Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  Slow, heavy footsteps sounded behind him, each one sending tremors through the hall. He did not turn, fearing to set eyes on the owner of the voice, despite his feeling of vulnerability as the steps came closer. Glancing at Persephone, he caught the loathing in her expression before it was swept away by a smile and a low bow.

  ‘My lord and husband,’ she said, rising and walking back to the dais, where she turned and bowed again.

  The floor shook as Hades approached. Heracles fought the terror that was paralysing his body and forced himself to one knee, his head hung low and his eyes tightly closed as the Lord of the Underworld was almost upon him. If the Olympians held the fate of living men in their hands, to let them live or die as they saw fit, it was Hades who controlled the fate of their souls. It was he who decided whether they should face an eternity of forgetfulness or an eternity of intolerable torment. The Olympians were to be feared by mortals, but only because they delivered their immortal spirits into the hands of Hades.

  The footsteps passed and came to a halt, and still Heracles refused to look up.

  ‘My love,’ the voice muttered, its cold, harsh tone tempered by genuine affection.

  Heracles dared to open one eye. An immense figure in a black cloak was bending over Persephone, holding her pale hand between his grey fingers and raising it to his unseen lips. The goddess raised one foot behind her in a coy gesture of girlish submission, while offering her husband a doting smile that contradicted the hateful sneer Heracles had glimpsed moments before. Then Hades turned and lowered himself onto his throne of skulls, clutching the arms with his massive hands and sitting with his knees wide apart. He was naked but for an iron necklace and his cloak, which Heracles realized with a grimace was made from the crudely flayed hides of men and women, their arms, legs and faces still hanging from its edges. The god’s skin was ashen grey in colour, and though his features bore a keen resemblance to those on the statue of Zeus, his expression was cruel and wicked. His eyes were as black as obsidian, glinting coldly as they scrutinized Heracles.

  ‘When Hera said you would come, I doubted you had the courage,’ he said. ‘But here you are – though whether your choice was courageous or made out of foolish desperation is difficult to know. But as our guest, you must eat and drink with us. Sit.’

  He pointed to a stool and a low table that had appeared a little to Heracles’s right. A wooden cup and bowl filled with fruit awaited him. Forgetting his fear, and painfully conscious of his parched throat and empty stomach, he rose from his knees and moved to sit in the chair. The cup contained clear water, more appealing than a crater of the sweetest smelling wine. In the bowl were several pomegranates, pink, round and succulent, with beads of water rolling down their skin. He took the cup in one hand and reached for a fruit with the other. Then something made him hesitate.

  He looked up and saw caution in Persephone’s eyes. Hades was expressionless, his gaze fixed on the pomegranate in his guest’s hand. Then Heracles remembered Persephone’s fate. She had led a secluded life, hidden away from the other gods by her protective mother, until the day Hades abducted her and took her down to the Underworld, forcing her against her will to marry him. Out of grief for her daughter, Demeter fell into despair. Without the goddess’s care, nothing grew and there was widespread famine. Conscious of the suffering this caused, Zeus ordered Hades to return Persephone to her mother.

  But Hades had fallen in love with her and was reluctant to return to the loneliness he had endured for so long. He offered his wife the seed of a pomegranate, which she ate. Having tasted food in Hell, she was bound by the ancient laws of the gods to remain there forever. To placate Demeter, Zeus offered a compromise that saw Persephone spend the autumn and winter months in her husband’s realm, and the remainder of the year with her mother.

  Heracles returned the cup and fruit to the table.

  ‘Thank you, my lord, but I have to decline.’

  ‘So be it,’ Hades replied, a tremor of impatience in his voice. ‘And now, as my guest, you have the right to request something from me. What would you ask, Heracles, son of Zeus?’

  ‘Did Hera not tell you why I’ve come, my lord?’

  The black eyes narrowed and the cruel features became even more pitiless.

  ‘My sister hates you with a passion, but her fear of her husband’s wrath is greater. She may have dared to warn me of your coming, but she did not give the reason. Now, make your request or leave. What do you want from me?’

  ‘I want Cerberus. Let me take him back to the land of the living.’

  Hades black eyes burst into flame and he gave a howl of fury. Half rising from his throne, he made a violent sweeping gesture with his arm. The table and its contents were sent spinning across the hall, to smash into pieces at the foot of Poseidon’s statue. Heracles, too, was lifted by an invisible force and hurled sideways, only for Persephone to leap from her throne and stretch out her hand. He stopped a few paces from the plinth where the God of the Sea stood and fell to the floor, while the stool flew on to be smashed into smithereens.

  ‘My lord,’ she said, falling before Hades’s feet like a suppliant and throwing her arms around his knees. ‘Forgive my interference, but this man is your guest. Beloved husband, even you cannot break the laws of the gods.’

  The fire in Hades’s eyes receded as he looked at his wife. He dropped back onto his throne and reached out a hand to touch her soft hair. If her heart flinched at his caress, she did not show it. Instead, she took his long, grey fingers and kissed them, before holding them to her cheek. It was enough to win him over. He reached out his hand towards Heracles and beckoned. At once, Heracles was dragged across the floor and dropped in a heap before the dais.

  ‘Persephone is right,’ Hades said. ‘I will not destroy you in my own hall. As for your request – to use your own words, I have to decline. There is more than one entrance to my kingdom: Kharon ferries the souls of the dead across the Styx, but Cerberus guards the Immortal Gate, by which the gods enter and leave on their visits to the Underworld. If I gave him to you, even for a day, the spirits of the dead would find their way out of my realm and return to the places where they lived in life. They would spread chaos and fear; the order of creation would break down. So no, I cannot let you take him. And now this audience is over; return to the living, son of Zeus – if you are able.’

  There was a chilling undertone to his last words, reminding Heracles that whether he succeeded or failed, he would still have to find a way to return across the Styx. But what did it matter, if he could not complete the task that had been given him?

  ‘Zeus would not be pleased if you refused his son the chance to complete the labour,’ Persephone said, kissing Hades’s knee. ‘Weren’t the labours his idea, so Heracles could prove himself worthy of being forgiven? And would it be wise to anger your brother, my lord?’

  ‘I am not afraid of Zeus,’ her husband growled. ‘If he tries to punish me, then I will shut the entrances to the Underworld and let the dead remain among the living. Why should I give Cerberus to this mortal, just to please my brother?’

  ‘Then don’t give the hound to him,’ she persisted. ‘Let him fight Cerberus, if he wants to take him to the upper world. He’s just a mortal, after all: he’ll never be able to subdue the beast. It’ll provide good sport for us as we watch him ripped to pieces, and Zeus can’t accuse you of frustrating his will.’

  Persephone’s display of affection for her husband was convincing, and Heracles would have believed her devotion to him, had he not seen her expression of loathing as Hades had first entered the hall. Was this, then, her revenge for being raped and forced to marry him? To subtly undermine him at every opportunity, satisfying her slow-burning wrath by aiding others against him. It was a dangerous line to toe, he thought. But part of him wondered whether she would not have helped him anyway. He sensed her sympathy for him, and not simply because they shared the same father.

  Hades turned his black eyes on Heracles, considering hi
s wife’s compromise. Then he shook his head.

  ‘My dear wife, do you think me a fool? Heracles has his father’s own strength. He defeated the Hydra and Geryon, and he destroyed Orthrus, who came from the same litter as Cerberus. If I let him try to capture Cerberus, he might succeed.’

  ‘Trust me, my love, he cannot. He sold his father’s gift to Kharon as the price for ferrying him across the Styx. All that remains to him now is his human strength and his reckless courage.’

  ‘Is this true?’ Hades demanded, staring at Heracles. ‘Did you surrender Zeus’s gift to cross the Styx?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. It’s true.’

  The god smiled to himself. Then he reached his hands round the back of his neck and unfastened the necklace that hung there. Gathering it into his fist, he tossed it across the floor. Heracles looked down at the chain and the strange device that was attached to it – an iron bar flattened into a circle at one end, with an intricate arrangement of teeth cut into the other.

  ‘Cerberus is chained to the Immortal Gate, by the River Acheron. The lock that holds him was fashioned by Hephaistos and can only be opened with that key. But don’t raise your expectations. Cerberus is powerful and deadly. Before you face him, you should be aware he has the ability to destroy you utterly. He dwells in both worlds – spirit and flesh – and though you are a spirit, he can tear you to pieces. Your soul will be obliterated for all eternity. You, Heracles, will cease to exist.

  ‘However, I am a fair and just god. I will allow you to confront Cerberus, if you still have the courage. But if not, then I will return your spirit back to your body. You will live again, maybe for many more years. And when your body dies its final death, I will allow your soul to live in total forgetfulness, without the torment of remembering anything of who you were or what you have left behind. The choice is yours.’

  The echo of his deep voice resonated through the hall for a few moments longer, and was followed by a strange stillness. After Heracles had considered Hades’s offer, he took up the iron key and rose to his feet.

  ‘You say Cerberus is both spirit and flesh, my lord. Then as a spirit, I am able to lay hands on him and fight him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hades confirmed, with a nod. ‘Though I forbid you to use your weapons against him. Does this mean you have chosen the fool’s option?’

  ‘I have chosen the only option I can. To overcome Cerberus, if possible, and take him back with me to Tiryns. All I ask now is how to find the Immortal Gate.’

  ‘It is not far,’ Persephone answered. ‘I can show you the way from the hillside beyond the entrance to the hall. Do I have your permission, beloved?’

  Hades nodded and Persephone sprang from her throne, taking Heracles by the hand and leading him from the hall. As they reached the ruined walls and tower that stood guard over the subterranean palace, she took him through the gates and pointed to the sulphurous waters of the Acheron. It crept through a misty vale of dead trees and jagged rocks, where the spirits of the departed were as thick as wheat in the fields before harvest. Their awful moaning rose up to the high slopes of the hill where Heracles stood with Persephone, assailing his ears and almost making him wish to return to the quiet of Hades’s hall.

  ‘Follow the banks of the Acheron, through the mist and the multitudes of the dead, until you see the gates rising above you. You will not be bothered by the spirits there, but you will find Cerberus. I’ve done all I can to aid you, brother; the completion of the labour lies in your hands. Only one more piece of help can I offer. Cerberus is fast, despite his size, but with three heads his weight is on his front legs, so he cannot turn quickly. Use it to your advantage, if you can.’

  ‘Thank you, mistress.’

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘In the upper world, the night is already old. If you came here by the method I suspect you did, then you only have until the sun rises before your soul is trapped here forever.’

  He nodded and made his way down the rocky slope. But as he did so, he heard the distant howling of wolves from the clouds above.

  ‘Go!’ Persephone called again behind him. ‘Go quickly.’

  * * *

  Iolaus thrust his sword at arm’s length before him. The wolf fell on it, releasing a pitiful yelp as its body slid down the blade and dragged the weapon to the ground. With a howl, the rest of the pack ran towards him – black shapes in the darkness, half hidden by the rocks and the long grass. Planting his foot on the dead wolf’s chest, Iolaus tore his sword free.

  He released it just in time to meet the charge of another large beast, swinging it desperately into the flashing teeth and feeling the crunch of bone beneath the heavy blow. The wolf yelped and whimpered as it dragged itself back into the grass, only for two more animals to come dashing out of the shadows. They launched themselves simultaneously at Iolaus, who swept his sword into the chest of the nearest, knocking the breath from its body and sending it spinning away from him. The second crashed into him and threw him to the ground, sinking its teeth into his shoulder.

  He cried out at the hot barbs of pain from the wolf’s fangs as they pierced his cloak and tunic and bit into the flesh beneath. He could feel its hot breath blowing into the wound, and smell the stench of dung and carrion it had covered itself with to hide its scent. Dropping his sword, he grabbed at the animal’s thick fur and tried to pull it off. But it was too heavy, its grip on his shoulder too powerful.

  It growled loudly in his ear and shook its head, trying to weaken him by enlarging the wound. Then he sensed another beast an instant before it bit into his ankle. Iolaus gave a cry of pain and kicked out at the second wolf, but its teeth had sunk through into the bone and he no longer had the strength to shake it off. Then, through his fading vision, he glimpsed another wolf slinking into the mouth of the cave.

  The thought of Heracles’s body being savaged while his soul was still trapped in the Underworld stirred Iolaus to anger. Pulling the dagger from his belt, he grabbed his first attacker’s fur and plunged the blade into its side. At once, the life-draining grip on his shoulder was released as the wolf yelped with pain. He stabbed again and again, feeling the animal go limp and its hot blood pour out over his stomach.

  Throwing its dead weight aside, he ignored the wound in his shoulder and sat up. The second wolf let go of his ankle and turned to face him, saliva drooling from its bloody jaws as it prepared to pounce. But Iolaus struck first, thrusting the blade upwards into the beast’s jaw. The point pierced the fur and cut a channel up through its throat and brain. Without a sound, the wolf crumpled to the ground, tearing Iolaus’s dagger from his hand.

  The sound of the whinnying horses and the panicked stamping of hooves echoed loudly from the cave. It was followed by a savage growl. Snatching up his sword, Iolaus pushed himself to his feet, only to collapse again as he put his weight onto his wounded leg. The horses were now crying with fear. He heard the clatter of their hooves on the stone floor of the cave, and then a fierce, ringing bark. Forcing himself back onto his good leg, he clutched at the mouth of the cave and swept the hanging branches aside with his sword.

  Heracles body lay where he had left it on the other side of the fire. The two horses were backed into the rear of the cave, their heads raised and their eyes and teeth gleaming in the firelight. A large wolf stood beside Heracles, one paw raised over his body while it snarled and snapped at the mares. It turned as Iolaus entered, backing into a corner of the cave where it could keep its eyes on both him and the horses. Iolaus bent down to snatch a brand from the fire, and in the same instant the wolf leaped at him. He lashed out with his sword, but the wound in his shoulder meant the blow was weak, only enabling him to knock his attacker aside with the hilt. The animal gave a whimper as it hit the cave wall, but recovered quickly, and with a vicious snarl bounded towards him again.

  Iolaus raised his sword, but a jolt of pain shot through his arm and the weapon dropped from his fingers. Grimacing, he turned and thrust the flaming brand into the wolf’s chest as it leaped through th
e air at him. The animal twisted aside, yelping with fear, and landed awkwardly against the side of the fire. With another howl of anguish, it scrambled to its feet and ran from the cave, crying into the night as it fled.

  Iolaus sank to his knees and fell back against the hard stone wall, tired and weakened by his injuries. His vision began to blur and he felt he was going to pass out. Then a clear voice in his head told him he must stay awake; that if he did not bind his wounds and stop the blood flow, he would die.

  But as he lay struggling against the pain, he sensed another presence. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and tried to focus on the dark mouth of the cave. At that moment, the moon slipped out from behind the cloud that had been hiding it, lighting the night sky and silhouetting a large, hunched shape just beyond the cave entrance. There was a low growl, and the curtain of ivy twitched aside as a huge, grey wolf pushed its way slowly into the cave.

  Iolaus swapped his sword into his good hand, and summoned the last of his strength.

  * * *

  Heracles passed through the ghosts without hindrance, keeping his head down so that they would not be drawn to the faint spark of hope that remained in him. Soon they were behind him, their incessant groans receding as the fog thickened around him. He could see nothing beyond a few paces, though the sulphurous stench of the Acheron was growing stronger and he could discern the slow trickle of its waters over to his right.

  After a while, two posts emerged from the swirling mist, marking the entrance to a narrow bridge. The Acheron crept sluggishly beneath its arching span, its yellow surface thick with bubbles that expanded and popped. As he crossed, he glimpsed a high wall through a momentary gap in the swirling vapour, though it was quickly swallowed up again. Broad flagstones formed a narrow path that led away from the bridge, and cautiously he followed it into the haze. The wall reappeared, a towering cliff of jagged rock that leaned outwards at the summit and was crested with crumbling stone ramparts. The path continued on to the middle of the cliff, where a black arch had been cut into it. Set back within the rock were enormous gates, pale in hue and glistening wet in the putrescent light from the river. As he stared at the strange carvings on them – half lost in the mist – he caught the sickening reek of decay, overwhelming even the odour of the Acheron behind him. He covered his nose and mouth with the edge of his cloak and walked closer. Immediately, he fell back again, revolted by what he saw. The gates were made from hundreds of rotting corpses, fused together so that it was impossible to tell one body from the next. Dead faces, open ribcages, pale limbs and grasping hands; and over it all was a film of fresh blood that gleamed in the murk. He was reminded of the worst battles he had seen, where hundreds of dead and dying lay heaped one upon another. And just as with the aftermath of a battle, he could discern the small movements of bodies lying in agony: the twitch of a finger or the flap of a jaw, mouthing silent words; the jostling of an elbow among the mass, or the sudden lift of a chest, desperate for air. The sight so transfixed him that he did not see the shadow emerging from the fog.