Hero of Olympus

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Hero of Olympus Page 14

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)


  He swayed unsteadily – his six legs losing their coordination – and slumped to his knees. His heads lolled onto his chests and he fell forward onto four of his hands, the others clutching at the two remaining arrows. Trails of red drool spilled from his mouths as Heracles watched in anticipation, praying to his father that the arrows had done their work. Then the giant coughed more blood, spat in the grass, and pulled the other arrows from his chests. Slowly, he pushed himself back onto his haunches and then stood.

  ‘So, you know how to stop me,’ he rasped. ‘You’re a worthy opponent, son of Zeus. But you must also have realized that I can’t be stopped. To pierce all three of my hearts at once is impossible.’

  ‘Nothing is impossible.’

  ‘Some things are,’ the giant said, flexing his damaged wing again. It stretched further than before, but the wince on his face told Heracles it had not recovered yet. ‘If you insist on fighting me, then you will die. But if you admit defeat, I will let you live.’

  ‘As your slave?’ Heracles asked, spitting onto the grass. ‘Never.’

  ‘As my herdsman. Eurytion is dead, but you can take his place. You want my cattle, don’t you? They were a gift from my grandfather, the Titan Oceanus – and they will remain mine. But if you become my herdsman, I will give every other newborn calf to you. Within two years, you will have your own herd. What do you say? It would be a shame to kill a man like you, Heracles.’

  Two years, Heracles thought. In two years he could take a herd of Geryon’s cattle back to Tiryns and the labour would be complete. But two years of trudging around a gods-forsaken rock at the ends of the earth, with only cattle for company? Two more years for Megara’s affections to grow colder?

  ‘I would rather die,’ he said, bowing in acknowledgement of the offer.

  Geryon’s lips curled back over his teeth. He crouched and thrust himself forward, opening his wings fully and gliding through the pouring rain towards his enemy. Seeing a rock in the grass at his feet, Heracles picked it up and hurled it at the middle head. It hit him between the eyes, the force throwing it back with a pop of breaking bone. Then the giant was upon him, the two remaining heads glaring down at him, while two pairs of arms reached down and lifted him from the ground.

  The strength in the monster’s hands was incredible as they took hold of Heracles’s arms and legs and began to pull. He screamed at the pain, and only his densely packed muscles prevented his limbs from being ripped straight from their sockets. In desperation, he bit into the hand gripping his right arm, driving his teeth as hard through the vile-tasting skin as the strength in his jaws could propel them. A chunk of flesh came away in his mouth and Geryon’s left head bellowed in pain. He released Heracles’s arm and pulled his hand away, a trail of blood arcing through the air behind it.

  Spitting out the lump of wiry-haired skin and gristle, Heracles swung a punch into Geryon’s right head. There was a crack of bone as his fist connected with the giant’s cheek, the force whipping the head round hard and knocking the eye from its socket. The remaining head opened its yellow fangs. The hands that trapped Heracles’s arms by his sides pulled him towards the huge mouth. He struggled briefly against the overpowering grip, then drew back his knees and lashed out with all the force in his legs. The kick smashed the bottom row of teeth and dislocated the jaw, leaving it hanging over the chest.

  The giant groaned and staggered, but did not fall. The middle head had recovered from the blow from the rock and was staring at Heracles in pain and confusion. Then, succumbing to his rage, Geryon raised him above his head and threw him with all his strength. He landed hard and blacked out.

  He awoke to the feel of hot breath on his face. Opening his eyes, he saw a broad pink nose hovering over him, with a pair of large, unintelligent eyes behind it. The cow snorted, spraying him with saliva. He raised his hand to wipe it off, and the animal gave a second snort and backed away. Remembering Geryon, he pushed himself up onto his elbows – his joints and muscles complaining at the movement – and looked about himself. The cattle were standing all around him, watching him with curiosity – though whether he had landed in the midst of the herd or they had surrounded him out of bovine curiosity, he did not know.

  Glancing between their large bodies, he saw Geryon some way off. He was on his knees, holding his broken jaw in place as he waited for the wound to heal itself. The battle had sapped much of the giant’s stamina, leaving him weary and more cautious than when it had begun. But his wounds would mend and allow him to continue the fight; Heracles’s body, however, was still riven with pain from the injuries caused by Eurytion and his dog, and from the pounding his muscles and joints had undergone at Geryon’s hands. The damage to his body would take much longer to repair itself, and he already felt exhausted. He contemplated crawling away through the legs of the cows and finding a place to hide until he was recovered enough to renew the contest.

  But he knew he could not. His supernatural strength and endurance came from Zeus and could not be taken away from him. But his courage and resolve were his own: fragile human qualities that had to be fed constantly to prevent them withering away. One act of cowardice now – even in the face of a foe like Geryon – and the determination that had seen him overcome one impossible challenge after another would falter and fail. And so he had to stay and fight, even though he could see no way to defeat his enemy.

  The giant raised himself to his full height and looked towards the cattle. Seeing the herd’s curiosity had been aroused by something, he began striding towards them. Heracles lay in the thick, damp grass and watched his approach, feeling the thud of his feet through the ground beneath his chest and praying to his father to show him the way to victory.

  He glanced down at his quiver and saw that only four arrows remained, the rest having been spent or fallen out during the fight. Rising stiffly to his feet, he pulled the bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow. Startled by the movement, the cattle shifted away from him, several turning and breaking into a run. For the first time, he noticed the brand on their hindquarters – the head of a trident. It had to be the mark of Oceanus, who had gifted the cattle to his grandson. Perhaps with the Titan’s three-pronged spear he might have stood a chance of piercing Geryon’s three hearts. But even with a trident, the points would not have been wide enough apart to span his enemy’s enormous, triple-chested body. And so, drawing on the strength that remained to him, he prepared to meet his fate.

  Geryon turned his gaze on his opponent. The brazen self-confidence with which he had started their battle had been replaced by a cold determination to bring it to an end. Pulling an enormous boulder from the grass, he spread his wings wide and rose into the air with a single beat.

  As he watched the hideous figure ascend into the rain, Heracles thought again of the brand on the hindquarters of the cattle. Suddenly, an idea flashed into his mind. A single chance remained to him – one final hope, standing between death and victory. He reached into his quiver and pulled out two more arrows. Tilting his bow at an angle, he notched them swiftly to the string and spaced the shafts a finger’s breadth apart along the ridges of the leather handgrip.

  Geryon was hovering high up in the air, the rock raised above his head, ready to hurl at Heracles and dash him into a bloody mess. Death was only a heartbeat away. Drawing the bowstring taut, Heracles glanced up at the giant and adjusted his aim. It was an impossible shot, even for an archer of his skill. But he knew he was not alone. His father was with him. Zeus had chosen him to be the champion of Olympus, to bring order in a world of chaos, and he would not leave him to fail now. He let out a sigh, closed his eyes and released the arrows.

  The bow sang. For a moment he was aware of nothing but the rain – the sound of it on the grass, the feel of it on his chilled flesh, and the cleansing smell of it in his nostrils. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at the stationary figure of Geryon. Each arrow had found its mark, sinking feather-deep into the monster’s three hearts.

  Geryon blink
ed with the impact. Then the boulder slipped from his fingers and he rolled backwards, his wings folding beneath him as he fell. Heracles watched him turn over and over, and hit the earth with a thud. He clawed weakly at the grass, then lay still.

  Slipping his bow over his shoulder, Heracles approached the vast, broken form sprawled across the ground. Geryon looked up at his conqueror, then his eyes closed slowly in death. Heracles placed his foot on the nearest chest, plucked out the three arrows and returned them to his quiver.

  The tenth labour was complete, though it had nearly defeated him. The next would be harder still.

  Chapter Seven

  PHORCYS

  It was spring before Heracles returned to the Argolid, riding Eurytion’s pony and driving Geryon’s long-horned cattle before him. A few orchards were in blossom and there were flowers along the roadside, nodding happily in the breeze as he rode by. Herds were bleating on the hillsides and he could hear men singing as they cleared out barns ready for the crops that would be stored there later in the year. The fields as he approached Tiryns were furrowed and brown, and the few farmers that strolled through them – casting handfuls of seed as they walked – stopped and stared at him.

  As the city came into sight, a group of children ran out from the hovels that surrounded the battlements, curious to see the strange creatures being driven towards the gates. Of the thirty-three cows Heracles had taken from Erytheia, only nineteen now remained, and these were a shadow of their former selves. If he had sailed to the ends of the earth with three galleys, he might have brought the entire herd safely back to Tiryns, and in much better time. Instead, he was forced to ferry the cattle back to the northern headland they had passed on their way to Erytheia, a task that required six journeys over six days and nights. Then, releasing the galley and her crew to return to Tiryns, he had driven the herd back through unknown lands and untold dangers to the borders of Greece. Now, over half a year after he had set off on his tenth labour, he was returning to a welcoming committee of children.

  They gathered around him, the older ones begging for food and the little ones reaching up to pat the cows and his pony. Dismounting, he reached into his satchel and pulled out a haunch of bread, which he tore into a dozen pieces to share between them. There were some strips of pork, too, which he gave to those who had missed out on the bread. Then he lifted the smallest children onto the backs of the docile cattle, and walked beside them as they reached the first few tumbledown shacks.

  The outer city was much as he had left it – impoverished and decrepit – though there were fewer people on the streets. Mothers rushed out of their homes to pluck their children from the backs of the cattle, before rushing them back inside. Some looked at Heracles, recognizing the man who had done so much for the poor and hungry of the shanties. Yet their faces were not filled with joy at his return, as they had been on other occasions, but seemed stricken with anxiety. Whatever fear was already upon them was only increased by his presence. Soon, all the children had been taken away or had dispersed into the side streets and shadowy alleys on either side, leaving him to walk alone.

  As he continued towards the city gates, he saw signs of Eurystheus’s tyranny everywhere: burned huts; dried blood on doors; even a few desiccated heads on spikes before the battlements, reminding him of Themiscyra. But the lines of soldiers who used to greet him on his return from a labour were not there. And the closer he came to the gates of Tiryns, the more he realized why. There had been no warning of his approach; no spies posted in the villages to ride back with news of his return. After his long absence, Tiryns had assumed he was dead.

  The tramp of feet announced the approach of a patrol of spearmen, who emerged from a side street in a double file behind their young officer. The man raised his arm and the detachment halted before the cattle spread over the main thoroughfare in front of them. His eyes shifted to the tall figure driving the herd, widening as they recognized the black lion skin and the stern face beneath it. Heracles, too, remembered the young man whose life he had spared before the city gates the previous year.

  Turning to two of his men, the officer sent them sprinting up the street to the walls, where they shouted for the gates to be opened. The six remaining guards were ordered to take up places around the cattle.

  ‘Forgive me, my lord,’ the officer said. ‘Your arrival wasn’t expected. My men and I will escort you to the citadel.’

  Heracles nodded and continued herding the cattle before him. As they shambled towards the gates, people began to emerge from the huts and alleys on either side.

  ‘Return to your homes!’ the officer ordered.

  They ignored him, emboldened by the presence of Heracles and their own curiosity. But there were no acclamations of Hail, son of Zeus! as he passed between them this time, only frightened faces, bereft of the hope with which they had once regarded him. Several soldiers now appeared on the parapet, drawn by the spectacle of Eurystheus’s cousin, returned unexpectedly from another labour.

  The gates opened and Heracles drove the cattle through, followed by the officer and his men. Soldiers were hurriedly lining the street, with more detachments coming rapidly down from the citadel to boost their numbers. Even here, there were signs of strife, with at least two houses burned to blackened shells. The worried expressions of the people gathering in doorways and at windows also spoke of harsh repression, as they watched him herd the cattle up towards the palace. The gates of the citadel swung open to reveal Tydeus and a troop of a dozen men, each one tall and well built, with battle-hardened faces. Mercenaries, Heracles thought, brought in to provide backbone to the already numerous guards that kept Eurystheus on his throne.

  ‘So, you’ve returned,’ Tydeus said. ‘Just as we were beginning to hope you’d met your end on the return journey.’

  ‘I don’t die easily.’

  The captain of the guard walked towards the cattle, followed by the mercenaries. The other soldiers stepped back, keeping their distance from the cruel-faced warriors. Drawing his sword, Tydeus scraped the blade along the horn of one of the beasts, eyeing its strange, red-brown hide and the trident-shaped brand on its flank with interest. Then he turned to Heracles.

  ‘Leave your mount with the gate guards and follow me. Bring King Eurystheus’s cattle with you.’

  Heracles gave his pony’s reins to a soldier, then ushered the cattle through the gates in Tydeus’s wake. Conscious that the dozen mercenaries had spread out behind him, he glanced down at the club hanging from his belt. It was much darker and smoother now than when he had first torn it from the trunk of an olive tree: dark with the blood of the many foes he had killed on his return to Greece, and smoothed by the countless blows it had delivered against shield, helmet and bare flesh as he had fought his way home. If Tiryns could be thought of as home. But he would be glad to stain the wood darker and smooth out more of its knots, should the men behind him choose to offer themselves as targets.

  The citadel was empty. The doors of the two-storey houses were shut and the windows vacant. There were no soldiers on the street that led up to the towering walls of the palace. But it seemed he was not to be kept waiting for his royal audience today. Eurystheus stood at the ramparts above, his daughter at his right hand and Charis a little way to his left. No one had been appointed to replace Iphicles or Copreus – his former adviser and his herald – and the king looked lonely and vulnerable.

  ‘I could have you executed for murdering Copreus,’ he announced.

  ‘You could try. I wouldn’t advise it.’

  The king gave a small laugh and shrugged his shoulders. He looked dispirited, though whether that was from the surprise of his cousin’s unwelcome return, or from the efforts of suppressing his own unhappy citizens, Heracles could not tell.

  ‘I’m sure you had your reasons,’ he continued. ‘Besides, your fate is not my concern. I bow to the gods in that. And it seems their interest in you has not waned with your absence, cousin. No sooner had a guardsman rudely interrupte
d my breakfast with news of your arrival, than Charis entered declaring her latest dream from the immortals. A dream about you.’

  Heracles’s shoulders slumped a little. Was he to be granted no rest? Months of attending to Geryon’s cattle and keeping them safe had left him more tired than he would ever have expected, even to the point of craving a few nights’ rest in his hut among the slums, unburdened by care. But it was not to be.

  Charis stepped reluctantly up to the crenellated walls and looked down at him. Her expression was anxious, even guilty.

  ‘You are to go to the garden of the Hesperides, daughters of the Titan Atlas,’ she said. ‘At its centre is a tree, more lovely than all the rest. It was a wedding gift to Hera from Gaia, and the Queen of the Gods values it highly – not for its beauty, but for its golden fruit. You are to go to the garden and bring back three apples from the tree.’

  ‘And where is this garden?’ Heracles asked. ‘I assume your mistress told you where to find it.’

  Charis gave no answer, but simply bowed her head and retreated from the ramparts. Eurystheus moved forward and laid his hands on the stonework.

  ‘And if she told you, I assume you’d expect me to provide you with a ship to take you there,’ he said. ‘But why should I keep helping you, Heracles? And how difficult can it be, stealing fruit from a tree? Go find the damned thing yourself!’

  ‘So that’s your plan, is it?’ Heracles snapped back. ‘You never expected me to manage the first labour, yet here I am having completed ten; and now you’re scared of what I’ll do if I accomplish them all. So you want me to scour the earth in search of a single tree, hoping I’ll never find it; that I’ll never return to complete the twelfth labour and earn my freedom. Do you fear me that much, cousin?’

 

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