The 13th Labor of Hercules

At the outskirts of civilized land on the island of Crete, upon uneven terrain dotted with loose rocks of all sizes, a lone man astride a donkey emerges over a rocky outcrop. He wears a heavy cowled cloak, and rides high in the saddle. Even from a distance this man appears tall with broad shoulders. And, after he stops to dismount, he pulls back his cowl to reveal a chiseled jawline and high brow. Yet his profile only hints at the power beneath that cloak.

The man extracts a waterskin from his pack and takes a quick drink. Water drips down his salt-and-pepper beard. The grey among his curly, otherwise dark hair, shines brightly in the midday sun. His muscular frame makes him appear vital, but the lines on this man’s face, and the weariness in his eyes, indicate the late end of middle-age.

From these details of appearance, you might guess him to be an old mason, or perhaps a retired wrestler. Who would suspect that this man is the greatest hero of the classical world, perhaps the greatest hero of all myth? For he is Hercules: Son of Zeus, God of Strength, Champion of the Pantheon. Who would look at this forlorn man traveling alone on this desolate landscape, and suspect he’s on a mythical quest, officially his 13th mighty labor?

Hercules leaves the donkey to graze for itself among the scrub grasses, and strides up a nearby hill to get a lay of the land. What he sees brings a wry smile to his lips, for in the next rocky valley lies a massive hole, a granite shaft boring straight into the earth, a perfect, circular incision, carved with the precision of a master architect. This exactness only adds to the ominous, alien appearance of the legendary Pit of Knossos.

Hercules came to Crete to find this pit. He’s been searching this inhospitable landscape, asking around in every village and farm, spending most nights alone but for his humble mount. For few live in this corner of Crete, partially because of the inhospitable landscape, and partially because of The Pit itself.

For who can look upon it and not shiver? The sides are thick granite, with a diameter further across than two aurochs head to tail. It’s an abyss that looks like it could swallow an army. And the depth? No one knows, for The Pit of Knossos is said to be without a bottom. It is also said that Zeus himself dug The Pit when he summoned every stormcloud together over Crete at the same time, and unleashed the mother of all lightning bolts on that exact spot, just to show the maximum extent of his power.

Hercules’s face turns downward at the thought of his father, and remains grim as he slowly descends the rocky slope toward his decided trial. He owns the look of a man used to frowning, whose only smiles come at ruefully ironic twists of fate.

But despite his somber features, a glint shines in the eye of Hercules. He's been a long time out from heroic tasks, does the prospect of another kindle his heroic spirit? Does the thought of returning to a life of perilous adventure stir his noble soul?

“No. That's not it,” Hercules calls out to the surrounding scrubland. But no one replies, save a lizard that skitters down the boulder where it’d been sunning itself, sent home to find its burrow by the baritone voice for which it’s never heard the like.

Hercules approaches The Pit of Knossos, close enough that he can peer over the edge into the blackness below. It is high noon, the sun’s rays reaching deep into the abyss. But Hercules can detect no end, as he expected.

Somewhere deep in that Pit lies The Silver Chariot of the Kings of Knossos. A hundred years ago, a daring rogue stole the chariot, and rode it out into the wilds, drunk on wine and hubris. The king pursued him with all his cavalry, but before they could run the knave down, he’d discovered The Pit. Too late to swerve, man and chariot tumbled into the darkness. The deathly sound of screams and the cacophony of the plummeting chariot are said to have haunted the nightmares of the Kings of Knossos ever since. Seven expeditions to recover the chariot followed over the years, with few aspirants returning, and none earning even a view of The Silver Chariot. Now it is Hercules’s turn to test his luck.

Presently, he retreats to a low boulder and takes a seat. He strokes his beard and considers his options. Any attempt to descend The Pit risks a fall, and even if the pit isn’t truly bottomless, it’s surely deep enough to slay even the son of a god. And, were Hercules to meet his fate here, there would be no one to tell his tale. Perhaps he should have brought along companions, someone to help him secure a rope, and let his many wives and lovers know of his fate, should the need arise.

“My adventures tend to be fatal,” Hercules says to no one in particular. His voice echoes across the rocky expanse, but this time there isn’t even a lizard around to listen.

“I’m talking to you,” he continues. “I’m explaining that, if I brought companions on this quest, to carry my pack, or watch my rope while I climb down, they’re much more liable than I am to die. Do you know how many people I’ve killed incidentally?”

Hercules winces as he searches his mind. How many people had he killed over the years, either directly or by leading them into danger? There was his original family of course, and his music tutor Linus (whom he'd bludgeoned with a lyre) and-

“I can't remember,” He almost spits in bitterness. “I refuse to remember all the people I've killed. I can’t even recall the faces of my children. I remember the snakes, the hydra, the Nemean Lion. I can see their twisted visages well enough!”

Hercules punches the boulder beside him, smashing it asunder and spraying bits of granite in all directions.

“Did you know I once crushed a man's spine in a roadside wrestling duel? Or how about when I threw my best friend off a city wall, and watched his body shatter? One time I even fed a man to his own horses, what a gruesome sight and sound that was!”

Hercules recalls the savage King Diomedes, who earned infamy for feeding slaves and prisoners to his mares-

“And then I did the same. I fed that wretched, brutish king to his own horses. If such deeds render him a savage, then I'm a savage as well.”

But surely Hercules knows that most of the men he slew were in self-defense. And what innocents he killed were due to trickery, usually from his step-mother Hera. No one slights him for slaying treacherous kings or tyrannical giants.

“Strange how that kept happening to me. Everywhere I went, every King I served seemed to betray me, deny me the fruits of my labors. Over-and-over I had little choice but to kill them. The only way I could ever be declared a hero was by encountering men worse than myself.”

And yet, that’s what happened. By defeating men like Diomedes, Hercules saved many lives. It was justice.

“Stop trying to console me. You know that each time I slew a wicked king, I almost always killed his sons and soldiers as well. And for most of them, their only crime was loyalty to a tyrant. A fat lot of good loyalty has ever done for anyone.”

The brow of Hercules flexes in annoyance, his mind pours over the past: images of those he’s killed, and those who’ve died around him flood his memory. He lies back on the rocks and closes his eyes. He keeps no schedule. None of his lovers or children expect him to visit. And unless the gods are watching, no one will know if he takes his time and indulges in a little self-pity.

“No one will know but you and I,” he says ruefully, again to no one in particular.

Many minutes pass. Hercules sits up and removes his cloak, allowing the sun to beat down on his brown skin. Ants scuttle about on the rocks and find a strange mammal smelling of sweat in their way.

Hercules considers how to approach the pit: should he make a torch to drop down, allowing him to see deeper into the darkness? Should he look for the sturdiest boulder to tie his rope to? Or maybe he’ll break out his climbing spikes and test the granite’s toughness.

Hercules’s reverie is interrupted by a strange, low whistling sound. He stands and looks all about, suspecting bandits or monsters signaling to one another from among the boulders. But the sound clearly comes from The Pit.

He once again approaches the edge, then recoils quickly, as an acrid, sulfurous odor greets his nostrils. The foul wind from the pit tousles his curly hair. Hercules retreats, but doesn’t wretch. He even smiles, perhaps ironically.

“You want to know why I’m smiling?” Hercules asks and chuckles. “It’s because this reminds me of my favorite labor. You must know it: The Augean Stables.”

Hercules refers to his fifth great labor: cleaning the stables of King Augeas, a task meant to prove both humiliating and impossible. The stables held 1000 cattle, and reeked of 30 years accumulated filth. And he was given only one day to finish the job. Hercules famously accomplished the task by rerouting two rivers to flush away the grime.

“Clever bit of work that was.” And Hercules smiles broadly, this time grinning with full sincerity.

Still, it’s odd that such a lowly, custodial job would be his favorite…

“It was good, honest work. And I didn’t have to kill, or steal, or even battle anyone. But despite all that, they didn’t even give me credit for it, claiming the rivers did the job, not me. I finally accomplished something true, something unequivocally beneficial, and they scolded me for it. How do you like that?”

Hercules returns to his waterskin, takes a long slow drink, then he proceeds to warm up his muscles for the labor ahead. He starts by lifting rocks: using both arms to lift a boulder the size of a rhinoceros, then lifting that same boulder with just one arm, then lifting the two largest boulders he could find over his head simultaneously, one in each arm. After ten minutes of exercise, he’s breathing hard, but his eyes are alight with adrenaline and the prospect of dangerous physical work.

“This is the sort of thing I was born for.”

Hercules opens his pack, extracting torch, rope, and climbing spikes. He tests his equipment: pulling on the rope to check its strength, then poking holes in the boulders to test the sharpness of the spikes. Finally, he resettles on his rocky seat from before. He should be all set to take on this new challenge. And yet…

Hercules spends several minutes in seated silence. His face turns grim again. He stares across the valley at The Pit of Knossos. What is he waiting for?

“At the moments of greatest import, I’ve found it best to wait.”

Hercules is hardly known for hesitation.

“And I’ve paid for acting rashly. I’m free to wait, and watch, and be sure that what I see is really what I see. My worst mistakes happened when I trusted my own eyes too freely. I'm waiting to ensure that my vision is correct, that this foul pit isn't really the maw of some terrible beast, or that it's not filled with fire or scorpions or some other foul thing. I've been known to see things that aren't there.”

Hercules refers to trickery, illusion. The greatest regrets of his life happened when the Goddess Hera clouded his sight. You’ve surely heard of what he did. He was young he thought that his-

“I think everyone knows that story,” Hercules is terse, understandably.

And he’s right to be wary. Perhaps the Goddess Hera watches from her seat high atop Mount Olympus. Perhaps she’s been watching this whole time. Perhaps she’s waiting for just the right moment to sabotage Hercules’s latest quest, to punish the man she hates the most.

“I don’t hate him.”

A crystalline, mezzo-soprano voice. Is Hera here? Does she speak? But Hercules doesn’t react. He continues to stare at The Pit. Who is Hera talking to?

“To you, you goose. I felt I may as well set you straight regarding how they propagandize my intentions. Everyone thinks I loathe that poor boy because of his father’s sins. I don’t. He’s my glory, after all: Heracles, the Glory of Hera. Ha!

“I simply think he should face a challenging life, a life where he’s forced to use all his virtues, and face challenges of conscience and soul to match those of mind and body. He finds those latter sorts of challenges too easy, don’t you think?”

One might reasonably doubt Hera’s words. One might easily question her motives. Why is she trying to convince a humble narrator-

“I'm the goddess among goddesses, and I can't control my husband, or even make him care.” Her voice remains proud, unwavering. “Not by pleading, flattering, or threats. He shrugs off my entreaties as easily as if they came from a beggar. Everything comes easily to Zeus, and he’s grown so dull for it. He doesn’t even struggle with guilt for all his numerous sins. The only times that cursed old man's eyes light up with real fear is when watching this son of his, this champion, struggle. The greatest gift I could ever give Hercules is to provide him with a challenging life.”

And now Hera sings, a pair of alternating high notes, piercing yet melodious. And the notes cascades down upon the barren, rocky land. Hercules perks up his head, casts all about for the source of the sound. What are those notes? It sounds like a signal… or perhaps a bird call.

Then Hercules spots something. In the sky, a great dark shape. Slowly it swoops closer, and he can make out its contours: a two-headed golden eagle with a wingspan of three elephants abreast. The beast turns, then glides down to land on an outcrop of rocks a quarter league away.

The massive golden bird gazes at Hercules with four red eyes from its pair of razor-beaked heads. Over many moments the two mighty beasts, eagle and man, stare at each other from across the valley. Soon enough, it becomes clear that the bird will not attack… yet.

“It’s waiting ‘til I start down the pit,” Hercules says, and laughs bitterly. “Or it’ll wait ‘til I start to re-emerge and strike then. I suppose this never could have been so easy.”

Hercules stands, and takes up his climbing spikes, one in each hand. He confidently strides toward the pit, his eyes on Hera’s golden bird, which holds his gaze. Then, he breaks into a run, and as he approaches the edge of the pit, he jumps.

He soars majestically across the gap. Hercules’s leap isn’t enough to clear the pit, instead taking him to the opposite wall, where he catches his spikes on the hard granite. Then he begins to climb down, a descent into darkness of unknown depth.The eagle cocks both heads at this display, puzzled at the strange actions of its selected prey. It will wait to see if he returns.

From the portal above his head, a sing-song mezzo-soprano voice echoes down to Hercules: “Good luck, young man. Good luck, my glory. I hope your father is watching.”