Percy Jackson and the Greek Heroes by Rick Riordan
‘So,’ said the queen, ‘I understand you once captured the Ceryneian Hind.’
‘That’s true.’
‘You promised Artemis that you would release the deer unharmed, and you kept your word?’
‘Yeah.’
‘That speaks well of you. Artemis is our patron goddess. If I lend you my belt, will you swear on your honour to bring it back? That would avoid a lot of unnecessary bloodshed, yes?’
Hercules began to relax. ‘Yes. Gladly. That would be awesome.’
They were getting along just peachy. Hippolyta was impressed with big, buff Hercules in his lion cloak, armed to the teeth with godly weapons. Hercules thought Hippolyta was pretty hot, too. If things had worked out differently, they might have settled down together and had a brood of dangerous children.
But no. Up in her situation room on Mount Olympus, Hera was watching. After interfering in the Hydra mission with that giant crab, she’d got into serious trouble with Zeus, like Do that again and I will tie you upside down over the pit of Chaos sort of trouble. She’d done her best to restrain herself. She kept hoping Eurystheus would manage to kill Hercules without her help. But now the hero was about to pull off another easy win.
‘Come on, Amazons,’ the goddess muttered to herself. ‘Where’s your fighting spirit?’
Finally she couldn’t stand it any more. She transformed into an Amazon warrior and flew down to join them. While Hercules and Hippolyta were negotiating and flirting, Hera moved among the Amazons, whispering in their ears, ‘It’s a trap. Hercules is taking the queen hostage.’
The Amazons became restless. They were naturally suspicious of men. They believed the rumour. The queen had been talking to that big dude in the lion-skin cape for far too long. Something must be wrong.
Penthesilea drew her sword. ‘We must protect the queen! Attack!’
Hercules was complimenting Hippolyta on her bronze greaves when his men sounded the alarm. The Amazons were charging.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Hercules demanded.
The queen looked astonished. ‘I don’t know!’
Across the field, Penthesilea raised her javelin. ‘I will save you, sister!’
Desperate to stop a war, Hippolyta yelled, ‘No, it’s a mistake! Don’t –’
She stepped in front of Hercules as Penthesilea hurled her spear. The point went straight through Hippolyta’s breastplate, and the Queen of the Amazons fell dead at Hercules’s feet.
Penthesilea wailed in grief. The Amazons crashed into the Greek lines.
Hercules had no time to sort out what had happened. He pulled the golden belt from Hippolyta’s corpse and ordered his men to retreat.
The Amazons fought like demons, but Hercules cut a bloody swathe through their ranks. Dozens of Greeks died. Hundreds of Amazons fell. Hercules held off the enemy as his men got to the boats and rowed back to the ship. Then he plunged into the sea and swam for it while arrows and spears shattered off his lion-skin cape.
The Greeks escaped, but they didn’t feel much like celebrating.
On his way home, Hercules had a few more side adventures. He battled a sea monster, saved the city of Troy, killed some guys in a wrestling match … blah, blah, blah. When he got back to Tiryns, he threw the Amazonian belt at Eurystheus’s feet.
‘Hundreds of honourable warriors died for that belt. I hope your daughter is happy.’
Princess Admete snatched it up and did a happy dance. ‘Oh, my gods, it’s perfect! I can’t wait to try it on!’
She dashed off to show her friends.
‘Well, that’s nice,’ said Eurystheus. ‘Let’s see, Hercules … how many more quests now? Eight?’
‘No, Your Majesty,’ Hercules said slowly. ‘That was quest number nine. I should have only one more, but since you discounted two of them in your finite wisdom –’
‘Three more quests, then,’ said the king. ‘Oh, don’t look so glum. This is hard on me, too, you know. It’s not easy coming up with bigger and stupider labours every time.’
‘You could always release me early.’
‘No, no. I’ve got one.’
‘I swear, if you send me back to Thrace or Amazonia –’
‘Don’t worry! This is in the opposite direction! I’ve heard rumours of a monstrous man named Geryon who lives far to the west – in Iberia.’
Hercules stared. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
Today, Iberia is what we call Spain and Portugal. To the Greeks, it was the end of the known world. It was like Nebraska or Saskatchewan – you heard about it occasionally, but you couldn’t believe actual people lived there. Beyond Iberia, as far as the Greeks knew, there was nothing except endless monster-infested ocean.
‘This man Geryon,’ continued the king. ‘Supposedly he has a herd of bright red cattle. Can you imagine? I wonder if they give strawberry milk. At any rate, I want you to bring me his herd.’
‘What is it with you and cows?’ Hercules asked.
‘Just do it!’
Hercules hired another ship with a different group of volunteers. Funny thing – except for Iolaus, no one from his last trip wanted to travel with him again. He set sail for the end of the world to find strawberry-flavoured cows.
Back then, sailing the length of the Mediterranean was a dangerous business. Hercules’s ship followed the coast of Africa, since that seemed like the best way not to get lost. Along the way, he killed a bunch of evil kings and monsters, blah, blah, blah.
When he got up to around Tunisia, he ran into this big ugly son of Poseidon named Antaeus, who is definitely not on my family Christmas card list.
Antaeus’s mom was Gaia, the goddess of the earth. Don’t ask me why or how Poseidon and Gaia had a kid. It’s too horrible to contemplate. All I know: Antaeus took after his mom. He was bloodthirsty, evil and really big. Anybody who passed through Antaeus’s territory was forced to wrestle with him to the death, I guess because there was nothing entertaining to watch on Tunisian TV.
Hercules could’ve just sailed past this confrontation, but he didn’t like leaving bloodthirsty murderers for other people to deal with. He landed and challenged Antaeus to a match.
‘RAR!’ Antaeus pounded his fists on his chest. ‘You cannot defeat me! As long as I touch the earth, I will be instantly healed of all my wounds!’
‘Pro tip,’ said Hercules. ‘Don’t start a battle by announcing your fatal weakness.’
‘How is that a weakness?’
Hercules charged. He wrapped his arms around Antaeus’s waist and lifted the wrestler so that no part of him touched the ground. Antaeus struggled, kicking and pummelling, but Hercules just squeezed until something inside Antaeus’s chest snapped. Antaeus went limp. Hercules waited to be sure he was really dead, then dropped the body on the ground.
‘Stupid wrestler.’ Hercules spat in the dust and went back to his ship.
Finally he reached the end of the Mediterranean, where the northern tip of Africa almost touched the southern tip of Iberia. To honour his incredibly ridiculous quest, Hercules constructed two pillars like a gateway. He called them – you guessed it – the Pillars of Hercules.
Some stories claim that Hercules created the gap between Europe and Africa by pushing the continents apart. Other stories say he narrowed the passage so the biggest sea monsters couldn’t get into the Mediterranean from the Atlantic Ocean.
Believe what you want. Me, I’m not anxious to visit the Pillars of Hercules again. Last time I was there, I almost got decapitated by a flying pineapple. But that’s another story.
Having arrived in Iberia, Hercules left his men aboard the ship and roamed alone for months, searching for red cows. One hot afternoon, he looked down from a hilltop and saw a herd of ruby-coloured animals in the valley below.
‘That’s got to be them,’ Hercules mumbled. ‘Please let that be them.’
He jogged into the valley, tired and irritated. He was almost to the cattle when a ferocious two-headed dog bounded out of the tall gr
Hercules usually liked dogs, but this two-headed one did not seem friendly. Nor was it wearing any rabies tags. ‘Whoa, boy. Um … boys? No need for violence here.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that!’ A big dude with an axe came lumbering after the dog.
‘Are you Geryon?’ Hercules asked.
‘No, I work for Geryon,’ said the axe man. ‘My name’s Eurytion, and this here is my dog, Orthus.’
‘Okay.’ Hercules raised his palms and tried to look friendly, which wasn’t easy for him, what with the arsenal of weapons and the lion-head hood. ‘I’ve come to bargain for these red cattle. High King Muffin Top of Mycenae wants them.’
‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ said Eurytion. ‘My master left me strict orders: all trespassers are to be killed on sight. You’ve come a long way to die.’
‘Bummer,’ said Hercules.
The rancher and his dog attacked at the same time. They also died at the same time. Hercules took them out with one swing.
He was wiping the blood off his club when another voice shouted, ‘NO, NO, NO!’
The hero looked up. Scuttling towards him was a guy who looked like he’d been run over by a cartoon steamroller. His legs were normal. His head was normal. Everything in the middle was flattened and wrong. His neck was anchored to broad shoulders that spread into three separate chests, side by side. Each one was clad in a different-coloured shirt – red, green, yellow. His arms stuck out from the left and right chests, which must’ve made it impossible for him to button his middle shirt. Three separate bellies were fused into one oversize waist that looked like it took a size-82 belt. Two swords hung at his sides.
‘What happened to you?’ Hercules asked, genuinely concerned.
‘What happened –’ The guy looked confused, then outraged. ‘You mean my body? I was born this way, you insensitive moron! Why did you kill my rancher and his dog?’
‘They started it.’
‘Gah! Do you know how hard it is to find good help in Iberia?’
‘You’re Geryon?’
‘Of course I’m Geryon! Lord of Iberia, son of Chrysaor the Golden, master of the red cows!’
‘That’s an awe-inspiring title,’ Hercules said. ‘Master of the red cows. Speaking of which, I want to buy them. How much?’
Geryon snarled. ‘You will pay, all right. You will pay in blood!’
The red-cow master drew his swords and attacked. Hercules was reluctant to attack a person with three-body syndrome, but he smashed his club into Geryon’s middle chest. His ribs broke with a nasty crunch. That should’ve killed him, but Geryon’s chest just popped back into place.
‘You can’t kill me!’ he said. ‘I have three sets of organs! I heal much too quickly.’
‘BTW,’ said Hercules, ‘you shouldn’t tell people your fatal weakness.’
‘How is that a fatal weakness?’
‘I just have to kill all three of your bodies at once, right?’
Geryon hesitated. ‘Curses! I hate heroes!’
He screamed and charged, his swords waving on either side so he looked like an Alaskan king-crab samurai.
Hercules dropped his club and drew his bow.
Geryon had absolutely no turning ability. As he barrelled forward, Hercules skirted to one side and fired an arrow under the rancher’s left arm. The arrow passed through all three chests, piercing his hearts, and Geryon fell dead.
‘Sorry, dude,’ said Hercules. ‘I told you so.’
He herded the red cows back to his ship and sailed for home. This time he followed the northern coast along what is now Spain and France and Italy. He had more adventures. In the Alps, he killed some people who tried to steal his cows. Near the spot where Rome would one day be founded, he slew a fire-breathing giant named Cacus. He founded a few cities, destroyed a few nations. Blah, blah, blah.
At long last, he returned to Tiryns. Eurystheus was disappointed to find that the red cattle did not give strawberry milk, but he gave Hercules credit for completing the task.
‘That’s ten jobs done,’ said the high king. ‘Which means you only have your two bonus labours left!’
‘Bonus labours?’
‘First,’ said the king, ‘I have a hankering for apples. You’ve brought me all these fine meat products – crab, wild boar, cow, bird –’
‘You weren’t supposed to eat the Stymphalian birds!’
‘My doctor says I need more fruits and vegetables in my diet. I want you to find the Garden of the Hesperides. Bring me some golden apples from the sacred apple tree of Hera.’
‘Hera,’ repeated Hercules. ‘The goddess who hates me more than anyone in the world. You want me to steal her apples.’
‘Yes.’
Hercules’s lion-skin cape felt warmer than usual. Sweat trickled down his neck. ‘And this garden is where, exactly?’
‘I have no idea. I hear it’s far to the west.’
‘I was just in the west! I was as far to the west as you can go!’
‘The Hesperides are the daughters of the Titan Atlas,’ Eurystheus said helpfully. ‘Perhaps you could ask Atlas where to find the garden.’
‘And where do I find Atlas?’
‘I guess you’ll have to ask someone who knows about Titans. Happy hunting!’
Hercules had no idea how to find Atlas. The Titan didn’t have a Facebook profile and there was nothing on Wikipedia. Even Hercules’s dependable nephew Iolaus was stumped.
Ultimately, Hercules consulted with a priest of Zeus, hoping for some pointers.
‘If you need to find a Titan,’ said the priest, ‘perhaps you should ask another Titan.’
Hercules scratched his beard. ‘Do you have one in mind? Because I thought most of the Titans got thrown into Tartarus.’
‘There is one Titan who might help,’ said the priest. ‘He’s always been friendly to humankind. He’s also conveniently chained to a mountain, which makes him easy to find.’
‘You’re talking about Prometheus, the Titan who gave people fire.’
‘Give this man a cookie,’ said the priest.
‘You have cookies?’ Hercules asked hopefully.
‘No, that’s just an expression. Prometheus is your best bet, however. You’ll find him in the Caucasus Mountains. I’ll draw you a map.’
Naturally, the Caucasus Mountains were a zillion miles away. After months of travel and lots of adventures, Hercules finally found Prometheus – a ten-foot-tall man dressed in grimy rags – chained to the side of a cliff by his ankles and wrists. His face was scarred from old claw marks, but the real horror show was his belly.
GROSS-OUT ALERT!
Sitting on Prometheus’s ribcage was a huge golden eagle, ripping through the Titan’s immortal guts and eating the tasty bits. You know those cheap haunted houses that make fake guts out of cold spaghetti, peeled grapes and tomato sauce? It looked like that … only it wasn’t fake.
Hercules walked up to Prometheus. ‘Man, that looks painful.’
‘It – is.’ Prometheus let loose a scream, shaking the entire mountain. ‘Sorry. Hard – to – concentrate.’
Hercules sympathized. He’d had plenty of days when he felt like he was being pecked to death. ‘I hate to ask, but I’m looking for Atlas. I need some golden apples from the Garden of the Hesperides.’
‘I – could – help,’ Prometheus said, sweat pouring down his face. ‘But – this – eagle …’
Hercules nodded. ‘How long have you been chained here? A thousand years?’
‘Something – OUCH! – like that.’
‘If I kill the eagle, will you tell me what I need to know?’
‘Gladly. AHGGG!! Yes.’
Hercules looked at the sky. ‘Father Zeus, I haven’t ever asked you for anything. During all these stupid jobs for Eurystheus, I’ve paid my dues and suffered in silence. Well … mostly. Anyway, Prometheus has information I need. I judge that he has been punished sufficiently. I’m
A regal voice echoed from the heavens: ALL RIGHTY, THEN.
Confident that he had Dad’s permission, Hercules drew his bow and shot the eagle.
Immediately, Prometheus’s belly closed up. Relief washed over his face. ‘Thank you, my friend. You are a noble cockroach!’
‘A what, now?’
‘Sorry. I meant human. Anyway, here’s what you need to do. Go northwest, past the land of the Hyperboreans, to the very edge of the known world.’
‘Been there. Killed stuff. Got the T-shirt.’
‘Ah, but Atlas dwells on a mountain that cannot be found by humans … unless they know exactly where to look. I will give you directions. Once you are there, you will see the Garden of the Hesperides very close by, but you must not try to get the apples yourself. The dragon Ladon guards the tree, and he cannot be killed, even by someone as strong as you. Besides, if you took the apples by force, Hera would be within her rights to smite you dead on the spot.’
‘So …’
‘So you have to persuade Atlas to fetch the apples for you. The Hesperides are his daughters. He can visit the garden easily. The dragon will not bother him.’
‘But isn’t Atlas stuck holding up the sky?’
Prometheus smiled. ‘Well, I can’t solve all your problems. You’ll have to figure out that part yourself.’
Once he had directions, Hercules thanked the grungy Titan and went on his way. He had a lot of time on the road to think, so when he finally found Atlas he had a pretty good idea of what to say.
The old Titan general crouched on a mountaintop in the dark reaches of the northern wastelands. Atlas still wore his battle-scarred, lightning-melted armour from the war with the gods a thousand years before. His skin was as dark as old pennies from being out in the elements so long. He knelt with his arms raised and propped on his back was the base of an enormous swirling funnel cloud – a tornado that took up the entire sky. Probably because it was the sky.
‘Great Atlas!’ Hercules called. He wasn’t just throwing out compliments. Atlas was twice the size of Prometheus and twice as buff. Even after a millennium of brutal punishment, he looked impressive.