Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  ‘I found them in a garden high up on the mountainside,’ Heracles told him.

  As he had hoped, the Titan momentarily forgot his gratification at tasting food for the first time in eons, and looked up at him.

  ‘My garden? What were you doing there? It is forbidden for mortals to enter that place.’

  ‘I told you, I was sent here by one of the gods – by Hera – to fetch golden apples from a tree at the centre of the garden.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Atlas snarled impotently. ‘Those apples belong to Hera – why would she send a mortal to fetch them when she can easily pluck them herself?’

  ‘Because, like you, I committed a crime and am being punished for it. The gods commanded that if I was to redeem myself, I had to complete ten labours. I’ve finished eight – not to mention two more that were discounted – and this is the ninth. Or would have been—’

  ‘If Ladon hadn’t refused to give you the fruit,’ Atlas finished. ‘She only gives it to those who can answer her questions – an impossible task for a mere mortal. Hera must have wanted you to fail.’

  ‘Of course she does. But you are a victim of the gods, just like me; perhaps you can find it in your heart to help a fellow sufferer. It’s said you placed the serpent there to guard the tree, and that she will suffer you to take the fruit without it withering.’

  Atlas began to laugh, a low rumbling sound that seemed to come from inside the walls of the mountain.

  ‘I can help you, Heracles? Do you not have eyes? Can you not see that I am trapped beneath a shaft of stone, which itself carries the combined weight of this mountain and the heavens above it? I’ve enjoyed your company and am grateful for the taste of food and water after so long, but even if I wanted to help you, I could not. Indeed, your request makes a mockery of me.’

  ‘No, I’m not here to mock. I was ordered to fetch the apples and take them to King Eurystheus of Tiryns, and I can only do that with your help. So, if you promise to bring me four apples, I will take your burden myself until you return.’

  ‘I’m tiring of this conversation,’ Atlas said. ‘You’re clearly out of your mortal mind. There isn’t a creature in existence that could bear this load, beyond the Olympians themselves. Even Geryon, the strongest of all the giants, would struggle beneath its weight.’

  ‘Yet I fought Geryon and killed him, less than a year ago.’

  ‘Leave me at once!’ Atlas insisted. ‘I’ve had enough of your fantasies. No man has the strength to—’

  ‘I have the strength,’ Heracles snapped. ‘Do you know why Hera wants me to fail? Because she hates me. Because I am a living reminder of her husband’s infidelity. Because Zeus is my father.’

  ‘Zeus?’ Atlas echoed, the fire in his eyes glowing fiercely at the mention of his nemesis.

  ‘Yes, Atlas – the king you rebelled against, the god you hate for putting this pillar on your shoulders. But he gave me the gift of great strength, far beyond that of any other mortal. If you have the courage to let go of it, then I can take your burden from you for a while.’

  Atlas looked at him uncertainly. His doubt was understandable, Heracles thought; had this been his first labour, he, too, would have doubted. But since being enslaved to Eurystheus and facing the challenges put before him, he had learned much about his father’s gift. He had great strength of his own, which was more than enough to lift blocks of stone or toil all day at manual tasks that other men would baulk at. But when he needed to achieve impossible feats of strength, Zeus’s gift gave him the power to match his need. It had enabled him to resist the might of the Hydra, divert the course of the River Peneius, overcome the Cretan Bull and pull down the dam that washed King Diomedes’s army to their doom. Now, he believed, it would give him enough strength to support the pillar of stone.

  ‘Will you help me?’ he asked.

  ‘Help a son of Zeus? No, I will not.’

  ‘Because I’m the son of your enemy, or because you’re afraid?’

  ‘Afraid? I fear nothing, least of all a mortal.’

  ‘But you are afraid. You’re afraid of leaving behind this miserable existence you’ve become accustomed to, afraid of leaving this cavern and entering a world that you no longer know or understand. You may be a Titan, Atlas, with fearsome strength and the courage to fight the gods themselves, yet you’ve become scared of the very thing you’ve been craving all these years – freedom.’

  ‘You speak of my fears,’ Atlas retorted, ‘but you’re the one who should be afraid. What if I don’t come back? What if I leave you here, alone in the dark with the weight of the heavens crushing your hopes and desires – even if your Zeus-given strength can take the load?’

  ‘You won’t. Unlike you, I’m not immortal; I can’t hold up the heavens forever. The punishment is yours to bear, not mine, and one way or another it will call you back. Neither will I take the burden from you until you’ve taken a sacred oath to collect the apples for me and return.’

  ‘I’ll take no oath for your sake, mortal. If I don’t have your trust, you don’t get your apples.’

  ‘Very well,’ Heracles said.

  He slung the water skin over his shoulder and turned. He had not reached the apex of the bridge before the Titan called to him.

  ‘Wait. I’ll take your oath.’

  Heracles ignored the grudging agreement and crossed the bridge to the first step.

  ‘Heracles! Don’t leave me. I’ll take whatever oath you demand.’

  ‘You’ll even swear on the River Styx?’

  It was the most compelling vow an immortal could take, and he could see the dread of it in Atlas’s eyes. But he overcame it, just as he had overcome his fear of leaving the abyss that had been his dungeon for many centuries.

  ‘Yes, I swear by the sacred River Styx to help you complete your labour, and then to take this burden back upon myself. Are you satisfied?’

  ‘I am,’ Heracles answered.

  He removed his weapons and lion-skin cloak, and returned across the bridge. As he stood opposite Atlas, he looked up at the Pillar of the Heavens, disappearing in the shadows high above. Without further thought on the matter, he moved beside the Titan and lifted his hands to the base of the column. Calling on all his strength, he set his legs apart and began to push upwards.

  ‘Remember, four apples,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  Atlas gave a slight nod, then slowly removed one hand from beneath the pillar. The movement of his arm was stiff and slow. Next, he edged one foot outwards. Suddenly, Heracles felt the weight of the mountain press down upon him. There was a groan from the rock above and dust spilled over his exposed head and shoulders. Then Atlas’s hand shot back up, flattening beneath the pillar and easing the pressure.

  ‘Move closer. You must be in the centre to take the weight evenly.’

  Heracles edged inwards. The bottom of the pillar stood at shoulder height to him, obliging him to tuck his head under the cold stone and take the weight across the top of his back. Carefully, Atlas gave way, still bearing most of the load as he slipped first one leg out, and then an arm and his head. Heracles felt the terrible mass above him now, pushing down on his shoulders, through his back and stomach muscles and into his legs. Sweat began to pour down his forehead, trickling into his eyes and stinging them horribly.

  In a single movement, Atlas pulled the rest of his body free and turned to hold the column up with his huge hands. Nevertheless, there was a loud crack above and a cascade of small stones poured down, followed by a cloud of dust. It billowed up into Heracles’s eyes and mouth, almost fatally distracting him from the job of holding up the mountain. He felt his legs and arms tremble, and the bones in his spine begin to compress. Even with Atlas taking most of the weight, he was suddenly terrified that his strength would not be enough after all – that the unbearable load would slowly grind him into the rock below, popping his shoulders from their sockets, then his hips, before cracking his spine and coming down on him in an irresistible rush of stone.
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  ‘Father, give me strength,’ he whispered, closing his eyes.

  ‘Are you ready to take the burden for yourself, son of Zeus?’ Atlas asked, a hint of mockery in his voice.

  ‘Father, give me strength!’

  The Titan pulled his hands away. For a heartbeat, the great mass of Mount Atlas bore down upon Heracles, driven by the weight of the heavens that rested upon its peak. He felt it in every sinew and joint, every nerve ending and blood vessel: the immense pressure of the universe, focused with exquisite intensity upon his puny flesh, a force so irresistible that his frightened spirit knew, in a moment of sudden clarity, that it would destroy him.

  And then he felt a new force rising up within him. It filled his quaking muscles with renewed strength, hardening them to resist the overwhelming mass above. Straightening his legs beneath him, he released a furious roar that echoed from the walls of the abyss, and thrust upwards with his shoulders. The vibrating he had felt in the column stopped suddenly, and though the concentration of rock continued to press inexorably down upon him, he felt the potency within himself to withstand it.

  He opened his eyes and saw Atlas kneeling close beside the pillar, the torchlight flickering over his stone-like features. His hands were held just a little beneath the base of the pillar, ready to take its weight.

  ‘I have it,’ Heracles told him, his words stilted by his cramped posture. ‘You can go. There are other torches in my satchel, if you need one.’

  ‘I’ve spent an eternity in darkness. You keep your little light, mortal, while it lasts.’

  The Titan gave one last look at Heracles, reassuring himself that he could withstand the load. Then, with terrible slowness, he stretched out his arms and legs and tried to stand. He was so tall that, from his restricted vantage point beneath the pillar, Heracles was only able to see his thick grey legs and naked buttocks. Then he attempted a step. It was too much after so long cramped up on his knees. He set his foot down awkwardly and his ankle gave, throwing him down the side of the island to hit the lake with a loud splash.

  Grimacing against the strain of supporting the column, Heracles looked down as the waves closed over the Titan’s body. Moments passed and the water settled again, only to be thrown into chaos once more as Atlas burst free, flinging his arms in the air and filling the chamber with a booming laugh. He waded to the shore and climbed the first few steps, pausing briefly as he looked at Heracles.

  ‘The time will come, mortal, when you will curse the strength your father gave you. Every moment will become unbearable. You’ll feel as if the last of your strength is about to give, but you’ll always manage to endure another instant, and then another. But it won’t get any easier. You’ll hope it will, but it won’t. Sooner or later, you’ll cry out to the mountain to fall on you and put an end to your misery. That’s the problem with immortal strength – the strength I have, and the strength Zeus has lent you – it never gives up, because it can’t. Farewell, son of my enemy.’

  With that, he leaped up the stairs and disappeared into the mouth of the tunnel.

  * * *

  Atlas’s comments had a ring of finality about them. They were also true. Even before the torch had sputtered its last, leaving Heracles in the most complete darkness he had ever experienced, the burden of supporting the Pillar of the Heavens was becoming too much. There was no relief from its presence, and with each beat of his heart he felt it pressing down on him, its ponderous malice trying to crush him. The muscles in his legs, arms and across his back burned like molten bronze. They seared his nerves, filling his brain with unbearable pain, so that not a single moment passed that he did not believe the next would be his last. But the next moment came and Zeus’s gift was enough – just enough – to endure it, permitting his body to tolerate the intense pain for an instant longer.

  And so it continued, moment to moment, his suffering constant and unbearable, but his strength equally indomitable. Even when his spirit succumbed, his body would not, leaving him in an agony of torment, wanting it to end but unable to let it. And as Atlas had said, he began to hate Zeus’s gift. He cursed the strength his father had given him, wishing he had never received his favour. He condemned his infant self for squeezing the god’s finger so tightly, instilling in him the idea of blessing his son with unconquerable might. And he damned Zeus himself, railing against him for devising such a cruel punishment, and for letting his own son be caught by it. He shouted into the darkness, cursing the King of the Gods for allowing him to murder his sons, only for his curses to echo back upon himself. He screamed his fury that his father had made him a slave to Eurystheus, and meekly agreed to his spiteful wife devising the labours that he had to complete. He even rebuked the Nemean Lion, whose hide lay folded in the darkness at the bottom of the steps. If the monster had killed him when he had entered its lair, he would have been spared this suffering and been granted the forgetful peace of Hades.

  The bouts of anger came and went. In between, after his emotions had spent themselves, he slipped into despair. He would stare into the utter darkness, listen to the absolute silence, feel the dryness in his throat and the emptiness in his stomach, and realize that all that remained was the pain of his burden. Had he been able to care, he might have been amazed at how quickly he forgot the pleasures of the world beyond the walls of the mountain.

  Through the excruciating pain, he tried to remember the smells of the Garden of the Hesperides – the aroma of its many flowers in the evening, of the soil in the woods and of the fruit he had picked. But smell was the first sense to be forgotten. When he tried to remember the taste of the berries he had last eaten, and the water that lay in the skin close by – and yet frustratingly beyond his reach – it only served to call the saliva into his mouth and cause his stomach to groan at its emptiness. And when he tried to remember familiar sounds, he found he could not recall anything: neither birdsong, nor the sighing of the wind in the treetops, nor even the ring of human voices.

  He could not even picture what the world outside looked like. He tried to remember the faces of his children, and of Megara, and even of Iolaus, but they would not come. Like the rapid descent of total blindness, his mind began to empty itself of all it had known, until he could not even remember sunlight or colour. They were just words now, repeating themselves over and over in his head as he tried desperately to rejuvenate his dying mind: flowers, fruit, birdsong, voices, Megara, sunlight. But only darkness remained.

  Then the anger would return. He thought bitterly of Atlas, enjoying all that Heracles had given up. He pictured him returning to the Garden of the Hesperides, which he had begun and his daughters had expanded. How would he react, seeing trees for the first time in hundreds of years? Though his huge and powerful body was made of stone, could he fail to be moved by the scent of the many shrubs in full bloom, or the feel of grass beneath his feet? Would he not want to forget his oath and stay there, marvelling at the beauty of the day or the wonder of the night, and the celestial skies he had held up for so long? Surely he could not bring himself to abandon such beauty and resume an eternity of nothing but pain.

  The thought had grown exponentially. From certainty that the Titan’s oath would bind him, he quickly began to doubt it had any hold over him at all. In that sensual void, the intensity of his pain was only matched by the depth of his paranoia. Would Atlas honour his promise? The poets had often spoken of the immortals taking their oaths on the River Styx. Helios had sworn by it that he would give his son anything he wished for, only for Phaethon to demand the reins of the chariot of the sun. Forced by his oath to agree, Helios could only watch as his son lost control of the horses and was killed by Zeus before he could bring the sun crashing down upon the earth. Zeus himself had famously sworn by the Styx to give his mortal lover, Semele, whatever she wanted, only for her to ask that he reveal his true form to her. Unable to break his promise, he did as she asked and the girl was burned alive by his terrible glory.

  But the goddess Styx had fought with th
e Olympians in the war with the Titans. It was in honour of her help that Zeus had demanded all immortals take their oaths upon the river that bore her name. But what of Atlas, the enemy she had helped defeat? What of Atlas the rebel? Would he be compelled by the oath, as Zeus himself was? Then he thought of Hera, triumphant as she thought of her husband’s bastard trapped beneath the Pillar of the Heavens, suffering Atlas’s punishment forever. She who had encouraged Semele to ask Zeus to reveal himself to her, just as she had been the downfall of so many of her husband’s lovers and children. Heracles had become complacent after his successes in one labour after another. But the final victory belonged to Hera.

  Time passed slowly in the dark. When what he estimated to be the first day had passed – measured by the almost imperceptible changes in temperature that he guessed were the difference between day and night outside of his rock tomb – his hope of Atlas’s return dwindled. By the end of the second day, it had died altogether. And as each additional day elapsed, spent in unendurable pain and clawing his way from one moment to the next, he understood that this was only what he had deserved. Hades was too good for a man who had torn the life from his own children. He was not worthy of forgetfulness. So sublime was his punishment, so fitting his sentence that he could not even sleep. The constancy of his pain denied his exhausted mind any rest.

  Then, after many weary days, something changed. The first sense to awaken was his smell. Through the wall of his pain, he thought he detected something in the air. As clear to him as a torch in the darkness, he was suddenly aware of the odour of something burning. It was small and far away, but it jerked him out of his malaise. Then he heard a noise. Faint at first, it soon became the unmistakeable clunk of heavy footsteps. The sound filled him with fear – not fear of who was approaching, but fear that they might turn back before they found him. He opened his mouth to shout, but quickly closed it again. He could not afford to scare them away. And then he sensed light. Just a glow at first, high up on the wall opposite – the faint radiance of a torch at the top of the tunnel. He willed the bearer to show himself, but many long, agonizing moments passed before a figure emerged at the top of the flight of steps. It was Atlas.