Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (14 page)

Now in a flash, he began to think with his body. Idea became action. He edged into the stream of slaves filing toward the ladder, pushed one out of line—gently, so as not to hurt him—seized bucket and sponge, and raced up the rungs of the ladder that was leaning against Anteus. No one noticed. He scuttled up like a squirrel. He stepped onto Anteus's shoulder, trying not to slip on the oily slope.

He eased himself toward the back of the shoulder, grasped the giant's ear, yanked at it, turning the head a bit, then swung his fist so fast that his arm was a golden blur in the sunlight. He felt a sharp pain in his knuckles as they broke bone, almost breaking themselves.

Ladders tumbled, buckets flew as the giant swayed. Slaves slid off him and fell to the ground. And Anteus himself, after reeling a moment, collapsed like a stone tower in an earthquake.

Hercules, feeling the giant beginning to fall, had slid down the oiled arm and dropped safely to the ground. He stood there on the grass gazing down at the vast empty-looking face of his enemy. It was ashy, that face. Life seemed to have fled. He had no way of knowing about the malign magic that invested Anteus; no way of knowing that the giant, born of Mother Earth, was always renewed by contact with his mother.

But Hercules was to learn his lesson very painfully. He started back in horror as he saw the great eyelids snap open, saw those deeply socketed eyes blazing with furious energy. Before he could flee, a great arm raised itself. A hand bigger than a grappling hook caught him by the middle and lifted him high. Hercules hung there, clenched in that hand, as Anteus rose to his full height.

Standing there in the sunny arena, the giant pivoted slowly, holding Hercules high for all to see. Then, slowly, he lowered Hercules. Took him in both hands. Held him almost tenderly, it seemed, as a boy might hold a puppy. He spoke softly, just loud enough for Hercules to hear:

“How shall I do it, little one? Shall I squeeze you to a pulp? Or shall I twist you in my two hands—twist and twist until your spine is torn away from your pelvis and you are in two pieces, one for each hand? Which, eh?… Well, it's a pleasant choice I have to make. They're both slow deaths, squeezing and twisting, but still not quite slow enough. The pain simply won't last as long as I should like it to. I cannot forget the way you killed my three best servants. Oh, you'll have to pay for that, pay and pay. Squeezing is much too easy a death. Twisting too. Nor are those methods quite dramatic enough—for my hands will mask your sufferings, muffle your screams. People won't really know what's happening to you. Or, at least, they'll miss the full glory of it. No! I mean to do something showy. I'm going to take you these few miles to the stewpot, and the crowd will follow us. We'll be a regular procession. And when we reach the pot I'll add you to the stew with full honors. When you're done, I'll order a great holiday feast. I'll make them swallow every last greasy drop; I'll choke them on their own hopes.”

He lifted Hercules high again. His voice thundered at the great throng.

“Follow me, all of you! Follow me to the courtyard and see what happens to one who offends your king. Come, come … up and away! Who lingers, dies.”

He marched out of the arena and toward the castle. The people came slowly off the slopes and followed him in a mournful procession.

Now, when terribly threatened—something that happened often—Hercules conducted himself in heroic fashion. He deliberately shut off a useless part of his mind. He wasted no time regretting any mistakes he might have made, nor did he allow himself to anticipate anything bad that might happen. He forced himself to live one second at a time, tuning his body to respond instantly to any opportunity for survival.

So he lay now very quietly in the giant's hands. He knew that the slightest movement might arouse a reflex of brutality in those hands and make them move of themselves, no matter what Anteus intended. He lay there, hardly daring to breathe, just taking tiny sips of air. He had rejoiced when the giant had decided to leave the arena and take him to the castle. He did not allow himself to think of the stewpot; time enough for that when it happened. All he permitted himself to think was that the giant's intention gave him a little more time to live.

Still the enormous hands clamped him, not squeezing, causing him no pain, but holding him too tightly for him to wriggle free. All he could do was wait. But when he reached the castle he shuddered despite himself. It was a windless day and the steam of the stew hung heavy over the courtyard. He felt himself gagging in the sweetish putrefying stench of boiled human flesh.

Now, he was rising into the air again. Anteus was lifting him over his head. The giant held him high for all to see. His voice boomed:

“Oh, Libyans, I have invited you here today that you might see what happens to one who dares challenge your king. This is Hercules I hold here. Hercules of Thebes, who for all his insignificant size has proved himself in battle against very worthy foes. Emboldened by his success with some local monsters, he came to Libya to challenge me, Anteus. And, indeed, even here he managed to wreak a bit of mischief among my people. Observe him well, my friends, as he lies helpless in my hands. Look at him, this hero, harmless as a flayed rabbit in the hands of a hunter … fit only for the pot. Indeed, that is why I have brought him here: to add him to our royal stew.”

Hercules felt the fingers shift on his body, and knew that the giant was about to throw him into the stewpot. He braced himself. His own fingers felt for the blue feather taken from the breast of the Phoenix. Prometheus had promised that this magic plume would protect him from heat. But would it protect him from drowning in the abominable stew? Or, if he did not drown, from suffocating in its stench?

Anteus suddenly drew Hercules toward his face as if he meant to eat him raw. The young man saw the great yolky eyes glaring at him, saw the teeth big as tombstones, and the huge meaty tongue behind them.

“No,” grunted Anteus. “On second thought, you're too vile a creature for my stew. You might spoil the flavor.
Under
the pot is where you belong, in the cook-fire. Yes … roasting's just as slow as boiling, and just as painful.”

Anteus lifted Hercules over his head again, roared, “Behold!” and hurled him into the very center of the wood fire that was blazing under the huge stewpot. Hercules landed in the heart of the fire, and crouched there, clutching his Phoenix feather. Steam arose from him as fire touched his wet body. He welcomed the steam for it hid him from sight. And he didn't want Anteus to see him sitting amid flame in a magical sheath of coolness cast by the ice-blue plume.

Nevertheless, he felt the enchantment beginning to melt in the intense heat. He needed a more intense blueness, more whiteness, the more powerful magic of ancient wisdom. Perching there in the core of flame, he sent his thoughts halfway across the world to a mountain in the Caucasus where Prometheus lay shackled. Once again he was fixed in a cone of stormy blue light. Once again, he saw snow in cracks of rock. And the sight of bloody-beaked birds tearing at the Titan's guts made his own pain seem insignificant. He heard the rich voice rising above the screaming of the birds and the howling of the wind:

“You are he.”

“Who?” whispered Hercules.

“The Promised One. For the Libyans. For me.”

“For you?”

“Even for me. In the watches of night, a voice has spoken with utter authority, saying, ‘Whom the father torments, the son will save.'”

“What father? What son?”

“In time to come, son of Zeus, all shall be made clear. But for now, the now that must always come first, hearken to this: As your enemy, Anteus, the son of Earth, is restored by touching his mother, so shall you, Hercules, be restored by fire. I, the fire-giver, tell you so. The sacred flame shall heal you, restore you. In return, you shall deliver me one day. And now, arise. Go forth. Fight again.”

Anteus approached the fire, waiting for the steam to lift, hoping to see his enemy charring as he sizzled in his own juices. The steam did lift. Something moved behind it. Anteus gaped in horror as Hercules hopped out of the fire. The young man was smiling. He seemed to gleam with health. His wounds were healed. He was uncharred, unscarred.

For the first time in his life, Anteus took a backward step in the presence of an enemy. But he was stupefied by shock. Then his fighting instincts took over. He stood where he was and considered what to do. One thing he knew: that when he caught that little rat again he wouldn't let him out of his hands until he was in many pieces.

Hercules did not wait for his enemy to move. Because all ways of fighting Anteus seemed equally impossible, Hercules did what he always did when he was in doubt: he charged. And the people who thronged the courtyard were amazed to see the man hurtling toward the giant.

Anteus stood waiting. Then he swung his leg in a terrible kick. Hercules glimpsed the foot coming toward him with enormous speed, and in full stride scooped up a paving stone, which he held before him. The giant's foot hit the stone. The small bones of the instep and ankle shattered like glass. It was agony. He hopped on his other foot. Hercules shoved his shoulder against that leg and pushed it out from under Anteus, who crashed to the ground.

The walls of the courtyard trembled as the giant fell full length, cracking his head on a flagstone. Hercules heard the dry sound of the head splitting. Heard the rattling gasp of his enemy's breath. Saw blood welling out of the split head and forming puddles on the stone. He stood over his enemy, watching him die.

He was astounded to see the blood stopping. To hear the hoarse gasping stop. He saw the giant's eyes flare with rage, saw the great biceps swell. Before he could dodge, Anteus reached out. His huge fingers caught Hercules by the throat and began to squeeze. The flagstones tilted; the sky darkened. Hercules tried to tear those strangling fingers from his throat. But in no fight he had ever fought with monsters of land and sea had he known a force to match that of Anteus—who, lounging on the ground, was easily choking him to death with one hand.

And as his sight faded, he heard again the voice of Prometheus saying: “He is born of Mother Earth. When he touches her, his strength is restored.” And Hercules realized that he had repeated his first mistake—had laid his enemy in his mother's lap, and she had revived him, healed him, restored his strength.

This awful truth glimmered in his murky mind, but flared up brightly as truth does even when things look darkest. Again he heard the voice of Prometheus. “You shall be restored by fire, even as he is by earth.” And the idea carried by these words cast a light that became power beyond the strength of muscles. He slashed the edge of his palm at Anteus's elbow, making the elbow crook, and loosening the grip on his throat. He moved closer to Anteus and wedged his hands underneath the giant.

Drawing enormous breath into his tortured lungs, he grasped Anteus about the waist and began to pull him off the ground. Anteus kicked and flailed and clung to the earth. His mother, Gaia, Mother Earth, knowing her favorite son in danger, put forth her magnetic strength—which is called gravity—trying to hug her son to her, to keep him safe.

Hercules couldn't pull him off the ground. And knew that if he didn't he was lost. He pulled with all his strength. Anteus clung to the earth—who hugged him close. “Fire-giver, help me now,” whispered Hercules. And with these words, he felt his veins begin to run with flame. He saw the suffering Titan whose gift had transformed humankind, lifting it out of brutish darkness into light—he felt that magic voltage enter every fiber of his body, filling him with a power that enabled him to tear the giant from the clutch of earth and lift him slowly toward the sky.

Holding Anteus away from earth, he saw the great cracked head begin to bleed again. Saw the light fade from his eyes. Felt the huge throbbing body go limp as a bladder. He kept holding the body even after he knew it was dead; he didn't dare let it touch earth again.

People were shouting now, roaring, shrieking with joy. He marched toward the stewpot and threw Anteus in. The body landed with a great splash. Hercules turned to the roaring crowd:

“He will feed you now whom you have fed so long.”

People clustered about the pot. They lifted it from its hooks. They did not dip in. They refused to eat the stew. They wanted no part of Anteus, even dead. They bore the great cauldron to the beach and emptied it into the sea and watched the black fins cut through the water. Sharks prefer live meat, but Anteus was only recently dead, and very large; so they feasted happily as the people danced on the beach.

Another group of dancing, cheering youths bore Hercules on their shoulders. They carried him to the harbor where he had asked to go. There he borrowed a sailing vessel, for the south wind was still blowing, and his ship would be able to run before it all the way home. This pleased him; he felt too stiff to push a raft through the Middle Sea.

THE CALYDONIAN BOAR

For a lovely, dreamy huntress

named PAMELA — who also

had trouble with her father

Characters

Monsters

Gods