The path continued up the side of the mountain, sometimes lost beneath falls of rock, but always reappearing again, its flat stones distinguishable amid the fading browns and new greens of the grass. After a while, the ground became rockier and he saw a cleft in the hillside above him. The sun had risen high above the horizon, so the shade as he entered the ravine provided welcome relief from its heat. Looking up, he saw that the path ended at a narrow opening in a wall of rock.
He climbed up to it and peered inside. The cave was dark and spacious, echoing to the sound of his footsteps as he entered. He opened his satchel and pulled out some kindling and one of the torches he had prepared in the forest. Taking a flint from the bag, he soon had the kindling ablaze and lit his torch in its flames. The sudden blaze of light threw back the shadows to reveal that he was not in a cave, but a large chamber with plastered walls and an arched ceiling. Two columns were carved into the rock at the back of the chamber, their capitals only dimly visible in the shadows above. Between them was an open doorway that led into deeper darkness.
He raised his torch to the walls and looked at the faded murals painted on them. Those on his left depicted a mighty battle between the Olympians and the Titans. They fought not in lines like men, but in individual combats – single gods against single Titans. The gods were shown as gorgeous figures, noble in face and beautiful in form, whereas the Titans were hideous to behold, with brutal expressions and deformed bodies. Sometimes the Olympian looked to be about to strike the victorious blow; at other times, it was the Titan who had the upper hand. And standing above everything, casting bolts of lightning at the challengers to his authority, was Zeus. Heracles peered closely at the face of the father he had never seen, hoping to see some similarity to himself. But the figure was nothing more than a simple depiction of a bearded man, the paint mostly faded with time, or falling away as the plaster beneath crumbled.
The other wall showed the aftermath of the battle. At the right-hand edge of the mural was a mountain – presumably Olympus – where Zeus sat triumphant on his throne. In the centre were the Titans, humbled in defeat and shackled together by chains of gold. They were being forced over the edge of a cliff by the other Olympians, their mouths open in silent screams as they fell. The abyss into which they were being thrown was Tartarus, the inescapable pit where they would suffer eternal torment for their rebellion against Zeus.
On the other side of the painting was another mountain. A hideous figure crouched on its summit, his arms raised above his head to support the base of a stone column. The column reached up to the top of the mural, where a band of faded blue paint was decorated with golden stars and a curved moon.
This was Atlas, Heracles realized, propping up the western edge of the heavens. He had heard the story many times, ever since childhood. When his mother had first told it to him, she had said that it was the Titan’s punishment for his rebellion, but if he ever faltered in his task – even for a moment – the heavens would come crashing down upon the earth and destroy it. And now her son was ready to take the Titan’s place, if only for a short time.
He took the four semicircular steps to the doorway and entered. The torchlight guttered in a current of cold air, plunging him momentarily into shadow, before flickering back into life. As the light expanded around him, he saw he was in a tunnel that sloped gently away from him, bending to the left and disappearing into darkness. Unlike the antechamber, which was cut from the living rock to give the appearance of a temple, the walls of the tunnel had been formed naturally. The floor was wide and smooth, and the ceiling soared up into shadow, where the rock had been carved into large swirls, as if shaped by the motion of water.
Raising the torch above his head, he followed the curve of the tunnel. The darkness was reluctant to give way before him, and he was unable to see more than a few paces ahead of himself. It led him deep into the mountain, twisting and turning until he lost all sense of direction, except for the knowledge he was always going down. The angle was steep enough for him to feel it in his calf muscles, and he began to wonder how far he had descended. But with his senses deprived of their full abilities, it was difficult to measure the passage of time. He might already have gone deeper than he imagined – or barely have made any progress at all.
After what seemed like an eternity in the darkness, unable to see beyond the small circle of light from his torch, his other senses became aware of a change. Straining his ears, he thought he heard a sound – infrequent and almost imperceptible, but it was there, like the distant tap of a hammer on an anvil. And more than cold, damp stone, he thought he could smell water.
Encouraged, he increased his pace, hoping to discover the source of the sound. Suddenly, the floor disappeared from under his feet. He felt the soles of his sandals skim over a series of descending steps, and then he was plummeting head over heels into darkness. He threw his arms over his head as he fell, releasing the torch to tumble down the steps ahead of him. He was barely aware of its light reflecting from the tunnel as it plunged steeply downwards and disappeared. Moments later, he crashed into a bend in the wall and sprawled to a halt.
His body ached and he was dazed and confused, but he was still conscious. He opened his eyes to the almost total blackness, and then slowly uncoiled his stiff limbs. Despite the pain, he had not broken any bones. His bow, too, was still in one piece, though several arrows had fallen from the quiver and lay scattered about him. He reached out, his hand groping along the cold stone floor for a short way before reaching the lip of another step. Pulling himself towards it, he stared over the edge.
His torch lay on a shelf of rock far below, the feeble flames flickering in a current of air. A long stairway separated him from it, but only the first half of it was protected by the walls of the tunnel; the remainder seemed open on one side. He pulled himself up to his knees and collected his arrows, returning them to the quiver. Then, stiffly at first and with great caution, he began his descent.
He counted eighty steps before the right-hand wall of the tunnel disappeared. Sensing a great gulf opening up beside him, he realized he had entered an immense chamber. The torch, still a way below him, was like a single star in an enormity of darkness. Its valiant light seemed ineffective against that all-consuming void, but as Heracles stood with his back against the wall, its power seemed to grow. Slowly, as his eyes adapted to the paucity of light, he was able to discern between the different shades of black. He became aware of the vast emptiness above and before him, but also of the walls of rock that encased it. He had reached the heart of the mountain, and it was hollow.
Yet it was not entirely empty. At the centre of the abyss was a pillar of twisted stone, its base hidden in the unseen depths below and its head disappearing into the darkness above. Incredibly, its girth was no greater than the trunk of a large oak, and yet it seemed to be supporting the weight of the upper part of the mountain.
Heracles descended to the shelf of rock and picked up his torch. The flames expanded as he lifted it, their proximity blinding him once more to the further details of the chamber. He followed the steps down into the darkness. After a while, they began to curve gently inwards as the walls contracted, signalling that he was approaching the base of the chasm. The strange tapping sound he had heard higher up was clearer now and he recognized it as the drip of water, followed by its echo. Soon, he was able to see the light of his torch reflected in the waters of a large lake far below him. Whether he was still above ground level though, or had descended into the roots of the mountain, he could not tell.
The lake was hemmed in by a beach of black shingle. A narrow bridge arched across its waters to a small island where the base of the stone pillar was rooted. Curiously, a figure of a naked man – twice the size of Heracles – had been carved out of the rock at the foot of the column. He knelt on the island, his back bent almost double and his head bowed. His hands were turned upwards, sculpted to look like they were supporting one side of the pillar, while the remainder appeared to rest
on top of his head and shoulders. His muscles seemed to be straining under the enormous weight of his burden, while his face was almost lifelike, the eyes clenched shut and the lips tightly pursed, as if at any moment he would give up the struggle and let the mountain come crashing down upon him. Had it not been for the crude strokes where the sculptor’s chisel had shaped the bare rock, Heracles would almost have believed he was alive.
He reached the bottom of the stair and looked around. There were no openings in the cavern walls around the lake; no more steps to follow; no sign that anyone lived in that darkness. As he had descended, he had wondered where he would find Atlas, and how it was possible for him to support the heavens from inside a mountain. But the only other occupant of that lonely place was the crouching statue. Was his quest in some way symbolic? Was there a riddle to answer? Maybe some inscription at the base of the statue that would give him a clue? Suddenly, his frustration welled up inside him.
‘ATLAS!’
His voice echoed back at him in waves from the vast chamber, mocking his anger.
‘ATLAS! SHOW YOURSELF!’
The echoes grew louder, ringing from the rock walls and dislodging streams of dust and small stones from the sides of the chamber. They fell into the lake with a shushing sound and sent ripples out to the banks. But there was no answering reply. He looked up at the great gulf of darkness above him and felt utterly alone.
He sat on a bulge in the rock beside the steps and stared at the dark waters. Had Iolaus lied to him, he wondered? Was it a trick to send him into the heart of the mountain, while his nephew found a way to block the entrance behind him? The idea was ridiculous, and he dismissed it: Iolaus had fallen in love with his wife, but there was no hatred in him. But if Atlas was not where Iolaus had said he was, then where was he? If he could not find him, how would he ever hope to complete the labour?
A small crack broke the silence. He glanced up at the column and followed its smooth, black sides up into shadow. Another crack echoed from the stone walls, and was followed by a fall of two or three small stones. They made plopping sounds as they fell into the lake, sending rings expanding over the surface. Heracles stood and looked at the statue. Had it moved?
Suddenly, with a sound of grating stone, the eyelids opened to reveal slits of fiery red light. Dark pupils moved behind the narrow apertures, probing the darkness. The pursed lips split open, sending splinters of rock into the waters below.
‘Who’s there?’ it demanded in a voice that was deep and gravelly. ‘Who has come to mock my misfortune?’
Heracles stared in awe at the figure he had assumed to be a statue.
‘Misfortune?’ he asked, rising to his feet. ‘Surely the punishments of Zeus are not a matter of fortune, but of justice?’
Atlas gave a groan and shifted slightly – a mere flexing of muscles, for there could be no movement beneath the oppressive weight of the column. More stones were dislodged and slipped down the Titan’s flanks to splash into the water. Another movement caught Heracles’s eye and he looked up to see a curtain of small stones plummeting down the length of the column, surrounded by a haze of dust. The sound of them cascading into the lake was like the hiss of hot iron being plunged into water.
‘It feels like misfortune to me,’ Atlas grumbled, staring groggily at Heracles. ‘Who or what are you? You’re no god that I recognize.’
‘I’m no god at all. I’m a man. Heracles, son of—’
‘A man?’ Atlas spat, glowering at him. ‘It’s because of men that I am here. Mortals should have no place in the created order, and would not have if I sat on Zeus’s throne! Did he send you here, to bait me? It would appeal to his sense of humour.’
‘I’m not here to increase your torment,’ Heracles replied, ‘though I was sent to this mountain on the orders of an Olympian. You are Atlas, I assume?’
The Titan gave him a disdaining look, but did not answer. Instead, he grimaced under the weight of the column, and for an instant, an involuntary expression of utter hopelessness and despair crossed his features. A moment later, it was gone, replaced by a look of stern determination and bitter anger.
‘Why do you carry that burden on your shoulders?’ Heracles asked. ‘Why not squeeze out from under it and be free?’
‘So you were sent to mock me. Either that, or you are unbelievably stupid. Surely you know the column will collapse without me.’
‘Then let it collapse! It’s just a column of rock, isn’t it? Shrug it off and let the thing fall.’
‘Just a column of rock? This column holds up the western sky. If I move, the mountain will collapse and the heavens will fall, destroying the world and all that is in it. Besides, I have no choice: this is the punishment that was allotted to me – to uphold the celestial heavens for eternity.’
Heracles stared up at the great pillar. So this was the meaning of the old legend, he thought. The weight of the heavens rested upon the mountain and the weight of the mountain upon this slender column of rock; and beneath it all was Atlas, the fate of the universe pressing down upon his powerful shoulders. Or so Atlas believed. To Heracles’s mind, the worst that could happen would be the collapse of the roof, unseen in the shadows high above. A great fall of rock would crush the Titan to death and relieve him of his curse forever. But that was the cruel beauty of the punishment – Zeus had convinced Atlas that all existence depended on his staying exactly where he was.
‘Was it worth it?’ Heracles asked. ‘Was rebellion against the gods worth this?’
‘So you’ve heard of my crime, mortal. But you ask the wrong question. It’s easy to look at me now and know that nothing – nothing – could ever be worth this. But what if you had been in my position then, at the start of everything? What if you had seen what I saw when I stole one of the golden apples that had been entrusted to my care? What if you had eaten the flesh of the fruit and seen the same vision of the future – would you have done the same as me? That’s the question you should be asking. If you thought you could have prevented it, would you have rebelled against the power of Olympus? Would you have risen up to stop the gods in their plans? Answer that, mortal, and you’ll be in a position to judge me.’
‘And what did you see?’ Heracles asked. ‘What was so terrible it made you turn against the gods themselves?’
‘I saw the creation of mankind. I saw how Zeus and the other Olympians fell in love with them, giving them the whole earth as their realm, if men, in their turn, would honour and worship the gods. Had they stopped there, all might have been well. But the gods are never contented with anything. They showed man how to hunt and farm, and how to make clothing and houses for himself. They civilized him and taught him art and poetry. Then they gave him fire and instructed him in how to work metals, so that he made weapons and armour.
‘That changed everything, of course. Men learned to make war against themselves, oppressing other men and making slaves of them. They learned greed – greed for their neighbour’s property, for their wives and daughters, for their wealth and their land. But they did not just subject each other. They subjected the beasts of the earth and the sea, too, subjected the forests and the mountains, harvesting the trees and delving under the ground to satisfy the unsatisfiable – their need for more. In my vision, I saw them destroy the paradise that had existed before and turn it into a hell, crafted by their own selfishness. That is why I rebelled, risking everything – risking this – to stop Zeus from his own folly. The other Titans joined me, wanting to keep the earth as it was. But we failed. In the end, we weren’t strong enough. The others were thrown into eternal darkness and suffering, while as their ringleader, the most exquisite punishment was reserved for me.’
He laughed, a sound like stone being dragged across stone.
‘My only hope is that the vision was wrong,’ he added. ‘That mankind is good, and all this really was for nothing.’
‘Then you don’t know? You’ve neither seen nor heard anything of the world since you were imprisoned here?
’
‘I told you, this is my punishment, to uphold the Pillar of the Heavens forever. In all that time, I have never seen another living creature – mortal or immortal. Not even my own daughters. I have not eaten a single scrap of food, nor even had my lips wetted, though I’m surrounded by water.’
He sighed and looked down at the lake that surrounded him. Even if he could trust the weight of the pillar to just his shoulders and a single arm, he would not have been able to reach down and scoop up a mouthful of the black waters. Taking pity on him, Heracles took the water skin from his shoulder and crossed the narrow bridge to Atlas’s side.
‘What are you doing?’ Atlas demanded. ‘Don’t come any closer!’
‘Drink,’ Heracles said, planting his torch in a cleft in the rock and raising the skin to the Titan’s lips.
Water spilled from his mouth, running over his chin and down his neck. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, savouring the feel of the liquid as it slipped across his tongue and into his throat. Heracles looked at the huge stone head, with the hint of fire beneath the closed eyelids. Even kneeling down he was almost as high as Heracles, and he could only imagine the power in his boulder-like muscles. It was no wonder that he had once had the confidence to launch a war against the Olympians – the only surprise was that he had done it to stop the coming of mankind.
‘Thank you, my friend,’ Atlas rasped, opening his eyes and staring at him. ‘What did you say your name was again?’
‘Heracles.’
‘Then bless me twice, Heracles, and tell me you have food. Even a morsel will mean more to me now than all the feasts I enjoyed at the dawning of the world.’
‘I have these,’ Heracles said, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a handful of berries.
‘Give them to me,’ the Titan demanded, opening his mouth.
Heracles poured them in and watched as he chewed them slowly and awkwardly, like an infant learning how to eat. Red juice trickled down from the corner of his mouth and he sighed with pleasure.
Hero of Olympus Page 19
