WRATH OF THE GODS Read online

  Wrath of the Gods

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Glossary

  Author’s Note

  About Glyn Iliffe

  Praise for Glyn Iliffe

  Also by Glyn Iliffe

  Copyright

  For Stuart and Brien

  Prologue

  OMEROS

  The great hall was filled with revellers. Omeros could hear them through the thick doors, talking in loud, drunken voices, or singing snatches of songs that ended in peals of laughter. There were maybe two hundred of them, not counting slaves – almost twice as many as the night before, when he had begun his tale of Heracles.

  The boy that King Odysseus had sent to guide him led him up the steps to the doors. Omeros laid his fingertips on the smooth wood and traced a path down to the handle.

  ‘Don’t leave me yet, lad. I need you to walk me to the hearth and find me a stool.’

  He held an elbow towards the child, whose soft, small fingers were shaking as they took hold of it.

  ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of,’ Omeros told him, reaching up and patting his hair. ‘They’ll be looking at me, not you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Of course, I’m much more scared than you are.’

  Omeros could sense the change in the boy’s expression.

  ‘But… But you’re a man.’

  ‘Ah, but I’m a blind man. Anybody can tease me, or take things from me, or hurt me, and I can’t do a thing to stop them. Do you ever feel weak like that?’

  He sensed the child nod.

  ‘But you still have your eyes. So perhaps we can cross the hall together, and then we don’t need to be scared of anything.’

  The boy’s grip on his arm grew firmer and Omeros opened one of the doors. The heat from the great hall washed over him and his nostrils were assailed by a multitude of different smells: wood smoke and roasted meat; earth from the dirt floor and fresh sweat from the crowded bodies; leather, spiced wine and women’s perfume. The clamour of voices grew in volume, swirling around him as he entered the large room. The boy hesitated a moment, then led him forward. He could sense the movement of air as slaves hurried around him, and smell the food and wine they carried. He heard his name mentioned in hushed voices from the surrounding tables, and discerned the change in the atmosphere from merriment to anticipation.

  The heat from the fire was close now, and he could feel the presence of the pillar before his hand was guided to it. There was a clatter of wood against stone, and then the boy pulled on his elbow, indicating that he should sit.

  ‘Thank you,’ Omeros said, lowering himself to the stool. Sensing a slave nearby, he held out a hand. ‘Please, my friend, take this boy to the kitchens and give him something to eat.’

  The child was led away, but Omeros was only alone for a moment before someone came and stood between him and the fire.

  ‘Eperitus,’ he said, greeting his friend with a smile. ‘Sit down beside me.’

  He heard the thump of chair legs being set down on the earth floor, followed by the click of fingers.

  ‘Food and wine for our bard.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  Eperitus sat down beside Omeros and embraced him with an arm around his shoulder.

  ‘How do you always know it’s me?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re usually the first to welcome me, unless your wife beats you to it – and I couldn’t smell her perfume. Where is Autonoe?’

  ‘With Penelope and Odysseus. They’re keen to hear you sing tonight. Everyone is. There’s not a soul missing who was here last night, and many more have turned up besides. Your reputation grows from song to song, old friend.’

  ‘Perhaps Heracles has more to do with it than me. People like to hear about a real hero.’

  Omeros sensed the approach of two or three slaves. A table was set down beside him and wooden platters placed upon it, smelling of fresh bread and roast meat. Someone took his hand and slipped a cup between his fingers, holding it steady while they poured wine into it. The bard thanked them and raised the cup to his nose. The contents smelled delicious. He dipped his fingers into the liquid and shook the drops onto the floor in remembrance of the gods, then took a swallow. It tasted every bit as good as it smelled.

  ‘A real hero,’ Eperitus echoed, uncertainly. ‘There’s no doubting Heracles’s strength or courage – only a great warrior could kill the Nemean Lion with his bare hands and slay the Hydra. But he murdered his own children, Omeros. That’s not what I call heroism.’

  ‘Was there ever a truly righteous hero?’ Omeros asked. ‘You were with Achilles at Troy: the greatest fighter in the whole Greek army, and yet he nearly lost us the war because of his bruised pride. Great Ajax, too: second only to Achilles, but his disregard for the gods cost him his sanity and his life. And what of our own king? We both know the things Odysseus did to get home from Troy.’

  ‘The war damaged us all, one way or another,’ Eperitus said. ‘I wonder how Heracles would have fared.’

  Omeros laughed. The idea of Heracles paying suit to Helen and letting any other man win her hand was absurd; and the thought of him waiting ten years to conquer Troy – a city he had already sacked once – was equally ridiculous.

  ‘That’s something we’ll never know. But now I must continue my tale.’

  He opened his bag and pulled out a tortoiseshell lyre. Eperitus placed his hand on his shoulder in silent encouragement, then returned to the table where his wife was sat with the king and queen. Several guests must have seen Omeros produce the instrument, for there was a lull in the din of voices around him, followed by a murmur of expectation.

  The tale of Heracles’s famous labours was a long one. He had started telling the first part the previous evening, and had not finished until the approach of dawn. His audience had sat in rapt silence as he plucked at the strings of his lyre and spoke of the tragic events that had brought Heracles to the edge of destruction: of the night of madness in which he had murdered his three sons and tried to kill his wife, Megara; of his attempt to take his own life, only to be frustrated by his nephew, Iolaus; and of his search for absolution from his crimes.

  The search had taken him to the oracle on Mount Parnassus, where the priestess – the mouthpiece of the gods – had told him his penance: to become a slave to his hated cousin, King Eurystheus. If he was to find peace from what he had done, he had to complete ten labours given to him by Eurystheus. The tasks would be impossible for ordinary men. But Heracles was no ordinary man. He was a son of Zeus, blessed by his father with immense strength.

  Yet having the king of Olympus for a father was also a curse. Gods have no part in the raising of their bastards, and though Zeus loved his son from afar, his wife, Hera, hated him with a jealous passion. Heracles was a living reminder of her husband’s infidelity, and she was determined to destroy him. She had already robbed him of his birthright – the thrones of Tiryns and Mycenae, which she had given to Eurystheus. She had also sent terrible monsters to kill him: the Nemean Lion, whose hide was impervious to any weapon; and the immortal
Hydra, with its many heads and poisonous breath. That they had failed only increased her hatred for him.

  But it was not Heracles’s courage and ability in defeating these unworldly creatures that appealed to Omeros. Nor was it his intelligence in completing the second of the labours, the capture of the Ceryneian Hind – an animal sacred to the goddess Artemis, whose vengeance would have fallen on anyone who harmed it. Even the labours that followed, which the bard was soon to sing about, had not endeared the great hero to Omeros. It was because Heracles was a defender of the weak. Despite possessing immense strength and the determination to face any challenge, these qualities were tempered by a compassion for those whom the rich and powerful scorned or forgot. He had more regard for the beggar, the widow or the orphan than for all those who dominated by rank or force. And since he had lost his sight, Omeros counted himself among the weakest of the weak.

  He drained the last of his wine and put the cup on the table. Reaching for his lyre, he settled it on his hip and slipped his wrist through a leather strap attached to one of its horns. Taking a flat piece of bone from the pouch on his belt, he tested the strings with a few notes, adjusting each one until they were in tune. Though he had not yet started his song, the audience clapped his efforts enthusiastically. By the time they had settled into an attentive silence, the instrument was ready to play.

  He drew the fingers of his left hand along the upper end of the strings, then plucked an intricate pattern of notes along the bottom. The last few hushed murmurs faded away as the tune resonated around the great hall, commanding the attention of everyone in the room, both nobleman and slave.

  At last, he spoke. His words were soft and clear, calling on the Muse to guide him as he continued his tale. In a few words, he reminded the listeners of Heracles’s crime, his enslavement to Eurystheus and the ten labours he was forced to undertake.

  ‘Three had been completed. The Lion he killed with his bare hands, and the Hind he snared with a single arrow through both forelegs. He cut off the Hydra’s seven heads and cauterised the open wounds, so that new heads could not grow back from the stumps of the old. Yet because Iolaus had assisted him, Eurystheus asserted that the labour could not be counted among the ten.

  ‘In a rage, Heracles returned to the hovel that had been assigned to him among the slums of Tiryns. There he found Megara, whom he had not spoken with since the day he had murdered their children. Like him, she had been trying to understand how he could have harmed the sons he loved so dearly. Unlike him, though, she had found the answer, and it had horrified her so much that she had felt compelled to find him and tell him.’

  For Heracles had not strangled his children out of drunken excess, Omeros continued, or because the gods had sent him temporarily insane. Neither was it the result of some dark aspect of his character, as Heracles had feared. The cause was simpler and much more sinister. He had been drugged. Someone had wanted him to kill his family.

  Chapter One

  THE FOURTH LABOUR

  Heracles could hear the goats on the hillside beyond the house. He could smell blossoms on the breeze coming in through the window, and hear the soft shushing of the curtains as they billowed into the room. He could feel the cold, limp weight in his arms. But he could see nothing. His tear-filled eyes were squeezed shut, and he knew that to open them would only confirm the awful truth of what he had done. Yet he had to face it.

  He looked at the scene before him. The early morning sunlight reflected off the brilliant stucco walls and bathed everything in a searing white. As his vision accustomed itself to the brightness, more details came into focus. The door had been torn from its hinges and lay in the passageway outside. A dark red handprint was visible on the doorjamb, and there were streaks of dried blood on the walls. Three beds lay overturned, their mattresses and furs scattered across the floor.

  Tangled up in the mess were the bodies of two of his children. He had only glimpsed them earlier, as he staggered into the room, crying out in horror and despair. Now, as he stared at them he felt a great void open up inside him, as if he was teetering on the edge of an abyss, waiting to fall. Deicoon, his youngest, lay on his front, unnaturally still as the shadow of the curtain played across him. Creontiades, just three, was half hidden beneath a goatskin, his lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling.

  The oldest of the three, Therimachus, hung in Heracles’s arms, his face white and his bedclothes drenched with blood. Heracles looked at him, still unable to understand what had happened, his dazed emotions stumbling between misery and rage. Then he lifted the little body to his chest and buried his face in his son’s hair, falling at last into the waiting pit of his grief.

  He awoke with a start. The last traces of his dream fell away and he realized with an overwhelming sense of relief that he was back in the hovel in Tiryns. But as he stared up into darkness, he was aware that something had woken him. Throwing aside his sweat-sodden blanket, he lifted his head and looked around at the dingy little room. There was a moment’s silence, then the door sprang open with a crash and several armed men rushed in.

  He reached for the club on the chair beside him, but before he could reach it, a foot slammed into his face and knocked him on to his back. His head hit the floor and the shadows in the room grew suddenly blacker as he slipped towards unconsciousness.

  The feel of cold iron about his wrists brought him back to his senses. Looking up, he saw six or seven men kneeling over him, their bearded faces fearful as they pinned his arms and legs to the ground. One was stuffing a cloth into his mouth, while another was fitting shackles about his ankles. He tried to move his hands, but they had already been manacled.

  A sudden sense of claustrophobia gripped him. Ever since childhood, he had hated any form of constraint. His stepfather had once punished him by locking him in a tiny room without light. He would have gone out of his mind with terror, had his fear not ignited the ferocious strength that he was only starting to realize he possessed. Within moments, he had thrown the door from its hinges and was free. He had never allowed himself to be confined since.

  That same panic laid hold of him now. His whole body went rigid and he felt new strength coursing into his muscles. Pulling back his knees, he kicked out. The shackles flew from his ankles and the man who had been fitting them was thrown across the room, crashing into one of the walls. The other soldiers tried desperately to hold him down as he strained against the manacles on his wrists. Then the chain between the iron cuffs snapped and his arms flew out, scattering his captors around the small hut.

  He jumped to his feet and pulled the cloth from his mouth. The feeling of sudden freedom was exhilarating, and he let out a deafening roar of triumph. The soldiers picked themselves up and closed on him. One flung himself forward, hands splayed as if hoping to wrestle his giant opponent to the ground. He was thrown across the room by a single punch, crashing into the wall and bringing down the shelf on which Heracles kept his few possessions. Two more ran at him from opposite sides. He caught them by their necks and brought their helmeted heads together with a crunch. They collapsed in an unconscious heap at his feet.

  One of the other soldiers drew his sword from its scabbard. His eyes were wide with fear and his face gleamed with sweat. Ignoring the urgent warnings of one of his comrades, he lunged at Heracles’s stomach. Heracles twisted aside and caught the man’s hand in his fist, crushing it until he gave a cry of agony and released the weapon. Then he seized him by the throat and threw him out of the open doorway.

  The two remaining men looked round at their fallen comrades – lying unconscious or groaning as they clutched at their injuries – then ran from the hut. Heracles let them go. He glanced at the bed where Iolaus slept, but there was no sign of him. He wondered if his nephew had been taken while asleep, but knew the slightest sound of a struggle would have woken him. More likely, as often happened, he had been disturbed by rats or the barking of stray dogs and gone for a walk. Putting on his tunic and the lion-skin cloak that he wore as a t
rophy from his first labour – a labour that none had deemed possible, until he had dragged the body of the Nemean Lion back through the streets of Tiryns – Heracles picked up his club and stepped out into the street.

  A dozen archers stood in a semicircle around him, with bows drawn and arrows aimed at his chest. A man stood in their midst, the thick fur collar of his cloak making his shoulders look broad and hunched. His black hair was streaked with grey and his face was stern and humourless. In his hand was a polished staff.

  ‘You can leave your weapon in the hut,’ Copreus ordered. ‘King Eurystheus wants to see you.’

  ‘I’m in no mood to speak with that fool.’

  ‘That fool is your master, whom the gods commanded you to serve. And after you threatened him yesterday, he wants you bound before you come into his presence again.’

  ‘Then he can come and put the shackles on me himself!’

  Heracles towered over the herald and his escort, staring at them from beneath the upper jaw of the Nemean Lion. His temper was still hot after his dream and the struggle with the guards, and he was more than ready to carry on the fight. But Copreus was right: the oracle had told him to submit to Eurystheus as his slave, until he had completed the ten labours that would be set for him. To defy his cousin’s authority would be to break his own oath and deny himself the redemption his slavery and the labours would earn him. Besides, all it needed was a single arrow to pierce his heart and the fight would be over before it had begun. And since Megara’s revelation of the night before, he had a renewed desire to live and find out who had drugged him and caused him to kill his sons.

  ‘Very well,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll come. But not in irons.’

  Behind him, the soldiers who had been sent to fetter him limped from the hovel, nursing their wounds like scolded children.

  ‘Have it your way,’ Copreus said, visibly relieved that he would not have to try to take Heracles against his will. ‘But your weapon stays here.’

  Heracles tossed his club back through the open door, then looked up at the stars gleaming in the heavens above. From the positions of the constellations, he could tell that dawn was not far off. Copreus signalled for the escort to take up positions around him, then set off into the labyrinth of closely packed hovels. Despite his pronounced limp, he soon led them to the gates of the lower city, which were opened at his approach.