Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  He stood for a while, eyeing the western hills and the road that would lead him to Laconia, where legend asserted the mouth of the Underworld could be found. Then he retrieved his weapons and blanket from beside the campfire and stepped into the chariot.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Before I change my mind.’

  They took the road west, veering south as evening approached. Barely a word passed between them as they drove. When twilight came and made reading the road difficult, Heracles broke the silence and ordered a halt. They made camp beneath some trees beside a stream, gathering wood for the fire and rolling out their blankets in silence. Iolaus heated up some porridge and indicated the pot to his uncle. Heracles nodded his thanks and spooned half into his bowl, before perching himself on a rock and staring at the flames as he ate. Occasionally, he threw a glance at Iolaus, inwardly hoping a few more words might be shared and the awkwardness broken. But he failed to catch his nephew’s eye, despite the odd fleeting look he sensed coming back from him. Eventually, he took his bowl to the stream, washed it out, then lay down in his blanket and fell asleep.

  Taenarum, at the southern tip of the Peloponnese, was a long way off. As each new day came and went the exchanges between the two men remained stilted and difficult. Indeed, having failed to conquer their initial unease, the silence between them grew and was only broken by grunted words about the route, when to make camp and where to restock their provisions. Often as they drove, Heracles longed for Iolaus’s light-hearted conversation to break up the monotony of the journey, but his nephew remained sternly mute. At other times, he desperately wanted to ask him about Megara – to know what sort of life she had adopted without him, and whether her old, joyful character showed any signs of returning. More than anything, he wanted to know if Iolaus thought she had really forgiven him in her heart, or whether the pain was still too deep for that. But Megara was the last thing either of them dared talk about. She was too dangerous a subject.

  Perhaps the worst thing about the silence was that it left Heracles to his own thoughts, which became darker and darker the nearer they came to Taenarum. He felt himself slipping into a malaise, fuelled by dread of what he would encounter. No mortal should have to witness the inescapable fate that was waiting for him after death. He could not imagine what the Underworld would look like, but where his intelligence and imagination fell short, his spirit knew full well that he would be entering a place without hope or love, the awful memory of which would never leave him. If it was the doom of all men to go there, then it was only the ignorance of it that kept them from spending their lives in utter despair. More than anything else, Heracles feared losing that ignorance.

  They reached Laconia on the afternoon of the sixth day. Though he had been there before, Iolaus seemed confused about the route to the cave at Taenarum, and often stopped to ask farmers and shepherds the way. Eventually, an old goatherd pointed to a deep valley through the ridge of mountains to the west, and told them to follow it until they reached the sea.

  ‘You’ll find the cave there, close to the shore,’ he informed them. ‘But if you’ll listen to me, you’ll wait until morning. The place draws evil creatures to it, especially after dark. If you wish, you can stay with me tonight. I can sacrifice a young goat and we can enjoy—’

  ‘No,’ Heracles said, flatly. ‘I would not be good company for you, old man.’

  ‘Then you seek to enter the Underworld. I can see the despair in your eyes.’

  ‘That’s my master’s business,’ Iolaus told him.

  ‘But there’s no way in for the living,’ the goatherd said. ‘I’ve spent my whole life in Laconia, and in my youth I dared to enter the cave. It is a place of horror! It has many chambers, most of them flooded, and in each one the fingers of the dead reach down from the rocks above, and their faces stare out from the stone walls, silently screaming against the eternity of their torture. I endured it all,’ he said, his hands trembling as he spoke. ‘Every cavern, every tunnel. But there is no entrance to Hell. No mortal can pass through.’

  Heracles looked at the old man and saw that the experience had left scars on his mind that had never fully healed. Then Iolaus applied his rod to the back of the horses and the chariot sped away.

  ‘Don’t go,’ the old man called after them. ‘Only the dead can find the way.’

  They reached the mouth of the valley and the road began to climb. Suddenly, Iolaus drew the chariot to a halt and turned to his uncle.

  ‘Is there another way?’ he asked. ‘Any other way?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Not that will get me across the Styx and to the throne room of Hades, whose permission I must gain before I can take Cerberus.’

  Iolaus looked back along the road.

  ‘Then this is the end, isn’t it? And I’ve barely spoken to you these past six days – our last time together.’

  ‘Don’t give up,’ Heracles told him, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘I haven’t. Not yet, at least.’

  Iolaus took his other hand in both of his.

  ‘I’m sorry, uncle. I’m sorry for what I did.’

  ‘Would you change it, if you could?’

  Iolaus looked at him, and there were tears in his eyes. Then he shook his head and lowered it, too ashamed to meet his gaze any more.

  ‘Then you did the right thing,’ Heracles told him. ‘You followed your heart, even though it tore you in half to do it. I know you love me. You just love her more.’

  He removed his hand from his nephew’s shoulder and turned away, looking along the road ahead as it led between the mountains.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  They made their way through the pass and followed the road down towards the sea. It ended at a cove shaped like the print of a horse’s hoof. The sun was flattening against the western horizon, sending a fiery staircase across the waves to the sandy beach. As Iolaus brought the chariot to a stop, Heracles jumped down and swept his gaze along the rocky slopes that surrounded the small bay. Strangely, there were no gulls on the sand or hovering over the waves, and though there were many trees lapping the foothills, there was no sound of birdsong. It was as if he and Iolaus were the only living creatures there.

  ‘Where is it? Where’s the entrance to the cave?’

  Iolaus shook his head.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you came here before, when you hid the potion.’

  ‘That was a lie so that you’d let me drive you here. It’s been in my pouch all along,’ he said, patting the leather bag on his belt. ‘Look, there’s the cave.’

  Iolaus pointed a little way up the nearest hillside, where an old, twisted tree and a patch of shrubbery seemed to hide a deeper darkness. Before Heracles could chastise him for his deceit, he set off up the slope towards the tree. Heracles picked up a bag of torches from the chariot and followed after him, though his pace was slower and more reluctant. He gathered bits of old wood on the way, knowing they would need a fire.

  ‘This is it,’ Iolaus shouted back from beside the tree, his voice echoing a little.

  Heracles joined him and pulled aside the branches of overhanging ivy that hid the mouth of the cave. Judging by the thickness of the vegetation, no one had been there for a very long time. As he peered inside, the last of the daylight revealed a spacious chamber with a high ceiling that sloped away into darkness.

  ‘This can’t be it, can it?’ Iolaus asked.

  Heracles did not answer. It looked no different to a thousand other holes that dotted the hills and mountains of Greece. But it felt different. Something repelled him about the place, filling him with foreboding, as if his very soul quailed at the thought of entering. Yet he forced himself inside, ducking his head low as he did so and instinctively clutching at the club hanging at his side.

  It smelled damp, but there was a faint movement in the air. Advancing into the shadows at the back, where the rock ceiling was lowest, he saw what looked like a hole in the darkness. Picking up a stone, he threw it in the
corner and heard its clattering echo as it rolled down an unseen tunnel.

  ‘This is it,’ he told Iolaus. ‘Light a fire.’

  The flames were soon illuminating the interior of the cave, though they failed to lessen the chill in the air. Lighting his torch, Heracles ordered Iolaus to remain in the mouth of the cave while he explored the passage at its rear, which was now visible in the firelight. He stooped low to enter, but had only taken a few steps before he came to the top of a flight of stairs. He followed them down – the flames from the torch pushing the darkness back before him – and became aware of the sound of dripping ahead of him. Then the tunnel opened up into a wide, low cavern. The torchlight failed to reach its furthest corners, though it revealed a shelf of stone at the bottom step, and beyond it the calm, black surface of a pool of water. Hanging from the ceiling were thousands of stalactites, the fingers of the dead that the goatherd had described.

  Heracles smiled at the old man’s naivety, only to look at the walls of the cavern and recoil. Everywhere, the surface of the rock was filled with faces. Unblinking eyes stared back at him in horror; nostrils flared with fear; and mouths opened in silent screams of torment. Yet they had not been carved by the hand of some morbid sculptor, but seemed rather to be forcing their way out of the rock. As he moved his torch rapidly about himself, they appeared to convulse and writhe in its flickering light.

  Unnerved, he forced himself to take the last few steps to the edge of the pool. As he knelt and held the torch over the water, he saw that it was clear. Pale boulders were visible at the bottom, close enough for him to walk on and keep the torch above the surface; but every stone was etched with more faces, their ghastly features animated by the slight movement in the water. Shuddering, he raised the torch and stared at the distant corners of the cave. Though he did not know why the goatherd had searched out the depths of the subterranean maze in his youth, Heracles respected his courage. Trusting the old man was correct that there was no way down into the Land of the Dead, he stood and returned up the steps.

  ‘What did you find?’ Iolaus asked as he returned to the cave.

  ‘A lot of water. If this is the entrance to the Underworld, then it’s sealed to the living. Where’s this witches’ brew?’

  ‘You’re going to drink it now? Shouldn’t you eat something first, or—?’

  ‘No,’ Heracles said, brushing the trailing branches from the mouth of the cave to look out at the sea. The sun had gone down and the world was fading towards darkness. ‘Food provides no sustenance where I’m going. Besides, the sun has set. Charis said I must complete the labour before it rises again, or my soul will be unable to return from the Underworld. Give me the potion, Iolaus.’

  Reluctantly, his nephew reached into his bag and pulled out a clay vial. Taking it from him, Heracles removed the stopper. Slowly, watched closely by Iolaus, he raised it to his lips and tipped it up.

  The thick liquid oozed into his mouth, its vile taste assailing his senses. He tried to swallow it quickly, but gagged and almost vomited. Seizing his water bottle, he drank several mouthfuls to wash it down and cleanse his mouth of its bitter tang. He felt momentarily better, then, as the mixture reached his stomach, he was thrown into a sudden convulsion and clutched his arms across his abdomen. Grimacing against the agony of it, he looked up to see Iolaus take another vial from his bag.

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said, pulling the stopper out.

  ‘No!’

  Heracles threw himself forward, dashing the small jar from his fingertips. It smashed against the floor of the cave and he kicked dust over the black, tar-like sludge that poured from it, ensuring his nephew could not try to recover any of it. Then he fell to his knees, doubling over at the pain in his stomach.

  ‘But I have to help you!’ Iolaus exclaimed.

  ‘You have to stay here,’ he replied through gritted teeth. ‘Guard my body for when I return. If I return.’

  He fell forward and lay on his stomach, staring across the cave floor at Iolaus’s feet. His body felt unusually heavy and his muscles were like stone. What little energy remained to him was barely enough to fuel the expanding and contracting of his lungs. He felt the rush of blood in and out of his heart become slower and slower, and then stop altogether.

  As he sighed his last breath, he expected his eyes to close and darkness to descend. But they did not. Instead, he felt a new lightness in his limbs. Placing his palms flat on the cave floor, he pushed himself onto his knees and was shocked at how light he felt. In a single, easy movement – unrestricted by the stiffness of his old wounds or the heavy bulk of his body – he rose to his feet and looked at Iolaus. Strangely, the smoke from the fire now filled the whole cave, and it was like he was staring at his nephew through a mist. But Iolaus was looking at something below him, seemingly unaware of Heracles’s presence.

  Then he understood. Looking down, he saw his own body lying prostrate on the cave floor. His eyes were open, but the light had left them. With a shock, Heracles realized he was dead. The potion had worked; his body had passed from the world of the living, leaving his spirit to inhabit the unseen realm of the dead. He raised a hand before his face, and though he could see the fingers moving as he flexed them, he could also see straight through them to the cave entrance, still outlined by the failing light of early evening. He had a form that was visible to himself – which bore the same features and scars as the living body he had left behind – but he knew at once there was no physical substance to it.

  ‘Heracles!’ Iolaus said, his voice sounding muffled and hollow, as if heard through a thick wall. ‘Heracles!’

  He knelt down beside his uncle’s dead body, and in so doing passed his arm through the leg of his ghost. Heracles felt a strange sensation of warmth. He also realized to his great horror that it was all he could feel. He pulled away and staggered back.

  ‘I’m here,’ he said.

  His voice sounded close and flat, not magnified by the space within the cave. Iolaus looked up, as if he had heard the words, though Heracles knew he could not have done. Yet he looked around himself, sensing his uncle’s spirit even if he could not see him.

  ‘If you can hear me, uncle, make sure you return by sunrise,’ he said. ‘And may the gods protect you.’

  Then Heracles realized they were no longer alone. The spectre of a woman had entered the cave. She was young and dressed in a pale gown that was stained with blood around the groin. Her hair was dishevelled and her limbs gleamed with sweat. Seeing Heracles, she held out her bloody hands towards him.

  ‘Sir, have you got my baby?’ she pleaded, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. ‘I heard the nurse say he was a boy, but then she took him away from me. And I don’t understand why. I don’t understand.’

  But Heracles did.

  ‘Through there,’ he told her, pointing to the tunnel at the back of the cave. ‘Look for him through there.’

  As she hurried to the back of the cave, another ghost appeared at the entrance, this time of an old man. He wore the simple tunic of a farmer or labourer. Like the woman, he was also afraid, but there was no surprise or confusion in his expression.

  ‘Is this the entrance? Then is this the end of it all? Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve done. Oh, I can’t bear it!’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Heracles said, reaching out to take hold of his arm.

  ‘Stay away from me,’ the old man wailed, waving him off. ‘Leave me alone!’

  He ran into the tunnel, his cries of anguish echoing behind him. Heracles looked at Iolaus and his own body, lying still on the cave floor. Then he turned and walked into the passage. Following the steps down to the cavern, he saw the faces in the rock were animated, and heard the sounds of torment coming from their mouths. The awful cacophony filled the chamber, driving him down to the edge of the pool. The water – a part of the physical world – offered him no resistance as he stepped into it, but he could feel the faces in the stones beneath his feet, which were a part
of the spiritual world that he had now entered. They cried out as he walked on them, and some tried to bite his sandals, forcing him to move on more quickly.

  He reached a dip in the ceiling, where the stalactites were no longer fingers of rock but the hands of the dead, clutching at him as he ducked beneath them. They clawed at the head of his lion skin and plucked at the top of his bow, but only succeeded in driving him further and further into the cave. He untied his club from his belt – knowing that it was nothing more than an ethereal representation of the weapon that lay beside his body in the cave entrance – and swung it at the grasping fingers. He felt the force of its impact on them and the crunch of bones that did not exist, and he watched them recoil, driven back by the ferocity of his defence. Voices cried out pathetically, while others laughed, mocking his efforts to destroy that which could not be destroyed. The dead could not die, only suffer more.

  He ran on, passing from one flooded cavern to the next, each one lit by a pale luminescence that had no visible source. There were other tunnels and caves, glimpsed to left and right as he squeezed through narrow passages or ducked beneath overhangs of rock, but the screaming voices and the grasping hands drove him ever onwards.

  Finally, he entered a large chamber with a shallow beach of black shingle at the far end. A cliff towered over the beach, and at its centre was a high archway. It was dark and skewed to one side, like a mouth crying out in pain, and as Heracles looked at it, he felt only revulsion and fear. Perhaps the goatherd had never found this place, or perhaps the gateway was not visible to mortal eyes, but Heracles knew he had come to the entrance to the Underworld. The incessant wailing had reached a crescendo around him, compelling him to keep going, despite his dread of that awful, twisted opening. He waded towards it, and felt the soft flesh underfoot change to shingle as he reached the beach.

  A tunnel reached back from the arched entrance, filled with an impenetrable darkness. Feeling his fear growing within him, he threw a glance over his shoulder. The way back was still open. If he wanted to, he could retrace his steps to the cave and wait by his body until sunrise, when the magic would cease and his spirit would re-enter his still-living flesh.