Monsters of Greek Mythology, Volume One (5 page)

“How do you know that there are any people anywhere?” asked Deucalion. “Perhaps we're the only ones left alive.”

“No, it can't be! I can't bear the thought!” cried Pyrrha. “It would be too lonesome that way.”

Deucalion could not bear to see his wife suffer. He turned his face to the blank sky and said: “If there be something up there, speak to me, I pray. Tell me if there are any other people on earth. Or are we the last?”

A voice spoke out of the sky. “You are the last. Praise our mercy.”

“I thank you for holding our heads above the water,” said Deucalion. “Now I ask a further act of mercy. If we are the last people left alive on earth, then take us also. For we cannot bear the loneliness.”

There was silence. A great hush filled the world. Even the gulls had stopped calling. Man and wife looked at each other. The voice spoke again.

“Deucalion and Pyrrha, gather the bones of your mother, and as you walk cast them over your shoulders.”

“What's that mean?” whispered Pyrrha. “The bones of our mother? We had different mothers. And their bones aren't here anyway.”

“The gods speak in riddles sometimes,” said Deucalion, “and measure our faith by our ability to unriddle what they say.”

“You're speaking in that funny way too,” said Pyrrha. “I can't stand it. Tell me plainly—what does he mean by the bones of our mother?”

“Since we do have different mothers, perhaps the voice means a common mother—Mother Earth. But what would be her bones?”

“How about rocks?” said Pyrrha.

“Rocks?… Well, we can try.”

But rocks were big, and socketed deep in the earth; they couldn't be budged. So they each gathered an armful of stones and walked along the beach casting them over their shoulders.

They heard footsteps behind them, and whirled about. The stones were turning into people. Those Deucalion had cast became men, and women grew from the stones cast by Pyrrha. Twelve men and twelve women, full of wonder and hope and ignorance. And from these twelve men and women were born a new generation.

Bebrycos grew too small for them. The young ones built boats and sailed away, found other islands, and settled there. Found a mainland and settled there.

Generation followed generation, and Zeus sent no more floods. For without people to worship him, he decided, it was hard for him to know that he was a god.

Now, hundreds of years later, as Amycus was plowing the Middle Sea toward Bebrycos, Athena took a journey. She traveled down to Tartarus, to the ebony and fire-ruby castle of her uncle, Hades.

“Welcome, Niece,” he said. “It is centuries since you have honored our gloomy precincts with your presence.”

“I have come to ask a favor, great Hades.”

“Of course,” he said. “Why else would anyone come down here who didn't have to? Speak. What is it I can do for you?”

“You will remember, Uncle, that the Great Flood swallowed fifty miles of the Trinacrian coast, including a mountain called Bebrycos, whose highest peaks now form an island. But since it was once a mountain, the roots of this island are still anchored here in Tartarus. And these roots are hollow shafts of rock leading straight up into the caves of the island.”

“I hear ancient history and some bits of geology,” said Hades. “What do they have to do with the favor you are asking?”

“Patience, my lord. I was describing a natural passageway from your realm to Bebrycos. What I want is to borrow some of your creatures for a hundred years or so. They can climb up through the shafts of rock onto this island, and serve my purpose there. I mean
our
purpose.”

“
Our
?” asked Hades. “What possible interest of mine can be served by my creatures above ground?”

“If what you lend me are fearful enough, they will create a horde of fresh corpses, and send new shades thronging down to enlarge your kingdom.”

“Interesting …” murmured Hades. “Let's see what I can spare. The choices are limited. No Harpies; I need them here. No roasting-pit demons, nor those who wield the fire-flick or the marrow-log; they're all fully employed. I can let you have some general-torment fiends.”

“What are they?”

Hades clapped his hands and whistled thrice. Into the throne room shuffled a thing that looked like a wingless dragon. It walked on two legs and stood about eight feet tall. Had green mottled skin as hard as armor, a ridged tail, and crocodile jaws.

“Fire!” barked Hades.

The creature opened its jaws and spat flame.

“Excellent!” cried Athena. “Even better than I imagined. Oh, thank you, Uncle, thank you. How many can I have?”

“Twenty,” said Hades. “That's the very best I can do.”

“Oh, marvelous!”

“I must warn you,” said Hades. “They are witless. They can take no initiative. They must be fully instructed as to whom to kill and how many.”

“Suits my purpose exactly,” said Athena. “I mean to supply them with a leader, even more murderous, and very intelligent.”

“Very well,” said Hades. “And when can I be expecting a batch of corpses from Bebrycos?”

“Soon … soon …” said Athena, and departed, very pleased.

Thus it was that when Amycus swam to shore, he found twenty wingless dragons waiting on the beach. He lowered his head, preparing to fight, but a huge owl dived out of the sky, crying, “No, Amycus, do not attack! These creatures are as useful as they are ugly. They are sent here to serve you and help you to become king of this island.”

“Who are you?”

“I serve Athena, the goddess who guides your destiny.”

“And I am to be king of this place?”

“And much more. A terror to visitors and castaways, of whom you will be sent multitudes. And a superb menace to shipping. Your name will be spoken with fear as long as tales are told.”

“Are these things as fearsome as they look?”

“Even more so. Their claws can rip out an elephant's entrails; their jaws crush the largest bone; their tails can scythe down a thick tree. And … they spit fire.”

“They do seem well qualified for any fiendish task,” said Amycus. “Convey my thanks to the goddess, and tell her that when I am king I shall raise her an altar larger and more splendid than any in the world.”

Now, those who dwelt on the island were brave, heavily armed, and skillful fighters. Throughout their history they had fought off vicious pirate raids and resisted invaders from Crete, Carthage, and Mycenae. But their enemies had always been human, and when a band of walking crocodiles led by a brass-headed giant suddenly appeared on their shore, they were confused and frightened. They mastered their fear, however, and marched against the weird invaders.

But when the troops reached the beach and actually saw what they were supposed to fight, they halted abruptly and tried not to believe what they were seeing—an array of enormous lizards dwarfed by a giant whose head was a ball of blinding light in the noonday sun.

“Listen to me, good folk,” roared Amycus. He was trying to speak gently, which meant that he was bellowing a bit more softly than usual. “Before you attack, let me show you what you'll be facing.”

He motioned to the dragons, who wheeled and spat flame at a nearby grove of trees. They spat simultaneously. Twenty jets of fire hit the trees, which immediately began to burn. Like tall torches they burned. A flock of birds rose out of the branches, feathers on fire. As the island troops watched, the trees burned to the ground.

“You see?” said Amycus. “If I had turned them the other way, it is you who would be burning. So why don't you just lay down your arms like good little people, and surrender. We'll work you hard, but it's better than burning.”

“Never!” cried the battle chief. “Death before slavery!”

“It's all right for you to choose death for yourself,” said Amycus, “but why take so many men with you? I'll tell you what I'll do. Search the island through and bring out your best fighters—ten of them, twenty, however many you wish. I'll fight them all at once. If I do not finish them off in an hour, then we'll withdraw peacefully. But if I vanquish your champions, then you'll all surrender, and your lives will be spared.”

“Agreed!” cried the battle chief. “The best fighters on the island are those facing you now. I'll choose twenty of them and we can set to work immediately.”

“How many in your entire troop?” asked Amycus.

“Fifty-six.”

“Make it fifty-six, then,” said Amycus. “I'll fight your entire company—and without weapons. Nor shall my greenish friends here do any flamethrowing. But you need not disarm.”

He motioned to the dragons, who slithered away until they were almost out of sight.

“Charge!” yelled the chief.

The islanders attacked. They swarmed over Amycus, striking with sword and battle-ax. He gathered up an armful of the troops, lifted the struggling mass to chin level, and then systematically began to butt. Shield and helmet were like tissue paper before that flailing brass head. Skulls split like eggs, spilling a yolk of brains. When Amycus opened his arms ten corpses fell. The sand soaked up their blood.

But the others did not flee. They were gripped in a battle rage. They kept hacking at him. He pretended to retreat, not fast, for he wished them to follow close. He reached a tree, sprang up and hooked his legs over a massive bough. Hanging upside down, he began to swing. Faster and faster he swung. Now his head was like a wrecking ball, crushing helmets, breastplates, skulls, ribs.

By the time he stopped swinging, half the original troop lay dead, and the other realized how futile it was to contend against this giant. They let their weapons fall, and knelt on the beach.

“You are brave men,” bellowed Amycus. “And I spare your lives. Go now and inform the people of the island that they have a new master. And bid them report to me so that I may assign them their tasks.”

The men dragged themselves to their feet and shuffled away, knowing that nothing would ever be the same again, and almost envying their comrades who had died too swiftly to feel the bitterness of defeat.

7

The Spartan Twins

Some time before this story begins, Peleus the Proud had seized power in Iolcus by murdering the king. He would have killed the king's three-year-old son also, but the child had vanished on that night of blood and was not found despite a frantic search.

Now Peleus proved to be a very successful battle chief. He sent his troops against his neighbors, scattering their armies, looting their treasuries, and enslaving them. But his paunch grew with his power. He fed gluttonously, insisting on sixteen meals a day without counting snacks, and had grown grossly fat. Seven chins he had, all of them greasy, and his cheeks ballooned so that you could hardly see his tiny pig eyes.

These eyes now were fastened on a pair of twins who stood before the throne. And the king was scowling because he didn't like what he saw. Having grown so gross and ugly himself, he hated the sight of handsome men, and these twins were the most beautiful youths he had ever seen. Very young they looked, scarcely nineteen, but the tallest of the Royal Guard barely reached their shoulders, and these guards had been picked for size—and ugliness. The twins were yellow haired; they blazed with health and strength, and stood easily, not at all troubled by the king's scowls.

Studying them, Peleus saw that they were not quite identical. One was blue eyed; the other had icy gray eyes.

“Who are you?” rasped Peleus. “And what do you want?”

“I'm Castor,” said the blue-eyed one. “He's Pollux. We are princes of Sparta.”

“And what we want is employment,” said the gray-eyed one. “Heralds have been scuttling about, proclaiming that you wish to hire the best fighting men in the lands of the Middle Sea.”

“
Men
,” snarled Peleus. “Not pretty puppets who look more like dancing girls than warriors.”

The twins smiled an identical smile. “These heavily armed men who patrol this throne room—they are the Royal Guard, are they not?” asked Castor softly.

“They are,” said the king.

“Picked for their fighting abilities, no doubt?”

“No doubt.”

“Observe,” said Castor.

He whirled, seized two guards, one in each hand, and lifted them by the nape of their neck. They struggled, struck at him, tried to kick themselves free, but were helpless as kittens in his hands. Smiling at the king, he knocked their helmeted heads together and flung them, clattering, on the marble floor, where they lay motionless.

“They're not dead,” said Castor. “Just out of it for a bit. I was quite gentle. My specialty is wrestling, by the way; my brother's the boxer.”

Moving so fast that he was a blur, Pollux wrenched a shield from the hands of another guard, held it in his left hand, drew back his right fist, and punched a hole clean through the heavy bronze buckler. He cast the shield aside and licked his knuckles, which were bleeding slightly. And the twins stood again impassively before the throne, as if nothing had happened.

But the king, for all his girth, had no softness about him. He was not easily flustered.

“Yes, you seem to be able to handle yourselves,” he drawled. “Of course, if I employ you, you'll be going against more fearsome foes than these. What's your fee?”

“Depends on what you want us to do,” said Castor.

Peleus had been thinking very swiftly all this while. “These baby-faced thugs can prove dangerous as well as useful,” he said to himself. “They're just too good at what they do. And much too independent. If they stay together and decide to join up with one of my enemies, they would pose more of a threat than I want to face. What I must do is separate them—use them as far as I can, then make sure they don't get together again.”