The Arms Of Hercules

by Fred Saberhagen

  Up to that point my solo journey was uneventful. I was just about to step aboard the Skyboat when some inward sense told me that a god was near. Ready for another argument with Hermes, I turned around to confront a tall male figure. But the face I saw was not the one I had expected.

  This time, in the appearance of the image before me, there was an undercurrent of something infinitely more terrible than any Messenger. This time I confronted Apollo himself.

  I had never laid eyes on the Far-Worker before, but somehow I knew him instantly and unmistakably. The movements of my body seemed automatic. Letting my club slide from my shoulder, I went down on one knee before him, something I had never thought of doing before Hermes. My mouth had gone dry, and I began to know, perhaps truly for the first time, what it is to be afraid.

  Not that there was anything intrinsically awe-inspiring in his shape, though he was certainly impressive. Apollo stood before me in the form of a beautiful, beardless youth, a little taller than I, his lean, muscular body draped in white tunic and cape, with Bow and Arrows slung on his back and a small lyre fastened to his belt. His face and arms would have been naturally pale, but they were tanned, and his curly hair grew strangely, in an entangled mixture of red and black. When the great god spoke to me his look was grim at first, and his greeting came with the sound of a harsh accusation.

  "You are Hercules," he growled.

  "I am, lord."

  He made an impatient gesture. "All right, Hercules. Who are they? Tell me their names, the gods and humans who plot against me."

  I was too bewildered to attempt any reply.

  My situation must have shown in my face. Apollo shook his head, and some of the stiffness went out of his pose.

  His voice became lower and less threatening. "But no, there are too many logical reasons against that, and deep in my heart I feel it cannot be so. And Daedalus and the prince Asterion speak well of you, Hercules. Hermes does, too, but he . . ." He left the phrase unfinished and stood staring at me uncertainly.

  At last it was up to me to break the silence. "Lord Apollo, Hermes has explained to me that his memory is damaged. Is it possible that you have suffered in a similar way?"

  "He said that, did he?" The Far-Worker glared at me again for a moment, then relaxed a little further. "It is only too possible, I fear. Only too possible."

  "I am sorry to hear that."

  Suspicion was rapidly being replaced by uncertainty. "I must admit, Hercules," said Apollo a moment later, "that my own memory of Olympus, its nature and whereabouts, is regrettably inadequate. In fact, the more I contemplate the situation, try to estimate the number of things I must have forgotten, the more it alarms me."

  "Then you, too, have fought the Giants, lord."

  "Yes, fought them indeed. When I was in an earlier avatar." His right hand rose for a moment to touch his slung Bow, then fell back to his side. "Destroyed a few, but at a cost. And part of the price I paid was that for a long time, many months, the mere existence of the Giants seems to have been blotted from my memory."

  Now Apollo asked me more questions, fortunately free of accusations. In response, I told him about my repeated meetings with Hermes, and what Daedalus and Prince Asterion had told me.

  The Far-Worker had had his own meetings with those men, some of them comparatively recent. But he had partially forgotten them, and he found my point of view on the subject very interesting.

  "And where is Hermes now?" he wanted to know.

  I had no idea.

  "Lord Apollo, if you have come to ask me, or command me, to do what my father has ordered, you should know that I need no special urging. Hermes has convinced me of the need. It was only that I needed another day here at home, to set my affairs in order."

  "It isn't that," Apollo said. Now his manner was much milder than it had been on his arrival. "I had forgotten so much, certain things began to seem so inexplicable, that I began to think there was a conspiracy against me . . . but now memories are beginning to come back.

  "Fortunately, the damage that the Giants do to gods is not always permanent." He ran distracted fingers through his hair, an action that drew my attention again to the strange mixture of red and black. But I was not going to offer any comments.

  Suddenly the Far-Worker's suspicion flared again. "You," Apollo challenged me, "seem to know more about Zeus than I do. Can you explain that?"

  When confronting the Messenger, I had been able to summon up a brash defiance. But in Apollo's presence that attitude had utterly evaporated, and I felt like a small boy called by some powerful authority to account for his misdeeds.

  "Sorry, my lord Apollo, but I can explain very little. I know that great Zeus is my father, but nothing of any conspiracy."

  For the first time he favored me with something like a smile. Gradually the Far-Worker seemed to be completely conquering his suspicions.

  At last he relaxed somewhat. "Call me Jeremy, if you will. My mortal name was—is—Jeremy Redthorn. Actually I'm still rather new at this god business. I was younger than you are now when I put on Apollo's Face, and I seem to remember that my hair was all red . . . that must have been about two years ago, though keeping track of the past has become a matter of uncertainty. Maybe in another year or so it will be all black."

  "Oh. Yes, your hair, of course." While Apollo had been speaking, my perception of the figure before me shifted. Before me I saw an unsettling combination of youth and majesty, uncertainty and imperial power.

  In the midst of our discussion Apollo paused, as if suddenly struck by a new idea. "Have you ever been to Vulcan's workshop and laboratory?" he demanded.

  "Never."

  "It would be a good thing," he announced, "for you to pay that place a visit. Daedalus is working there, too, you know, and he and the Smith will want to hear everything you can tell them about this Antaeus. I saw those jars of muck you sent, and they made me wonder."

  "I agree," I said. I had for a long time been curious as to what the gods were doing with the material I had provided them. "I would be delighted and honored to see the workshop where Hephaestus works his wonders. But how am I to get there?"

  "How are you to get there? I can take you, easily enough. But Zeus says that learning all we can from Atlas must come first."

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Man on the Rock

  Beginning to feel a little more at ease with my divine companion, I tentatively suggested to him that we could both ride in the Skyboat. But great Apollo brushed this idea aside. He raised a hand and made a slight gesture. From out of somewhere, I could not tell where unless it was the empty air, there came a magnificent chariot, empty of passengers, that looked much like the one I had seen on the island of Corycus, belonging to Dionysus. But as it rolled to a stop beside us I could see that this one was pulled by horses instead of leopards. They were a pair of huge, white, fiery animals, obviously as much creatures of the supernatural as was Apollo himself.

  The Sun God leaped in and seized the reins. "Come, Hercules," he said. "I have some vague idea of where this Prometheus may be."

  "Near Olympus."

  "Yes, and I also have a vague idea about that. Between the two of us, we ought to have a good chance of finding him."

  I was not eager to board the chariot, but it seemed I had little choice. Taking my club in hand, I boldly climbed in, and a moment later we were airborne. Flight of any kind was a new experience for me, and moments later my eyes were closed, and my two-handed grip on the rail before me was crushing wood and metal.

  Apollo urged me to relax. "Don't look down, if it bothers you. I'll try to make the ride as smooth as possible."

  Making an effort of will, I succeeded in opening my eyes. Trying to take my mind off the fact that I was now hurtling through the air, several hundred feet above the ground, I asked the Far-Worker how we were going to find Prometheus, and Mount Olympus, if neither of us knew exactly where they were.

  "I have a vague idea," Apollo repeated. "Say, within
a couple of hundred square miles. But no clear memory of the exact spot." He rubbed a hand over his handsome face, the gesture of a man brushing away cobwebs. "I do seem to remember that there are Giants in the vicinity. If they allow us to complete this little trip, I'll take you on to Vulcan's laboratory."

  "Hermes warned me about Giants, too." I discovered that it helped to keep my eyes raised, watching the clouds instead of the earth.

  "He did, did he? I suppose the Messenger has also skirmished with them—I tell you, Hercules, if I could even recall much about the enemy who has robbed me of so many memories, I might fear to face that power again. But as it is . . . in ignorance is courage." Apollo shook himself and straightened his shoulders. "Enough of that. Why exactly are we looking for Prometheus?"

  I explained to my new companion that Zeus now wanted his former enemy rescued from his endless punishment.

  "Because it seems," I went on, "that only this Prometheus can tell us where the Giant named Atlas is to be found—can you remember anything of Atlas?"

  "Afraid not. Almost nothing."

  "Oh. Well, Atlas, in turn, is important because he knows something, or can do something, that Daedalus and Hephaestus dearly want to find out, or accomplish." I was having to shout above the rush of wind. "I don't understand the details. Maybe when I meet Zeus he'll fill in some of them for me."

  "Ah." Apollo shrugged his powerful shoulders. "Well, if Hermes says Atlas must be located, then that's what we'd better do. The Messenger may have retained more of his wits than I have of mine."

  That was not the most reassuring thing he could have said. The chariot flew on in silence, except for the continual rush of wind. Now and then Apollo mentioned certain landmarks, towns and mountains, streams and lakes, as they passed below, while I for the most part kept my eyes fixed firmly on the horizon. To judge by the rapidity with which the earthly features hurtled by, our passage through the air was amazingly swift, much faster even than Skyboat. Fortunately our conveyance was also much steadier than the Argo, whose motion had once made me seasick.

  No more than an hour had passed before our flight path began tending downward. We descended to lower and lower altitudes, until we were only skimming over a remote and rocky wasteland. There was no body of water in sight, not even a small stream. I had to agree that Skyboat would not have been of much help in reaching this landlocked region.

  Now that we were at little more than rooftop height, I found I was able to watch the ground without being overcome by terror or illness. Apollo guided our team of unnatural beasts to and fro in a methodical search pattern. We spent a long time flying back and forth before we located the rock we wanted.

  "There he is," my companion suddenly announced. Apollo's eyes were, unsurprisingly, much keener than mine, and it was he who made the discovery. "That looks like a man, lying on a rock." And with a touch on the reins he sent the chariot into a sharp bank.

  Soon we were directly over the forlorn-looking individual on his slab of stone, and I looked down and nodded. "That must be the fellow we want. Few would choose this place for sunbathing."

  There was no sign of any human settlement, not even a hunters' or herders' track, anywhere nearby. Prometheus had been chained down atop a small, rocky hill between two slightly larger heights. Occasionally, during the minute or two while we were making our close approach, he moved his head or limbs, and once or twice let out a hoarse cry of pain.

  His situation was amazing, and horrifying. I had never seen anything remotely like it.

  As we approached more closely, we saw a naked man, of muscular build and indeterminate age, chained flat on his back on a stone bed. As far as I could see, he was totally exposed to day and night, heat and cold, sun and rain. Obviously something out of the ordinary kept him from dying, in this situation where ordinarily a man might have expected to live and suffer for only a matter of hours, or a few days at the very most. What kind of nourishment was keeping him alive was more than I could guess.

  His beard was not gray, but it had grown so long that it wound almost entirely around the rock.

  But mere exposure was not the worst that Prometheus had to endure. A kind of hunchbacked vulture, parts of its body naked of all feathers, flapped into view even as we drew near. The great bird landed on the rock, as if on some familiar perch, and immediately began tormenting the victim, the sharp beak opening a bloody wound in the man's side.

  As we approached, the creature looked up, spreading its wings to their full ten-foot span, a drop of blood falling from the tip of its beak. Apollo touched his Bow, and the bird sprang into the air and flapped away, screaming.

  Moments later we were on the ground. Leaping out of the chariot even before its wheels ceased to roll, I rejoiced in the reassuring feel of solid earth beneath my feet.

  At once I hurried to the side of the onetime enemy of Zeus, whose chains yielded promptly to my strength.

  Prudently I remembered my father's command, passed on to me by Mercury, to leave some fragment of the chain still fastened to Prometheus so that the oath of an earlier avatar of Zeus need not be broken. I left a circlet, with a single link attached, on his left wrist. The man on the rock had not reacted to our approach and hardly stirred even when I broke him free. Though his eyes were open, I quickly decided that he could not be fully conscious, but rather in a kind of suspended animation.

  Now Apollo came and took him by the hand, and now Prometheus sat up and frowned at his rescuers in puzzlement. A touch from the hand of the God of Healing, and the ugly wound in the victim's side closed over and ceased to bleed.

  But now, even as Prometheus seemed on the verge of recovery from his ancient ordeal, the predatory bird reappeared, looking ready to deal him a setback.

  A moment later an Arrow from Apollo's Bow produced a sharp midair explosion, after which only a feather or two survived to come drifting to the ground.

  After disposing of the ugly bird, Apollo stood watch, brooding with his Bow in hand and a second Arrow ready, while I pulled from the rock the anchor bolts with broken chains attached, so that no one else might ever be held captive in the same place.

  Prometheus was now standing on his feet and beginning to look about him. He took no notice of Apollo, who was a step or two behind him, and he paid little attention to me, though I stood right at his side. Obviously his mind was far from clear as yet.

  But at last the man did speak, gasping out: "But is this real? I am now truly free?" I could barely comprehend him, his accent had such a strange and antique sound.

  "Truly free," I assured him. "By order of Zeus himself."

  "Ahh!" It was a kind of groaning noise that might have expressed either pain or triumph.

  "What can you tell me about Atlas?" I demanded, seeing no reason to waste any time.

  Seeming to come more fully wake, Prometheus frowned at me. His voice when he finally spoke was scratchy, as if it had not been used in a long time. "Why do you want to approach Atlas? Do you know what you are asking for?"

  I exchanged glances with Apollo. "Probably I don't know everything I should," I admitted. "But I am here in the service of Zeus himself, trying to locate Atlas the Giant."

  Prometheus seemed surprised by my last words. He knotted his hands in his long beard and tugged at it nervously.

  "A Giant?" His hoarse voice almost broke. "No. Not Atlas. Well, maybe he once was. I expect there may be Giants about. But the one you are looking for is nothing as simple and uncomplicated as a mere Giant." And from the corner of my eye I saw Apollo turn his face to us, concentrating on this remarkable response.

  Meanwhile the man we had rescued was turning back and forth, studying his surroundings in every direction, as if he needed to orient himself after his long, tormented sleep. When he at last took notice of Apollo, he merely acknowledged the Olympian's presence with a slight bow, as if gods in general were truly familiar sights to him. An arrogant attitude, I thought, that might well have got him into trouble in the past.

  Then
Prometheus raised an arm, from which a single link of chain still dangled, and pointed off to the northeast.

  "You will find the one you say you are looking for in that direction," he said. "No more than a few hours' walk. See, there, that peak on what looks like the very edge of the world?"

  I stood behind our informant and peered along the length of his extended arm. He seemed to be indicating the top of a rugged, truncated cone, blue with distance, that fitted into a notch in the rocky horizon. I doubted that it was really the edge of the world, though at the time I could not feel absolutely sure.

  "You will find Olympus there," Prometheus was telling us, "in the middle of a flat space ringed by hills. Seek Atlas on the top of the central cone. He'll be there still . . . though I haven't seen him for centuries."

  Apollo was standing close beside us now and gazing into the distance. He seemed to have no need to shade his eyes from the lowering sun.

  "Olympus? Yes, that may be it," he murmured, in the tone of a man who is talking chiefly to himself. "That may well be the place." Then he rounded on Prometheus. "If you haven't seen him for centuries, what makes you so sure that he will still be there?"

  Now it was the former captive's turn to appear puzzled. "He's not going anywhere—how can he, when he supports the heavens?"

  Apollo and I looked at each other. "We thank you for your information," he told Prometheus.

  Then the god made a sign to me with his head, a slight but commanding nod, and I followed him as he began to walk in the direction indicated, leaving Prometheus behind. The chariot followed us, just keeping pace, the rims of its wheels turning slowly a foot or so above the uneven ground.

  "If there are truly Giants about," Apollo observed, when we had trudged along for a hundred yards or so, "it might be a good idea for us to walk the rest of the way. A man-sized shape on the ground is a much less conspicuous target than a flying chariot."

  In the past, folk who have heard my description of that day's events have asked what happened to Prometheus after he was freed. I can only tell my present readers what I told them, that I do not know. The Far-Worker and I had many other things to think about. My last glance at the man we had rescued showed him standing with one hand on the rock that had been his place of torture, gazing out over the land in the opposite direction. His back was straight, his wound was no longer bleeding, and the tormenting bird was dead.