Streams of bubbles were rising up from the dog’s mouths, but it refused to release its hold on his forearm, while all the time the other head was snapping at him in a vain effort to sink its jaws into his face. Then he caught a movement on the bank and lifted his head to see Eurytion hurl his second spear at him. Instinctively, he released his hold on the dog and raised his arm to cover his face. As his body turned, the bronze spearhead slid beneath the water and sliced across the front of his chest. The shallow angle prevented it from punching through his ribs, though it skidded over the hard muscles that protected them, breaking the flesh and releasing a stream of dark blood into the fast-flowing water.
The impact threw him backwards. The dog released his arm, and he lost sight of it for a moment amid the swirling water. Then he hit the bottom and felt the back of his hand scrape against a stone. Ignoring the pain of his wounds and the burning in his empty lungs, he wrapped his fingers around the stone and prised it free from the slime of the riverbed. A shadow passed over the water above him, then the surface exploded in a swirl of bubbles as the dog dived towards him.
Lifting the stone, he swung it with all his strength at the nearest head. It disappeared in a spray of blood and flesh. The blow sent the monster twisting sideways, its heavy paws beating against the water. Heracles pushed his face above the surface, snatched a mouthful of air, then went under again. The dog was writhing in agony, the shattered remains of its head flopping about in a cloud of red, while the other opened and closed its jaws in confusion. Grabbing its tail as it tried to swim away, he pulled it back and wrapped an arm around its chest, holding it still while he brought the stone down on its remaining head. More blood plumed out into the water and was quickly sucked away by the current. The animal’s legs relaxed and its body sank to the bottom.
He staggered to his feet, clenching his teeth against the pain in his side and his forearm. Eurytion stood on the bank, his sword drawn.
‘Your hound is dead,’ Heracles snarled. ‘And you have no more spears. Yield the cattle to me and walk away with your life. There’s no shame in it – you’ve fought well enough.’
‘You’re the one who should yield,’ Eurytion replied. ‘Menoetes has gone to fetch our master, the owner of this herd. When he comes, you’ll realize your folly in trying to take what isn’t yours. And until he arrives, I will defend his cattle with my life.’
‘I’ve heard of your master. A giant, they say, and the strongest man alive. But if he’s a man, then he can die like any other. My arrows were dipped in the blood of the Hydra: if I shoot him, the gods themselves won’t be able to save him.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Eurytion said. ‘Geryon can’t be killed, even by a poisoned arrow. He has three bodies and three hearts; he won’t die unless all three are pierced at the same instant. But if you surrender to me, I will ask him to show you mercy. Perhaps he will let you live and make you his slave. He likes playthings.’
Heracles smiled.
‘I’m already a slave. And I have no intention of surrendering to a child.’
Eurytion’s face darkened. Gripping his sword, he waded into the river. Heracles looked at the clear waters and saw his bow trapped between two rocks, with several arrows scattered in the mud around it. Snatching up the bow, he fitted an arrow and stretched the string back to his cheekbone.
‘Don’t be a fool, Eurytion.’
But the herdsman did not listen. He dashed forward, his sword held high over his head as his furious cry echoed from the sheer sides of the chasm. The bow hummed and the arrow pierced his shoulder. He stood still, the sword dropping from his fingers as the poison took his life. Then he fell into the river, his soul already starting on its path to Hades.
Heracles looked down at the body of the youth, his face pale below the water as a final trail of bubbles escaped his lips. Then he plucked the arrow from his body and collected several more from the riverbed, where he found his club in a patch of billowing weeds. Last of all, he walked to the dead cow and tugged the arrow from its rear leg. What price would he pay for not shooting the boy when he had the chance, he wondered? But he refused to be responsible for the death of another child, even if it meant his life.
The rest of the herd had moved further down the ravine and come to a halt. After binding his wounded side and forearm, he picked up the stick the boy had left behind and mounted Eurytion’s pony. This time the cattle did not run as he trotted after them, but continued to chew at the vegetation along the banks. Only when they felt the stick on their flanks did they began to move, and then very slowly.
He rode the pony to the head of the herd, letting it find its own skilful way between their massive bodies and long, pointed horns. There were thirty-three animals in all – too many to fit on a single galley. He began wondering how he might get them all back to distant Tiryns, knowing that if Eurystheus discovered he had left most of the herd behind he would discount the labour as incomplete. And Hera would surely inform him through Charis.
More pressing, though, was the need to get them down to the bay where the galley was waiting. How far would Menoetes have to ride to warn Geryon his cattle were being stolen? As far as the mountains? And if so, how quickly could the giant come to their rescue? He beat his stick on the flanks of the nearest cattle, but it seemed to make no difference to their shambling pace.
The rain continued without abating, drenching his lion skin and the tunic underneath, soaking him through to the skin. The breeze that haunted the gorge bit through his chilled flesh, leaving him trembling with cold as he urged the stubborn beasts forward. Eventually, the walls of the defile began to reduce in height and widen out, until a final twist in the course of the river left him looking out over a grassy plain towards the sea. But he sensed he was far from the bay where he had landed, which lay somewhere to the east.
There were hoof prints in the soft earth, leading away to the left and back up the slope towards the mountains. A sense of foreboding made him look back at the ravine. The shadows were dark and the rain was still falling in grey sheets that made it difficult to see if he was being followed. He waited a few moments, saw nothing, and then tapped his heels to the pony’s flanks.
The herd had moved eastwards, away from the banks of the river and towards the foot of a grassy hillock. He urged his mount forward, rounding up a couple of stragglers and driving them back towards the others. Continuing past them, he rode to the top of the small hill and looked out at the land beyond. The coastline continued its broken and chaotic course to his left, while to his right the tops of the mountains were lost in cloud. Everything between was open grassland, offering no cover from unwelcome eyes.
Sensing something pass overhead, he glanced up and saw a black shape plunging towards him from the clouds. He gave a shout and drove his heels back, sending the pony galloping down the slope. A moment later, a massive boulder buried itself into the crown of the hillock.
Reaching the bottom, Heracles turned his startled mount around and stared up at the rain-filled sky. He glimpsed a dark shape disappearing into the clouds, far larger than any bird, with a broad body and wings like ship’s sails. It emerged again moments later, swooping towards the ground and alighting on another hummock, where it tore a large rock out of the ground and carried it back up into the air. Heracles pulled the bow from his shoulder, fitted an arrow and drew back the string. But as he saw the creature in all its hideousness, his aim wavered. If it was a monster, then it had the features of a man; but if a man, then it was twice a man’s height, with three heads and three bodies, fused at their hips and each possessing its own limbs. So appalled was he that he forgot to loose his arrow as the creature flew towards him, hurling the boulder with a terrifying shout.
At the last moment, Heracles spurred his mount forward, ducking low as the rock passed overhead and drove a furrow into the ground behind. He turned the pony again and notched the arrow back into the bowstring, pulling it back and firing as the fiend soared away from him. It banked at the last moment
and the missile was knocked from the air by the wind from its bat-like wings.
Fitting another arrow, he tracked the beast as it landed on the hillock where it had dropped the first boulder, crouching beetle-like on its many legs as it plucked it from the ground, before kicking itself back into the air. Heracles adjusted his aim to account for the rain and the speed of the creature as it launched itself upwards, then released the bowstring. It sang loudly in his ear, and this time the arrow did not miss. Caught in the wing, the monster twisted to one side and plummeted to the ground, dropping the boulder as it fell. It hit the earth, shoulder first, its crumpled wings folding over itself.
Heracles slotted another arrow against the string and spurred the pony towards where the creature lay. As he got nearer, his nostrils caught its musky, unwashed stench and curled up in disgust. But before he could reach it, one of the wings unfolded to reveal the snarling brute beneath, crouching on its many limbs in the deep grass. Heracles turned his mount aside as the monster pounced, its outstretched hands clawing the air a couple of paces behind him.
The pony galloped away, and Heracles had difficulty reining it back in and turning it to face the winged giant. The animal raised its head and pulled back its upper lip, its eyes wide with fear as it tried to back away. Knowing it would be useless in the fight to come, Heracles slid from its back and let go of the reins. It gave a loud whinny and fled across the plain.
He turned to face his attacker, who stood a bowshot away, regarding him with malicious intelligence. Whether man or monster, he carried no weapons and wore no clothing at all to cover his pale nakedness, though his three bodies were covered with thick red hair from his beards to the tops of his oversized feet. The hair on his heads was long and wild, falling across his shoulders and down his back in matted locks.
The features of each face were lumpen and brutal, though each was distinctively different. The eyes were small and mean, one pair having yellow irises, another vivid green, and the third black. All three noses were misshapen and his jaws, cheekbones and foreheads were marked with livid scars. As few would be capable of meting out such damage to a giant of his size, Heracles guessed he had inflicted them in fights with himself. Despite this, each mouth boasted rows of disorderly yellow fangs that jutted permanently outwards from his lips in hideous grins.
‘Name yourself, thief!’ he growled, all three mouths speaking in unison and spraying the air with spittle. ‘I want to call out your name as I make love to you in the night. But first I will bite off your hands and feet so you can’t fight or run, then tear out your tongue to stop you squealing.’
‘I am Heracles, son of Zeus. The gods ordered me to take your cattle, Geryon, son of Chrysaor, but they didn’t tell me to kill you. Go, then, while you still can, and avoid the fate of your herdsman and his dog.’
Geryon’s eyes narrowed.
‘Eurytion was barely more than a boy, though if you also killed Orthrus then you have some skill to boast of. But even the greatest warrior is helpless against me. And if you have killed my herdsman, then I will make you suffer unimaginable torment before you die.’
While the giant spoke – his voice deep and guttural, as if it came from the ground beneath their feet – Heracles drew an arrow from his quiver. The one that had struck Geryon in the wing had had a grey fletch and an ordinary bronze tip. But the arrow that he notched against his bowstring now bore a flight of black feathers, marking it as having been dipped in the blood of the Hydra. The venom acted almost instantly, and even a creature of Geryon’s size would not survive more than a few moments.
Raising the bow, he drew back the string and shot the arrow. It soared through the rain, a black streak among the grey, and sank into Geryon’s ribs below the right side of the middle body. He staggered backwards, howling with pain as he clutched at the shaft. Then he steadied himself again and slowly prised the arrow free, tossing it aside into the thick grass. There was a vicious curl to his upper lips now, but he showed no signs of weakness or imminent death.
Seizing the boulder he had dropped when Heracles had shot him out of the sky, he launched it at his opponent. Heracles threw himself to the ground and rolled aside, feeling the impact of the missile as it struck the spot where he had been standing and buried itself in the boggy turf.
Springing back to his feet, he ran to the rock and wrapped his body around it, pulling it from the ground with a shout and lifting it over his head. Running forward, he heaved it back at Geryon. The giant did not flee, but stood firm as he watched the boulder spinning through the air towards him. Reaching up with his six arms and thrusting three of his legs behind himself, he caught it easily. Then he tossed it aside and broke into a run, splitting the air with a terrifying cry as he dashed across the plain.
Heracles ran to meet him. He swung his club as Geryon reached towards him, smashing several fingers and eliciting a howl of pain. Another hand seized him by the arm and a third by the waist, lifting him from his feet with irresistible strength. More hands grabbed at him, one seizing hold of his wounded forearm and pulling it towards one of the giant’s heads. Intent on carrying out his threat to bite off his hands and feet, Geryon opened his slavering jaws wide. But he had not counted on his smaller opponent’s strength. Wrenching his other arm free, Heracles slammed the side of his club into the monster’s jaw, whipping the head sideways as it sprayed blood and broken teeth into the pouring rain.
The other heads gave a howl of pain. Lifting Heracles high, the giant hurled him across the open plain. He landed hard on his back, bouncing across the grass like a stone and coming to a stop in a shallow pool. Forcing himself up from the filthy water, he dragged himself to the bank and lay for a moment on the grass, feeling the pain in his side where Eurytion’s spear had pierced him. He looked down and saw that the cloth he had wrapped round it was soaked and bloody, and hung loose about his ribs. He ripped it off with a grunt and staggered to his feet.
Immediately, he sensed a presence above him. He lashed out with his club as a pair of enormous hands reached down for him. He snapped the middle fingers on one, which recoiled instantly, but the other grabbed hold of the club and tore it from his grip, casting it far away. Another pair of hands seized him by the shoulders and dragged him back into the pool, pressing him down into the water with overwhelming force. He felt the soft mud sucking him under and the cold liquid filling his mouth and nostrils, and through the pale, blurred lens of the water he saw Geryon standing over him. The giant had given up on his desire to maim and rape Heracles, intent now on holding him under until the filthy waters filled his lungs and starved his body of air.
Trapped by his powerful hold, Heracles summoned his own great strength and tried to push himself upwards, but even he could not overcome the giant’s might. Vaguely, he recalled Charis telling him that Geryon was twice as strong as himself. Then he felt the agonizing burning in his lungs as they cried out for air, and knew that death was close. He thought of Megara and Iolaus in Thebes, and then of his three boys, whose faces came to him with a clarity he had not known since their deaths. And then he remembered the dagger in his belt.
His fingers settled around the grip as he slid it from the sheath. Holding it tightly, he groped blindly with his other hand to find Geryon’s arms, positioning them in his mind’s eye so that he would not miss. Then he sliced the blade hard and fast through the soft underside of the wrists, cutting through the veins and tendons. The giant’s roar boomed through the sense-numbing water as he yanked his arms out of the pool and held them up to the pitiless skies above.
Heracles burst free of the water, gasping for air. Weakened and struggling against the pain that wracked his body, he staggered to his feet and clambered up the bank. The giant towered over him, still crying out in his agony as great globules of blood dripped from his half-severed wrists and splashed onto Heracles standing below. Gripping the dagger tightly, he lurched towards one of Geryon’s legs and slid the blade across the inside of the thigh, releasing a scarlet torrent that gus
hed out over the grass.
Another roar filled the air and the giant toppled back, clutching at the wound. To Heracles’s amazement, he saw that the gashes on Geryon’s wrists had already stopped bleeding, and that the hole in one of the bodies where his arrow had pierced the ribs had sealed up completely. He remembered Eurytion saying that his master could only be killed if all three hearts were pierced simultaneously. But how was that possible?
The blood had stopped oozing from the giant’s thigh. He took his hands from the wound and rose to his full height. Knowing he could not defeat Geryon by strength alone, and that his black-feathered arrows were ineffective against him, Heracles turned and ran. He heard mocking laughter behind him, and knew that if Hera was watching from the heights of Olympus, she, too, would be laughing.
The thought shamed him. He could keep on running, maybe even make it back to the galley and sail away to safety. But what would he be escaping to? The misery of defeat, knowing that he could never be free of the guilt of what he had done, and that he would live out the rest of his days a slave to Eurystheus. Even if death was the only other choice, he would prefer that by far to ignominy. And death was never the only choice. Geryon could be beaten; he just had to believe that Zeus would show him how.
He turned and plucked three grey fletched arrows from his quiver. Holding two of them alongside the bow with his thumb, he placed the third against the bowstring and drew it back to his cheek. Geryon was still by the pool, flexing his damaged wing and trying to extend it out behind his shoulder. Already it was showing signs of recovery.
‘Put your toy away,’ the giant sneered. ‘Your little pinpricks have no effect on me, just as your dagger couldn’t harm me. But I will harm you.’
He stepped over the pool and came striding towards Heracles, his mouths open in a single cry of rage. Heracles released the bowstring. The arrow looped through the air, its tail tracing small circles as it span towards its target. He fitted another and took rapid aim, noting Geryon lurch backwards as the first sank into his right chest. The bowstring hummed again and the second arrow hurried towards the middle body. It struck just below the nipple, stopping the giant in his tracks as he grunted and looked down at the long black shafts. But as Heracles notched the third and sent it towards his other chest, Geryon was already tugging the first from his flesh. A moment later, the final arrow punched into his other chest, the impact twisting him to one side.
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