Glad to be rid of his grocer-duties, he struck south, and founded the hundred-gated city of Thebes, in honour of his birthplace. Honour or not, birthplace or not, Heracles soon tired of being a city-dweller. Leaving behind his fine clothes and all-night feasts, he dusted out his lion skin (now a little threadbare), and travelled until he came to the Caucasus Mountains. Here, Prometheus had been chained alive for more time than anyone could remember. Heracles knew he was close to Prometheus’s rock-face prison, when he saw the griffon-vulture circling overhead in the first light of morning. Every morning the vulture tore out Prometheus’s liver, and every night, his liver grew back again, so that he should never escape punishment for stealing fire from the gods. Not wishing to be seen, Heracles hid behind a rocky outcrop, and watched as the vulture swooped closer and closer. Its curved beak began to graze, then puncture, the pale flesh of Prometheus’s stomach.
