Blood of the Heroes

by Steve White

  “I suppose you’re right. And at any rate, I don’t suppose it matters. As you say, we know what this ‘head’ really is, no matter who it’s supposed to have belonged to or who is supposed to have cut it off. Let’s go back inside—no, wait a minute!” Jason summoned up his neurally projected map, and scrolled it northwestward by mental command. “Sidney, this ‘Echidne’ who was the mother of the Hydra: is she connected with the Echinades Islands, up on the far side of the Gulf of Corinth?”

  “Why, yes. They were supposedly her home, and were named after her. Why do you ask?”

  Jason looked at the flashing red dot for a moment, before dismissing the map and turning to Nagel. “Because, Sidney, that’s where Deirdre’s TRD has been taken.”

  Chapter Nine

  Thanks to Perseus, they made better time than Jason had dared hope. It wasn’t that he helped with Deirdre, although he was always ready with polite—and, to her, infuriatingly patronizing—offers to do so. Rather, she kept up on her own out of grim determination to avoid accepting those very offers. It also helped that in August the Inachos was fairly easy to ford even near its mouth. They reached Lerna late in the afternoon, following the coast around the northern end of the Gulf of Argos.

  Lerna pretty much lived down to expectations, although Nagel was happy as a clam at high tide as he compared what he was seeing to the conventional wisdom about this much-excavated site. There was even a barely visible remnant of the wall of mud brick, built atop a foundation of limestone blocks, that had guarded the settlement the barbaric Proto-Greeks had burned four centuries earlier. Before Nagel could wander off in search of the “House of Tiles” as the archaeologists had dubbed it, Jason firmly hustled him on toward the docks. They were here to find a ship.

  There were a surprising number of ships in port. Some of them were from the various islands. Nagel, listening to the unintelligible conversation of their crews, could barely contain his glee at the confirmation of yet another of his theories. Those sailors’ language, he declared breathlessly, belonged to the Hittite-Luwian branch of Indo-European. Jason, who couldn’t have cared less if they had been speaking Swahili, made noises of polite interest and devoted most of his attention to the ships themselves.

  They were wide-bodied merchantmen, the largest only about sixty feet long. Jason’s expert eye recognized plank construction using mortise-and-tenon joining. These were single-masted square-riggers with a single square sail, and their ability to beat upwind was consequently very limited. Nevertheless, that sail was the primary propulsion, with a few oars (typically eight) used for maneuvering in and out of harbor with the aid of crude rudders. This held the crew requirement down to only a dozen or so, hence minimizing the amount of cargo space that had to be devoted to their stores.

  All in all, the ships were exactly what Jason had expected in this time and place. He didn’t have to worry about adjusting to any surprises. What he did have to worry about was getting passage.

  If they’d still had their high-value trade goods, he would have simply chartered a ship. But their wealth now languished in the storerooms of Proetus of Tiryns, which Jason found objectionable on principle as well as damned inconvenient. They would have to offer to work for their passage on a ship that was going to stop at the Echinades anyway. He was optimistic about finding one. As Rutherford had pointed out, they were well within the March-through-October sailing season.

  Perseus was skeptical, in his invincibly cheerful way, when he learned that they wanted to go to the west of the Peloponnesus, which was as specific as Jason was willing to be about their destination. “I don’t know, Jason. Most of the ships’ captains around here trade in the Cyclades, or south to Crete. To get from here to where you want to go, you have to round the Cape of Malea, at the southern end of the Peloponnesus. You know how treacherous that is.”

  Jason didn’t, really. “Even at this time of year?”

  “There’s no good time of year down there. Remember, the summer winds are almost always from the north or northwest. You’d be going against them the whole way.” Perseus shook his head ruefully, with the sunny smile he wore even when he was throwing the proverbial wet blanket. “Also, traders have no incentive to go to Messenia and Elis. Nobody there but warring robber-chieftains.” This, Jason knew from his orientation, was an accurate description of the western Peloponnesus before the foundation of the Homeric kingdom of Nestor of Pylos, almost four centuries in the future of here-and-now. “And before you even get there, you have to round Cape Taenarum, which means passing too close for comfort to the gates of Hades.”

  He would say something like that just when he was starting to make sense , Jason groaned inwardly. “But won’t anybody be going to Corcyra?” he asked, using the current name for Corfu. Homer and the archaeologists agreed that there would be a rich kingdom there in later times, at least.

  Perseus gave him an odd look. “That’s an awfully long way, Jason.” He had been, and continued to be, too well-bred to question them directly about their itinerary. “Besides, to get there you’d have to pass the Echinades … and of course nobody wants to go there!”

  Jason, naturally, had to find out for himself. He left Perseus and Nagel to find accommodations and set out with Deirdre to make the rounds of the ships. His choice of a companion was a calculated one, based on the theory that shipmasters, after one look, might find the idea of having her as a passenger appealing. Needless to say, he did not discuss this strategy with her. And at any rate, it did no good. Nobody was going west. And on the rare occasions when he got as far as mentioning the Echinades, his listeners’ reaction immediately went from disinterest to downright alarm, as though they were confronted with a dangerous lunatic.

  They were growing both tired and disgusted when Perseus tracked them down. The Hero was, of course, above indulging in I-told-you-sos. “Come with me,” he urged. “I found the house of Sotades, a merchant from Seriphos who is loyal to my mother. He’s taken us in.”

  Sotades was out and about on business when they arrived at the house—Jason would have called it a hut, and he imagined his fellow time travelers’ terms for it would have ranged downward from “hovel”—but the servants provided them with wine and very basic food. Thus fortified, Jason turned to Perseus and spoke in a voice he carefully kept from seeming too eager.

  “Perseus, you say Sotades is beholden to your mother Danaë?”

  “Yes, ever since Poseidon washed her ashore on Seriphos, carrying me. Diktys, the brother of King Polydectes, took us in. Sotades was a young sailor on one of Diktys’ ships then, and it was he who fished her out of the water, where she had been clinging to a piece of wreckage while keeping me above water. Afterwards, he knew his fate was linked with ours.” The word he actually used for “fate” was a recognizable ancestor of the Classical Greek moira , which implied a great deal more.

  “Well, then, do you suppose you could persuade him to take us to our destination?”

  “Probably—if I were going. In fact, I’m sure he’d be willing to take me anywhere. But …” If Perseus didn’t feel genuine regret, he was a better actor than Jason took him for. “I’m truly sorry, Jason, but my task for Polydectes must come first. As much as I’d like to accompany you, I have to stay here in Lerna until I’ve found a head of the Lernean Hydra.”

  Jason considered for a moment, then threw caution to the winds. “Perseus, I haven’t been altogether candid with you about our destination—”

  “I know,” nodded Perseus, with no visible resentment, as though he understood Jason’s reservations about his relatives.

  “Well, the time has come when I must tell you. We are going to the Echinades.”

  Perseus’ eyes grew round. “The Echinades? But Jason, you must know there’s nothing in those islands but the pirates who infest them. The scum of the earth! Squatting there just north of the entrance to the Gulf of Corinth, they’ve practically brought commerce to a standstill.”

  “Why hasn’t someone mounted an expedi
tion to root them out?” Nagel asked, curious.

  Perseus gave him an odd look. “Why, they are protected. Everyone knows that. They are under the special patronage of certain of the Old Gods.”

  The Old Gods. It was, Jason thought, the first time he’d heard that particular turn of phrase. He started to open his mouth to ask for an elucidation, then immediately closed it. He and Nagel had already exhibited quite enough curiosity about matters of common knowledge.

  “Nevertheless,” he said firmly, “we must go there. Remember I told you of a precious article belonging to the lady Deianeira? Well, it has been taken to the Echinades. Never mind how I know this; the knowledge has been granted to me in ways of which I may not speak. By the same means, I also know that at least one of the heads of the Hydra is there as well. We ourselves encountered it, and were lucky to escape with our lives. If you come with us, we’ll help you gain that head—if you help us with our errand as well, starting by getting all of us passage on Sotades’ ship.”

  Perseus leaned forward, his eyes alight with youthful enthusiasm. “Yes! We can help each other. I’m with you, Jason.”

  Jason’s conscience stirred. He wasn’t quite sure why. He knew that recovering Deirdre’s TRD should have been his only consideration. But there was something about this kid … “Perseus, there’s one other thing I haven’t mentioned to you before. The Hydra’s head of which I’m speaking was in the hands of one of the, uh, Old Gods. They seem to be in alliance with Proetus, and they regard us as their enemies. I feel obliged to tell you this, since they may regard you the same way if you aid us.”

  “So much the better! Am I not the son of a god? What a chance for glory! What a—ah, here comes Sotades. I’m sure he’ll feel as excited as I do!”

  *

  Sotades, of course, felt nothing of the sort. He would have been instantly recognizable as a hard-bitten old salt in any time or place—some stereotypes transcend centuries and cultures—and Jason fully expected him to reject the whole idea with a snort of surprised contempt. And in fact his reaction was dour and pessimistic. But he yielded in the end. Clearly, he could refuse the son of Danaë nothing—and not just because he was also the son of Zeus. Perhaps there was, in this culture at least, something to Perseus’ assumption that saving someone’s life created an obligation that worked both ways.

  So they departed a few days later, as soon as Sotades had finished rounding out his crew. It was a problem at first, once word of their destination got out. But Jason promised to fill one billet himself. He also suggested the discreet release of rumors of fabulous treasures in the Echinades, coupled with assurances that all hands would share in the loot. It worked, just as it would work all down through history.

  So they sailed south, along the eastern coast of the Peloponnesus. Jason forced himself to enjoy the scenery and not yield to impatience as he recalled the swiftness with which Rutherford’s aircar had whisked them along this same route. At least the winds were with them for this part of the journey. Then they turned west, and in defiance of Sotades’ pessimism they rounded the Cape of Malea without incident. The skipper’s habitual scowl actually relaxed a trifle, but then resumed its accustomed intensity as they turned west and beat against the winds between the mainland of the Peloponnesus and the island of Cythera. Then Cape Taenarum appeared ahead and to starboard, with the crags of the Taygetus Mountains looming beyond the sheer cliffs … and the sailors started to make surreptitious signs against evil.

  Jason drew Nagel aside. “What’s this ‘gates of Hades’ stuff? Perseus said something about it.”

  “The Classical Greeks had various ideas about entrances to the underworld of the dead. In a country this mountainous, there was naturally no lack of caverns. One well-known one was at Eleusis, near Athens, where Persephone was supposed to have reemerged after her abduction by the god Hades. In Roman times, they built a temple, the Ploutonion, over that cave entrance. But here—” Nagel pointed at the cliffs that were beginning to recede astern, to the visible relief of the sailors “—was generally believed to be the entrance guarded by the giant three-headed dog Cerberus, where Herakles entered to capture Cerberus and liberate Theseus. Clearly, that tradition had its origins in this era.”

  But then they were past Cape Taenarum, and shifted course to the north-northwest. The winds became even more unfavorable. At least they didn’t become severe, for which Jason was thankful; Nagel suffered a couple of attacks of seasickness, and Deirdre lost color a few times, and he hated to think how they’d react to seriously heavy seas. But beating against even these winds became a three-steps-forward, two-steps-back affair that tried the patience of people for whom the age of sail lay half a millennium in the past.

  Sotades, of course, took it in stride. As they worked their way up the western coast of the Peloponnesus—the region known as Messenia—he stopped each night in some more-or-less sheltered cove, as was standard practice. Given the inhospitable reputation of the locals, they generally went ashore only briefly to replenish the water (which there was currently no way to preserve fresh for more than a few days) and then spent the night on board, stretched out on deck under the stars. There were no quarters on a ship like this, even for the captain, and Deirdre had plenty of opportunities to demonstrate her indifference to traditional notions of physical modesty in coed settings.

  Jason, with his experience in low-tech sailing, made himself useful enough to earn Sotades’ occasional grudging grunt of approval. After a time he was even able to draw the captain into conversation.

  “Tell me about the Echinades, Sotades,” he urged one day, as they were taking advantage of a lull in the work.

  “Haven’t been there in donkey’s years,” the captain growled. He was in his late forties; he looked at least ten years older, but preserved in brine. His hair and beard were iron-gray, and the former had receded to reveal a scalp that sun and wind had turned as leathery as the rest of his hide. Most of that hide was revealed by the loincloth that he, like the least of his sailors, habitually wore on his stocky form. “I was young then, and a fool like all young men. Poseidon alone knows how I managed to escape with my life.”

  “But you don’t mind going back now?” Jason queried.

  “Mind?” Sotades gave him an odd look, and then shrugged as though the question was meaningless … or, at least, had an answer so obvious it was difficult to put into words. “Perseus asked me,” he finally said, with the air of someone stating the obvious.

  “Yes, he told us of your ties to him and his mother. And, of course, he’s a Hero, born of the gods.” Cautiously, Jason probed for more information. “At the same time, isn’t everyone, if you go back far enough?”

  Sotades gave him another slantwise look. “Maybe. I don’t know about such things. But only the Heroes were actually begotten by gods on mortal women. Yes, I suppose quite a few people, and all kings—all real kings, anyway—are descended from them.”

  “Like Acrisius of Argos and Proetus of Tiryns,” Jason prompted.

  Sotades spat feelingly over the rail. “Right. You can see how the blood of the gods gets diluted! But Perseus, now …” Sotades glowed with pride. “It’s been renewed in him. Because the New God Zeus sired him on a mother descended from the Hero Danaos, so he has some divine blood on both sides.”

  Jason was careful to agree emphatically. Later, he reported the conversation to Deirdre and Nagel. “It’s the same thing I noted shortly after we arrived here,” the historian declared. “The matter-of-fact acceptance of divine ancestry in the immediate past. I still don’t know what to make of it.”

  None of them did.

  Chapter Ten

  They made a final watering stop at the mouth of the Alpheios River, then let an unseasonably favorable wind take them northwest, between the westernmost point of Elis and the island of Zante—modern words to which Sotades’ names bore a ghostlike resemblance. Then it was a few degrees to starboard, and presently the large island of Cephallenia loomed up off the port bow. I
n the distance, and partly concealed by Cephallenia’s bulk, the hilltops of Ithaca could be dimly glimpsed. Jason sternly reminded himself that at least another four hundred years were to pass before Odysseus—assuming that he ever lived at all—would leave Penelope pining on that island. He had other things to think about … specifically, the body of water that lay dead ahead, defined by Ithaca to the west, Levkas to the north and the mainland to the east. The wind had died down and those enclosed waters were like a smooth silver setting for dozens of islets—the Echinades.

  There was something uncanny about that seascape, studded with islands, most of them rugged and barren, almost desertlike, some of them pine-covered, and some showing evidence of habitation. It was a scene of stern and austere beauty, had Jason been in a mood to appreciate it. But he kept calling up the map spliced into his optic nerve, and the red dot of Deirdre’s TRD showed on the largest of these islands: Taphos, just a narrow channel away from Levkas. The second red dot of Nagel’s TRD, moving at the rate of the ship—slowly on this scale—showed their own location.

  Jason shifted scale and zeroed in on Taphos. The dot shone on the western coast, inside an inlet that sheltered behind a headland. He dismissed the map and turned to Sotades.

  “What we are looking for,” he explained to the captain, “is on Taphos. Here is where we need for you to take us.” With his swordpoint, he lightly scratched an outline map in the rough deck timbers.

  Sotades’ eyes and mouth grew round, then clenched into an expression of bulldog immovability. “I used to think you were mad. Now I know you are. Man, that’s the hideout of the pirates that infest these waters—the cavern where their fleet shelters. That we’ve come this far without encountering any of their ships is a gift of the gods. And now you expect me to sail like a fool right into their very harbor!” He crossed his arms. “No! Not even for Perseus and his mother!”