with an army after all. Do you mean to occupy us?”
“Not at all,” Hades assured him as he laid a hand on the Governor’s shoulder. “We came in force to protect the miners and their families. They are weary and want a better life for themselves. They wish to leave. We have promised them our support.”
“But if they go it will bankrupt the city!” Sperticus shouted as he jumped from his chair amid a babble of voices.
“We have an alternative for you,” Hades said calmly after the noise subsided. “We will bring you all the workers you need free of charge.”
“Free?” the Governor said, startled and not understanding. “How can you provide free labor? People must be paid.”
“Not if they are prisoners,” Hades stated flatly, stopping the murmurs in their tracks. “What we want in return is to turn the Tartarus pit into the world’s deepest dungeon.”
Chapter IX
After that horrific first hour of rage and ranting, Cronus had a brief moment of sanity and ordered Iapetus to lock him in his quarters until the madness passed. During that terrible week, only Iapetus and Mnemosyne were allowed inside to bring the Lord Father his meals, attempt to calm his frenzied outbursts and to ensure Cronus did no permanent damage to himself. Iapetus put an electronic seal on the carved oak doors keyed only to himself and his sister so no guards needed to be posted in the hallway. No Aam would have the courage to confront the Lord Father should he get through the massive, carved oak panels nor did they need to hear the animalistic railings going on inside.
Cronus was in the council chambers when word of the fall of Azmerizan at the hands of Zeus and Poseidon reached his ears. He picked up the hapless young Aam who made the report by the neck and thigh. With a sickening crack that reverberated down the granite corridors, Cronus snapped the man’s spine across his raised knee. Like a rabid beast, the Lord Father tore the room apart, overturning the gigantic table, shattering chairs and throwing any loose object he could find at the frightened people scrambling to escape.
Slamming into him like a charging mammoth, Iapetus was finally able to wrestle Cronus to the ground and wrap his titanic arms and legs around the thrashing man. It was like trying to hold a trapped Dire Wolf in his hands, but Iapetus managed to hold his brother in unbreakable bonds until the chamber was cleared and the injured were dragged away. Screaming like a banshee and spitting out vile, venomous curses, Cronus bit and clawed, drawing blood and tearing out chunks of flesh, but Iapetus did not let go.
His chest heaving and exhausted by his vehement emotional and physical outburst, Cronus slumped in his brother’s iron grip. “Get me to my private quarters,” he almost whimpered. “Imprison me until you and only you are assured I am in control of myself once again.”
A ghastly and dreadful week passed as the seething serpents inside Cronus broke free of their confinement and took over the Lord Father. Their burning hatred lashed out, spitting poison in acidic rainstorms. Visions of a red, barren and dusty windblown landscape filled his dreams inhabited by wailing, accusing ghosts. In his fevered nightmares, Cronus sat on blood-soaked granite, his father’s dying, sunken face in his lap. At other times, it was his crushed countenance in that lap looking up at the face of his son, Zeus. The Prophesy haunted him, repeating itself over and over like some diabolical song. No piece of furniture was left unscathed. No goblet unbroken. No monitor not shattered. Iapetus took the highly unusual step of having steel plates lowered over the crystal-paned windows after he saw a spider web of cracks appearing in them.
In those times when Cronus fell into a troubled slumber, Mnemosyne would slip in and cradle his great head in her lap. Cooing to him as a mother would a child, she held his temples between her palms and Lent him her healing energy, sending the golden glow to the depths of his tormented mind. Ever so slowly, Cronus regained his reason and pulled himself out of the black, sticky morass of his madness.
As he lay in his sweat-dampened bed, the sheets twisted around his curled up body, Cronus moaned softly. In his fevered nigh
tmare, he found himself running on the blighted, desolate plains of Atlan. As in most of his dreams, the rust-red sands flayed his flesh as he fled toward the crumbling steps of the pyramid beneath the cracked and broken dome over the city. Six hellish demons tore at his body with bloody talons, ripping pieces of skin and bone from his tormented body. Poison dripped from their long, sharp fangs, searing his nerves and pitting his muscles. He screamed in agony as he reached the first steps, stumbling as he clawed his way up toward the entrance.
This day was different from all others though. Halfway up the shattered stone, the creatures were upon him. Cronus covered his face with his bleeding arms and wailed, whimpering like a lost and frightened child as his demons feasted upon him. But, as he felt his life-force seep into the sands, something snapped inside of Cronus.
A surge of sun-hot, golden light erupted from his bunched muscles and he screamed again, not in pain, but in rage. The explosion of blistering energy threw his assailants away from his tormented form and sent them skittering down the ancient stone. They quickly regrouped and surrounded Cronus, searching for a way past the brilliant yellow aura that bathed him.
Cronus suddenly saw their bestial faces melt away and reform into the visages of his own children. As they changed in stature and took mortal shape, he saw in them not undefeatable monsters but men and women of flesh and blood. At the same instance that revelation came to him, Cronus felt his body heal and become whole and he rose to his feet, strength and power surging through him. Now it was they who cowered before him, no longer apparitions to be feared, but enemies to be destroyed. His mind cleared and the serpents in his soul hissed, ‘Yesss! Yesss’. Slithering back to the dark pit from which they came, their lessons at last understood, they continued to whisper, ‘Yesss!’
On the eight day, Iapetus and Mnemosyne came in together to serve him a nourishing evening meal of hot soup, seared venison and steamed vegetables. They found Cronus bathed and freshly dressed. The loose curls of his fiery red hair were brushed and held away from his ruggedly handsome face by a wide, ornately tooled leather band. His emerald eyes were clear and sharp above his high, strongly planned cheeks. There was even a tiny, embarrassed smile on his ample, tan lips as they entered.
Cronus sat behind the big mahogany desk he had righted looking calm and in command of his facilities. He had gone so far as to make his own bed, heap the debris of his fury in a corner and sweep the scarred marble floor.
“I am truly sorry,” he said as they walked in and laid the platter before him. “All I could hear were the words of my father mocking me from the grave. All I could see from the attack on Azmerizan were the faces of my own two sons pitted against me. All I could feel was the Prophesy ripping at my soul, promising my own death and the destruction of all I have built.”
Cronus looked down almost shamefully at his fists balled on the desk. “I cannot allow this to come to pass.” He raised his stern green eyes to his siblings. “Will you help me?”
When the Lord Father entered the war room all conversation came to a sudden halt. Not even a whispered murmur touched the thick, frightened pall that descended upon the chamber. The men and women at their stations lowered their heads and placed their hands between their knees to keep them from knocking together. Those officers gathered around the map, charts and monitors spread out on the huge, rectangular table came to instant stiff attention, their eyes staring straight forward and not at Cronus.
“Relax and be at ease,” Cronus said as he strode to the head of the table. “I am here to beg your forgiveness not to cause you further distress.” His words were so unexpected that the room let out an audible gasp. “I know,” he said with a small, carefully calculated chuckle. “I never make apologies. Please enter this date in the histories as a first.”
A light, uncomfortable, nervous laughter followed his remarks as if the people were unsure this was the appropriate response. They looked not toward Cronus, but to the unfathomable raven-haired man at his side. Iapetus stood like a pillar of granite, his bronzed face unreadable, but calm.
“When I heard of the vicious attack on our sister city of Azmerizan, I was so overwhelmed with grief and rage I took it out on those around me,” Cronus said, his tone conciliatory and regretful. “I was wrong and I hurt people who have only been loyal and who share my anger. I am very sorry and I promise you, you will never be the brunt of my undeserved fury again. You have the word of your Lord Father.”
Now truly relieved, heartfelt applause did fill the room. Cronus never went back on his word. Shocked, but solaced faces glanced to each other and whispered behind raised palms. The tension-filled fog dissipated slowly as Cronus waited patiently.
“Now we must respond to this outrage against us,” he said, his tone becoming hard and commanding. “The unprovoked assault on our citizens cannot go unpunished. Their deaths cannot go unavenged. Will you help me?”
This time the applause was accompanied by shouting loud enough to rattle the windows. Cronus smiled to himself. If he was to bring Zeus to justice, he needed the People behind him, not afraid of him. He knew of the holos sent by the spies and he had a plan in mind.
“Now, if you would,” he said firmly, “please return to your tasks. Commanders, bring me up to date.” Cronus swept his gaze over the room. “And I thank you all for your unwavering support.”
“People of Atlantis,” the Lord Father said as his face was broadcast throughout the empire, “you have been fed a banquet of lies hidden behind a thin veil of truth by those who call themselves Olympians. I am here today to set the record straight and to provide you with proof.”
Cronus stood on an arched bridge with the ancient One Tree lit by the noontime sun at his back. He looked regal and proud, dressed in a wrap of white linen edged in gold lace that was pinned at his left shoulder and that fell to his mid-thigh. The crown of Atlantis encircled his wide forehead and kept his fiery red mane from his striking, ruggedly handsome features. Slung around his thick waist was a black, chain-mail belt, each tiny link trimmed in gold. On his right hip hung a silver-bladed sword with a hilt of carved mahogany. Heavy-soled sandals covered his feet, laced up over the bulge of his muscled calves. His jade eyes sparkled like polished emeralds against his sun-bronzed skin.
“First the truth,” Cronus said, his rich baritone voice firm and steady. “Yes. These are my own children and, yes, I sent them away when they were young. Many of you have judged me harshly for that, but you never truly understood why I did so. You think it is only because of the Prophesy you all know. That one day I would die at the hand of my own son. You believe I sent them away only to save my own life. You are wrong.”
Cronus turned to the side, put both hands on the smoothed stained oak of the bridge railing and glanced over his shoulder at the One Tree. He turned his head to gaze into the holo-camera, his eyes sad and seemingly touched by a trace of tears. “In case you did not know, the rest of the Prophesy says that with my demise would come the destruction of Atlantis and all we have built together. As much as I loved my children, I could not allow that to happen to you, the People, the survivors of Atlan, for I love you more than my own flesh and blood and for whom I killed my own father. You all know this to be true.”
He walked around the camera so the glistening spires and domes of Atlantis were behind him. Cronus swept his hand over the sparkling city and spoke again. “I will not allow all the grandeur you have created and the lives you have brought forth into this beautiful, wondrous world to be destroyed forever.”
“The next truth,” the Lord Father continued as a light breeze rippled his hair, “is that I kept the heritage of the Izon away from you and I drove them from our lands. I carried this burden alone to protect you. Through the gracious will of the Creator, you were all blessed with children of your own. Whether I was right or wrong, I did not want you to see what had happened to the children of Iasion and what might happen to your own future descendants. With all the joyous excitement you felt as each new life was gra
nted to you, I did not want you to worry that your future generations might become the grunting, bestial things of the Clan. Judge me as you will. I only sought to save you that pain.”
“That horror was brought home to me as our birthrate diminished while the Izon continued to breed like rabbits.” Cronus shook his head, his eyes as hard as diamonds. “Without something to counteract that trend, we, the People, would soon be outnumbered and overrun by these creatures. In my haste to prevent that and keep us as pure and strong as possible, I created the Nephilim.”
“Hate me as you will for my methods,” he said almost bitterly, “most of the Nephilim are indistinguishable from the rest of us. Only a few became the behemoths that turned against us. This was not something I could foresee. For that, I ask your forgiveness.”
Straightening his spine, Cronus walked along the Grand Boulevard toward the Great Pyramid. He smiled at the people lining the sidewalks and shook hands with shopkeepers and the black-clad Aam that stood along the wide concourse. The camera followed his every move as he spoke to the citizens of the city. Cronus intentionally let his previous words sink in before continuing.
Stopping at the huge granite steps of the pyramid, he turned back to the audiences watching the projections and monitors throughout the empire. “Now for the lies,” he said, his words as hard as the stone beneath his feet.
“Here is Zeus and the Olympians as seen in his own broadcast.” The picture showed them as they stood on their own dais the day of their message to Atlantis. “This,” Cronus said as the image changed to the attack on the city festival many years ago, “is when they attempted to kill me at our celebration.” Seen from the distance across the River Gaia, the two groups looked identical. “How many of you lost loved ones in that brutal, unprovoked assault?”