The Poison In The Blood

by Tom Holland

  “Yes,” moaned Paris. “there was an arrow . . .”

  One of his attendants lifted the blanket that covered his leg. There was a thin scar on the thigh.

  “There,” said Paris. “An arrow. This morning. Just a graze.”

  “But it was poisoned,” said Yonani. “Just a graze, but it set the poison to work in your blood.”

  “Then cure me!”

  “Do you know what the poison is?” asked Yonani, laying a hand on Paris’s forehead.

  He struggled to sit up. “No. Tell me.”

  Yonani rose to her feet again. She looked down at Paris coldly. “I know what the poison is,” she said. “And I know where the arrow came from. Are you sure you wish me to tell you? Do you truly want to know the worst?”

  Paris looked up at her desperately. He licked his lips and nodded. “I want to know.”

  “It is a long story,” answered Yonani. “But I think you should have just enough time to hear it”

  And so she began her tale.

  FOUR

  In the beginning, said Yonani, before there were men or gods, there was only one living thing in the universe. That was the Sky. Everything else was chaos. Infinite chaos. Chaos without end. Then, in the middle of the chaos, something took shape. This was Mother Earth. She spread and became solid. The Sky had been lonely for eternity. Now there was another living being alongside him in the universe. He fell on Mother Earth and embraced her. Not an inch of her body was left uncovered.

  All the Sky could think of was sex. He had to have Mother Earth. He pumped his seed into her without rest. Mother Earth became pregnant. But she couldn’t give birth. The Sky was still on top of her. Still he fucked her. Mother Earth became pregnant again. And again. And again. Soon her belly was filled with children. But none of them could escape. Mother Earth groaned with the pain. She felt she would burst. Still the Sky continued to fill up her belly with seed.

  At last, Mother Earth could bear it no longer. She spoke to her unborn children. “Listen!” she said. “Your father will never stop his rape of me. You will be prisoners inside my belly for ever. Something must be done. You must attack him, quickly!”

  But her children were scared. They did not want to attack their father. They were afraid of what the Sky might do to them. However, one of the children overcame his fear. His name was Cronos. He made a sickle and sharpened the blade, then pushed his way through his mother’s bulging womb. He swam through his father’s flow of seed and reached for the Sky’s testicles. He grabbed them in his hand. The Sky howled in agony. His cry filled the universe. Cronos tightened his grip. With his other hand he raised the sickle. Swish! The sickle came slicing down. The blade severed the Sky’s testicles right through. He cried out in pain and finally pulled out of Mother Earth. He shrank from her as far as he could. He shrank to the limits of the universe. The Sky and Mother Earth were separate at last. Their children could escape from their mother’s belly. Out they came. They filled the earth and life began.

  And Cronos? He held his father’s testicles in his right hand, then flung them over his shoulder. They soared through the air before falling at last in a froth of blood and sperm. The blood and sperm bubbled and turned the earth where they fell into mud. Centuries passed, but they did not stop bubbling. And the mud and blood and sperm began to thicken into a soup. Then into a slime. Then into living flesh. At first it just beat and shook - a horrible, pulsing heart. Swamps stretched all around it. The liquid was poisonous. No one dared to enter it. No one disturbed the thing that was lurking in the swamp. More centuries passed; and the thing began to grow.

  Meanwhile, in the world beyond the swamps, great events were taking place. Cronos had made himself the King of the Gods. He married his sister. Together, they had children. But Cronos was afraid. He was scared that one of these children would attack him, as he had attacked his father, the Sky. Whenever his sister gave birth to a son or daughter, he would swallow the child. His sister wept. She did not want Cronos to swallow all her children, so when she gave birth to her last baby, she hid him in a cave. When Cronos demanded the baby, she handed him a stone wrapped in a blanket. Cronos swallowed the stone. He did not know that the baby was still alive.

  The baby’s mother called him Zeus. Once he had grown up, he left the cave in which he had been hiding. He made a potion and swapped it for the wine that Cronos was drinking. The potion made Cronos vomit and up came the stone he had swallowed. Next came the children, Zeus’s brothers and sisters, all of them still alive. They attacked their father. Cronos was flung into a pit of darkness. Zeus took his father’s crown. With his brothers and sisters, he made his home on Mount Olympus. There he married his sister, Hera, and ruled as the King of the Gods.

  More centuries passed. The rule of Zeus gave peace to the world. The wilderness was tamed. Fields were ploughed. Cities were built. Sometimes Zeus would walk around the world and admire the beauty of the women. If he desired one, he would take her. He was the King of the Universe, after all. He could do as he pleased. And sometimes one of these women would bear him a child.

  One day, the gaze of Zeus fell upon the city of Argos. He stared into the King’s palace, into the room where Alcmena, the King’s wife, was having a bath. He felt a blaze of lust. He moved through the sky. He fell upon Alcmena, wrapped her in his arms and plunged deep. He spasmed and bellowed with the joy of it. He knew in that instant that Alcmena would bear him a son.

  Back on Olympus, he told the other gods his news. Alcmena’s son, he promised, would be the greatest hero who had ever lived. The other gods applauded. Only Hera narrowed her eyes. She felt a bitter pang of jealousy. When the child was born, he was named Heracles, in Hera’s honour, but she still hated him. No sooner had Heracles been laid in his cradle than she sent two giant snakes to kill him. But Heracles only gurgled, and reached out for the snakes with his bare hands. He gripped their necks, his fingers tightened and he killed them both. He tossed away their bodies. And all the while he continued to gurgle and smile.

  Heracles grew up to be incredibly strong. Everyone in Argos loved and admired him. Everyone was glad when he became their king. But Hera had other plans for him. She sent a fit of madness upon him and he went insane. He ran through the palace, frothing at the mouth. He reached for a dagger, and killed everyone in his path. He killed his own wife. He killed his own children. When the madness came to an end, he blinked and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know what he had done. When he found out, he threw himself to the ground in despair and tried to kill himself. His friends managed to stop him. Heracles’s grief could not be stopped, however. After all, he had committed a terrible crime: he had murdered his family. How could he pay for it? He travelled to an oracle. Mortals who came to the oracle could ask for answers to their questions. The oracle told Heracles that he could no longer be the King of Argos. Instead, he would have to leave his palace and roam the world. His task would be to clear the world of all its monsters. Wherever they hid, Heracles would have to hunt them down. By doing this, he would pay for his crime. The spirits of his wife and his children would finally find their rest.

  Heracles returned to Argos and told his people what the oracle had said. They wept and begged their king to stay, but Heracles refused. He laid down his crown and gave up almost everything he owned. The only things he kept were a sword, a bow and arrows, and a club. Then he headed off, to search the world for monsters. He had soon left Argos behind.

  Meanwhile, in the swamps that stretched south of Argos, something was stirring. Something bred out of mud and sperm and blood. Something hungry for human flesh.

  FIVE

  Sheep and cattle began to vanish first. Then the shepherds and farmers who looked after them, men who lived alone, not the kind to be missed. Even so, the people of Argos began to whisper. They cast nervous eyes towards the swamps. The mists that rose from them had always seemed like poison. Now the shadow seemed to be spreading. The roads began to empty. Men locked their doors at night. Fear like the closeness
of a muggy day spread over Argos.

  Then, horror! A man rode from his village to the market at Argos. He sold what he had brought to sell. It was late by the time the market finished. The man spent the night in the city. In the morning he climbed on to his horse and made the journey back to his village. First, he smelled the stench, acrid and burning, but mixed with a sticky sweetness. Then he noticed the silence. Only an open door creaking in the breeze made any noise. The man rode into the village square and looked about. No one. He called out. No answer. He climbed down from his horse, crossed to his house and entered it. Then he screamed. There, on the floor, lay puddles of melted flesh and bone. His family. He could tell by the matted scraps of hair. But of their human form nothing was left. Something had torn them to shreds. Something that had dissolved the few remains into sludge. All across the village there were these scenes of murder. No one had been spared. Everywhere there rose the acrid stench, and the ground itself seemed scorched.

  The poor man was dazed with shock and misery. Nevertheless, he jumped on to his horse and galloped back to Argos. He told everyone what he had seen. The new King ordered his men to go to the village. When they arrived, they looked around for clues. They soon found a trail leading from the village. A monster wider than a house appeared to have left it. The smell of acid rose from the tracks. Drops of something like poison had fallen on the grass along the way and burned up the soil. The King’s men followed the trail until it reached the edge of the swamp. The water was bubbling. No one dared to go any further. Instead, they hurried back to the King and told him what they had found.

  The next day, another village was found empty, save for the remains of melted human flesh. Again, a monstrous trail led from the village to the swamp. The King was in despair. He offered a reward to any man who would dare to enter the swamp. No one accepted it. Everyone was too afraid. People from the villages began to crowd into Argos and the city became full. Everyone stood on the streets and in the market place. They talked about the monster in the swamp. Then they talked about Heracles. They all agreed that he was the only man who could save them. But no one knew where he was. He had gone out into the world to fight monsters - never knowing that there was one on his own doorstep. Messengers were sent to find him. The people of Argos waited and prayed to the gods that Heracles would be found. Days passed. Then, at last, he came.

  He was wearing a lion’s hide. The forelegs hung over his shoulders. The hind legs covered his own. The mane covered the back of his head and neck. The teeth protected his forehead. When the King asked where the lion hide had come from, Heracles told him the story.

  He had travelled, he said, from Argos to Nemea. He had heard that the people of Nemea were being hunted by a giant lion. Heracles left Nemea and took the road that led into the mountains where the lion’s cave was. When Heracles arrived at the cave, he saw human bones around the opening. He gave a great war-cry and the lion came padding out. It was a giant. When it roared, Heracles felt the blast of its breath directly into his face. The breath stank of meat. The lion leapt and Heracles shot at it with his bow. But the arrow bounced harmlessly off the lion’s side. The lion kept coming forward, and so Heracles swerved out of its way. He pulled out his sword and struck the neck of the lion. The sword shattered into tiny fragments. The lion swiped at him with its claws. Heracles ducked while reaching for his club. He smashed it on to the lion’s head with no effect, so he threw the club away. He reached for the lion’s neck with his bare hands and pressed his fingers tight around its throat. The lion roared. Clinging to one another, Heracles and the lion rolled down the mountainside. Heracles continued to squeeze the lion’s throat. Tighter and tighter his fingers gripped. The lion began to choke. With one last spasm, its body finally fell still. Heracles rose to his feet. Then he realised the lion’s hide was stronger than any armour. He wanted it for himself, and so he tried to skin the carcass, but he couldn’t cut through the hide. In the end, he used the lion’s own claws to slice it off. After cleaning the hide, he had tied it over his shoulders.

  That was the story, and everyone who heard it felt a sudden surge of relief. They all began to shout, begging Heracles to go to the swamps and kill whatever lay lurking there.

  Heracles knew his duty and promised that he would go to the swamps at once. He set out on the road that led to them. As he left, the people of Argos watched him from the city walls. Only one of them dared to follow: a young boy named Iolus. He dreamed of being a hero, and he was ashamed that no one else in Argos was brave enough to accompany Heracles. Of course, when Heracles looked round and saw the young boy following him, he was angry. He ordered Iolus to return to his mother. Iolus refused. Instead, he scampered ahead of Heracles down a path that led to the swamps. There, by the side of the water, was a boat.

  “Let me row you,” said Iolus. “How else will you be able to get into the swamp?”

  Heracles stepped into the boat. “Give me the oars,” he said, “and go back to your mother.”

  “I won’t,” said Iolus.

  Heracles frowned. He reached for the oars. Iolus stepped backwards. At that moment, a wave hit the boat and Heracles and Iolus almost fell over. The wave washed them further into the bubbling waters of the swamp.

  “Wha . . . what was that?” stammered Iolus.

  Heracles held up a hand. “ssssshhhh.” He pointed. In the distance, something huge was slipping through the reeds. Then, with a splash, it vanished into a fresh expanse of water. A new wave came rushing towards the boat and rocked it so that Heracles and Iolus almost fell over again. The boat drifted further into the swamp.

  “What was it?” asked Iolus again.

  “Trouble,” said Heracles. He took an arrow from his quiver and placed it in his bow. Then he turned to Iolus and gestured with his head. There was no talk of sending Iolus back to his mother now. Iolus picked up the oars and began to row. The boat slipped through the water. The mist thickened. Not a sound could be heard except the splashing of the oars. Heracles crouched. His knuckles whitened around his bow. Iolus continued to row but it was becoming harder as the water seemed to thicken. He looked down at the swamp: it was green and purple and red. It bubbled with lazy plops. Then, suddenly, the oar hit something. He peered over the side and screamed. There, in the water, was a bobbing, half-eaten corpse. Iolus looked around. Corpses were everywhere. The swamp was a soup of melting corpses. Iolus screamed again.

  At that moment, something monstrous loomed out of the mist.

  SIX

  At first there was only a single neck. It rose up high, like a snake’s. Its eyes were narrow with hunger. It had orange and scarlet frills around its neck. Its mouth snarled open. Its teeth were razor sharp. Drool dripped from them. When the drool landed in the water, it hissed. When it landed on mud or rushes, it burned them. The neck coiled and twisted. The head darted. The jaws were open wide. It spat poison at the boat. Iolus had to row frantically to avoid it. The boat rocked. Heracles stumbled. The water hissed and boiled where the monster’s poison splashed.

  Heracles pulled back the string of his bow. He aimed. He fired. The arrow sang as it flew. It thudded into the open mouth of the monster, which bellowed in pain. Its blood was black. It spurted out in a thick flood from between the monster’s jaws. It splashed into the water. Again the water boiled.

  “You killed it!” shouted Iolus. “You killed it!”

  “No,” replied Heracles. “Look.” He pointed.

  Iolus stared. Something seemed to be moving beneath the water. Coils, twisting and turning. “More snakes?” he yelled in terror.

  Heracles shook his head. He strung another arrow and gritted his teeth. “A hydra,” he whispered. “It is a hydra. A hydra with a hundred necks.”

  Suddenly a second head rose from the depths. Its neck arched high above the boat. It was followed by a third. Then a fourth, a fifth, a sixth. Heracles’s bow hummed. Arrow after arrow flew. But heads rose from the swamp faster than Heracles could shoot them; faster than Iolus could count
them as well. Perhaps there were a hundred, he thought in terror. Perhaps more. The necks coiled and seethed and darted forwards and back. Arrows had hit many of them, but not all. And even those that Heracles had struck with an arrow continued to twitch and snap.

  “Over there!” yelled Heracles. He pointed to an island covered with reeds. “Row me over there!”

  Iolus obeyed. As the boat sped towards the island, the hydra followed. The water became more shallow. Iolus could see the monster’s body rising from the swamp. It was vast. Its scales glittered like garnets. Its heart was a loathsome, pounding, quivering thing. It heaved itself through the mud. Its necks coiled in pursuit of Heracles and Iolus. Its heads could smell blood. They were hungry for human flesh, driven mad by the craving for it.

  The boat came to a halt among the reeds and mud flats. Heracles dropped his bow and reached for his sword. Two of the hydra’s heads came slavering down towards him. Heracles’s sword sliced twice, cutting through scales, flesh and bone. The two heads dropped like stones into the mud. Heracles jumped out of the boat and yelled at Iolus to row to safety. Iolus pulled on the oars and the boat drifted away from the island. Meanwhile, Heracles was stepping through the reeds. Another pair of jaws snapped at him. He turned. His sword cut through the air. A flash of bronze, then a spray of black blood. It spattered Heracles, but the poison could not burn through the lion’s skin. A third head dropped into the mud.

  Heracles reached dry land and stood with his sword at the ready. The hydra attacked him again, necks coiling, jaws snapping. Heracles sliced at them. His arm moved so fast that Iolus could not see the sword as it did its work. Heads thudded to the ground all around Heracles as he fought. But the hydra did not withdraw. It pressed on with its attack. There seemed no limit to its number of heads. Iolus watched the battle from the boat and began to worry that Heracles would grow tired.