SON OF ZEUS Read online

  ‘Stop!’

  The woman looked back at him, as if waking from a dream. Then a look of alarm gripped her features. She shook her head at him and turned away, dragging her daughter with her.

  ‘Wait. I have something for you.’

  He put his hand into the leather pouch at his hip and pulled out half a loaf of bread. As the child saw it, she remembered her hunger and her expression became pained. She tugged at her mother’s hand to prevent her walking away, and with the other reached out for the bread. The woman relented, a look of helpless concern in her eyes. Heracles broke the bread in two as he approached and offered a piece to the child. She slipped her fingers from her mother’s grip and snatched it from him.

  ‘Eat, child,’ he encouraged her, trying to smile.

  The girl bit into the food, eating quickly and noisily. He placed his hand on her head, remembering the feel of his own children’s hair and sensing the longing for them in his heart.

  ‘This is for you,’ he added, handing the remainder to the mother. ‘You look like you haven’t eaten in a week.’

  The woman shook her head and glanced nervously over her shoulder at the men, who had resumed their loud conversations.

  ‘Leave us alone,’ she hissed. ‘We don’t need your help or want it. For all our sakes, just go.’

  ‘But why?’ the girl protested. ‘He’s kind, like Father was.’

  ‘Where is your father?’ Heracles asked, giving her the other piece of bread.

  ‘He’s dead,’ the woman answered. ‘They murdered him. And they’ll do the same to you if you don’t go at once.’

  ‘Bandits,’ he sneered, feeling a pulse of anger. ‘What did they do to your husband?’

  ‘We were pilgrims. They surrounded us on our return from the oracle, and when he tried to resist they killed him. And now they’re taking us to sell as slaves.’

  ‘What’s going on ?’

  One of the men had stopped and was glaring at them. A few of the others turned at the sound of his voice. The woman stared up at Heracles, her eyes wide with fear now.

  ‘For her sake,’ she said, pulling her daughter to herself, ‘please go. Please go .’

  ‘I said what’s going on?’ the man shouted, his face flushed with anger now.

  Heracles looked at him, then down at the woman and her daughter. He could still do as she was begging him to; he could walk away and leave them to their fate. The woman might get a beating, but they would not want to damage her looks too much – not if they wanted a good price for her. And her daughter might do well for herself, if she was sold to a decent household. Besides, it was not for him to interfere in whatever plans the gods had for them. His business was with the oracle, and if he left now he could still get there before nightfall.

  But there were those who had other uses for children of her age, he thought. And what if the gods had planned for him to save the girl? As for the oracle, his questions could wait.

  He looked down at the woman and her daughter.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he said.

  ‘Leave them alone,’ the man shouted, drawing his sword and striding towards them. ‘You’re slowing us down.’

  The woman grabbed one of Heracles’s massive hands and kissed it, before pushing her daughter towards him.

  ‘Then help us,’ she pleaded. ‘In Hera’s name, take Myrine and run. I don’t care what they do to me, just save my child.’

  The bandit seized the woman’s hair and dragged her back, throwing her to the ground.

  ‘Give the little one to me,’ he said, reaching for the child.

  Heracles pulled her behind him.

  ‘I’ll buy them both.’

  ‘You couldn’t afford them,’ called the stocky man with the broken nose, leaning against the cart.

  Heracles reached into his pouch and pulled out two flat oblongs of metal.

  ‘A silver ingot each. That’s more than any slave is worth.’

  A murmur spread among the watching bandits. The woman rose to her feet and moved to one side, beckoning her daughter to join her. The man put away his sword and took the ingots from Heracles’s hand. He examined them closely, trying to bend them with his fingers.

  ‘They’re real,’ he called back.

  ‘Then there’s more where they came from,’ said the flat-nosed man. ‘Give us the rest, friend, and we’ll let you live.’

  Heracles signalled to the woman.

  ‘Take Myrine over to the tree and cover her eyes,’ he said. ‘Cover your own too.’

  The nearest bandit stuffed the ingots into his pouch and made a grab for his sword. Before he could wrap his fingers around the hilt, Heracles took him by the shoulders and butted him hard in the face. The man’s nose split open, pouring blood over his mouth and chin, and he went limp. His comrades gave a shout of rage and drew their weapons, four of them rushing forward to attack. Heracles lifted his unconscious victim easily over his head and hurled him at the oncoming brigands.

  Three were knocked onto their backs in a sprawl of arms and legs, but the fourth ran on, wielding a double-bladed axe. With a rage-filled cry, he brought it down at Heracles’s chest. Heracles caught the haft with his out-thrust hand and ripped it from the man’s grip. Tossing it aside, he drew back his fist and slammed it into his attacker’s jaw with enough force to fell an ox. There was a crack of bone and the man was thrown backwards, spitting blood and teeth. He landed in a heap some way from the road and remained still.

  The other three scrambled from beneath the unconscious body of Heracles’s first victim and ran back to their comrades. Having witnessed the strength of their opponent, the rest of the group were less keen to rush him. Instead, at the command of the scar-faced man, they drew their weapons and spread out in a semi-circle.

  Heracles looked at the ring of gleaming bronze and thought of the dark tragedy that had so recently thrown his life into chaos. All he needed to do was walk forward and the misery would be over. He had tried once already, only for Iolaus to save him. But Iolaus was not with him now.

  Then he heard the child sobbing with fear at the shouts of the men closing around them, and the hushed words of her mother as she tried to calm her. However deep his own grief and despair, did he have the right to give up his life if it meant them being sold into slavery? His friend King Thespius had told him to go to the oracle and ask what penance the gods demanded of him for his crime. Perhaps this was his penance – to save them.

  But strength alone would not be enough to defeat a band of thieves and murderers, each of them armed while he carried nothing. The woman and child were huddled together beneath the olive tree he had sat under earlier. Striding towards them, he seized hold of a large branch and wrenched it off with a grunt. He stripped away the foliage and tested the weight of the club he had made.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said the man with the broken nose, stepping forward with his sword in his hand. ‘I’ve felled bigger men than you.’

  ‘And I’ve killed smaller men than you,’ Heracles replied.

  He swung the club. The man raised his sword, but the force of the blow smashed through his arm with a snap of bone and swept him from his legs. He was thrown across the road and landed against the back of the cart, slumping to the ground with barely a grunt.

  At a signal from the scar-faced man, several of the others rushed forward. One – quicker than the rest – came at Heracles from his right, but was flattened by a backward swing of his club. Two more fell as he brought it back again, crushing the upper arm and ribs of the first and driving him sidelong into the second so that both were sent tumbling across the dirt track into the grass verge.

  A fourth attacker lunged with the point of his sword. Heracles twisted aside at the last moment, the edge of the blade slashing open his tunic and grazing the surface of the hard muscles beneath. The sting of the wound produced a furious reaction in him. Taking hold of the man’s wrist, he twisted it hard. There was a crack and the bandit shrieked with pain, letting his
weapon fall to the ground. Resisting the temptation to pull the man’s head under his arm and snap his neck, Heracles picked him up by his arms and – with a half-turn, as if he were throwing a discus – he hurled him onto the verge at the side of the road. He landed with a thud and a groan, and after a weak effort to pull himself away, collapsed and lay still.

  A sudden blow to Heracles’s shoulder sent a hot stab of pain shooting down through his chest. He staggered backwards, clutching at the arrow buried in the muscle. With an angry shout, he wrenched it free and sent it spinning into the trees. Scanning the semi-circle of brigands, he picked out a figure standing in the back of the wagon. The drunkard had woken from his stupor and now stood with an empty bow in his hand, his right hand still hovering by his ear where it had released the arrow. With a victorious hoot, he reached down to the leather quiver gripped between his knees and pulled out a second dart.

  Before he could fit it, Heracles drew back his club and launched it at the archer. It thumped into his chest, lifting him from his feet and sending him sprawling into the Aethiope driver. They tumbled down between the backs of the oxen and hit the ground. Startled, the slow beasts shambled forward, crushing the two men beneath the heavy wheels of the cart. They screamed briefly and were silent.

  Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Heracles snatched up a discarded sword and leaped into the midst of the bandits. One brought the edge of his weapon down at his neck. Heracles met the blow, bronze scraping against bronze, and threw his attacker back. Turning, he parried the thrust of a second man, knocking his weapon aside with ease before driving his left fist into the bandit’s face. He fell unconscious, blood pumping from his shattered nose. Having seen ten of their comrades killed or battered into unconsciousness by the lone giant, the confidence of the remaining few drained away. Heracles rebalanced the sword in his hand and stepped towards them, but they threw down their weapons and ran.

  Suddenly, the woman screamed a warning behind him. Heracles turned on his heel to see the scar-faced man with his sword raised high over his head. Before Heracles could lift his own weapon in defence, the woman ran forward and grabbed the man’s elbow with both hands, pulling him backwards. The bandit lashed out, catching her on the side of the head with the pommel of his sword. She fell unconscious to the ground and her daughter ran to her side, screaming with fear.

  Heracles’s rage exploded within him. He swung his sword two-handed at the scar-faced man, who skipped back from the arcing blade and almost fell. Recovering quickly, he lunged at his attacker’s chest. Heracles met the blow, driving the man’s sword upwards with such force that it flew from his grip and landed in the dust several paces away. Defenceless, the bandit ran to the cover of the olive tree, ducking behind it as Heracles charged after him and buried his sword deep in the wood.

  The blade stuck fast. Seeing his chance, the scar-faced man pulled a dagger from his belt and drove it at Heracles’s chest. Heracles caught his wrist and slammed it against the bole of the tree. The man let out a cry and the knife fell into the dirt. A moment later, Heracles’s fingers were tight around his throat.

  ‘Mercy!’ the bandit gasped.

  But Heracles was lost in the grip of his own terrible fury. If he heard the words, they did not register. All he knew was the anger that filled him with terrible strength, and the desire to kill that blotted out every other thought and emotion. He watched, almost detached, as the bandit’s face turned red and his eyes bulged. He listened dispassionately to his final, croaking breaths and the half-formed pleas that escaped his lips.

  Then a hand touched his arm.

  Surprised, he released the scar-faced man and turned, pulling his fist back to drive into the face of the new assailant. Rage tensed his muscles, filling them with the power to kill. Then he saw the child looking up at him, her eyes wide with terror at the transformation she saw before her. Releasing her grip on his elbow, she stumbled back, pointing to the road.

  ‘My mother…’ she began.

  Her small voice was muffled by the pounding of blood in Heracles’s head. He was vaguely aware of how close he had come to hitting the girl – and the knowledge that if he had hit her, he would certainly have killed her. And then he saw the bandit push himself to his feet and stagger away at an angle, his hand clasped over his throat. When he was several paces clear, he turned to face Heracles. He knew he had escaped death by the narrowest margin, but his conceited pride wanted to take something from the encounter. He spat in the dust and glared at Heracles.

  ‘Keep the whore and her bitch,’ he rasped. ‘There are plenty more pilgrims in these mountains, easy prey for men like me.’

  He stooped to pick up his sword, then turned and walked away.

  ‘Not any more,’ Heracles growled.

  His anger was still burning within him. Seeing the rock beneath the olive tree, where he had sat while the column of men had passed by, he walked over to it and dropped to one knee. Laying a hand on either side, he took a firm grip on the stone. Then, with teeth gritted and muscles straining, he jerked it up from the earth where it had rooted itself and lifted it above his head. Pushing a foot out behind himself, he leaned back and with a huge shout hurled the rock through the air. The brigand turned, his mouth falling open as the shadow of the boulder descended on him. But the cry never left his lips. The rock dashed him to a pulp, splashing his blood across the road as it rolled over him and came to rest against the grass verge.

  Heracles took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting his anger ebb away with it. He turned and looked at the child, kneeling in the middle of the road beside her mother, who was sitting up and holding her hand to her forehead. Both were staring at him in astonishment. That he had almost struck the child in the midst of his rage suddenly shamed him, and he turned his gaze from them and walked towards the wagon.

  He stepped over the corpses of the driver and the archer and reached the cart. The oxen had pulled it a little further down the track, but without the driver’s whip on their backs, they had stopped at the side of the road and were tugging at the long grass. He reached into the back of the wagon, pulled the stopper out of the wineskin and raised it to his lips, drinking heavily.

  He heard the woman’s bare feet on the road behind him, followed by the child’s smaller steps.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Thank you for helping us. You’re a good man.’

  He lowered the skin and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I’m a terrible man. Worse than these poor fools ever were.’

  He indicated the dead and unconscious men spread across the road. The woman shook her head, and for the first time he saw the beauty beneath the tear-stained grime.

  ‘That’s not true. You saved my daughter. You even saved me. No one else would have done that.’

  ‘Saved your daughter? Didn’t you see I nearly struck her when she took me by the arm? In my anger I nearly killed her.’

  ‘But you didn’t .’

  ‘I killed him, though,’ he said, nodding towards the corpse of the scar-faced man. ‘He had his back to me; he was walking away, and I chose to murder him.’

  ‘He killed my father,’ the little girl said. ‘He deserved to die.’

  Stepping up to Heracles, she threw her arms about his legs and held him tight, her fear at his earlier anger forgotten.

  ‘Without you, my daughter and I would have been sold into slavery,’ the woman said, stroking her child’s hair. ‘Maybe even separated.’

  The thought was too much for her and she broke down in tears.

  ‘Here,’ he said, putting the skin in the woman’s hands. ‘There’s enough for you and the child.’

  She wiped away her tears and looked him in the eye. Then she nodded her thanks and gave the wine to her daughter, who released her hold on Heracles and raised the skin to her lips. When she had drunk enough, the woman took a swallow for herself. Heracles turned and tossed several sacks of grain over the side of the cart until he found wh
at he was looking for. He picked up the coil of rope and began measuring it out.

  ‘You’re wounded,’ the woman said, reaching up and gently touching his shoulder where he had been pierced by the arrow, then letting her fingers fall to the graze on his ribs. ‘Let me dress them for you.’

  ‘Tend to yourself first,’ he said, pointing to the cut on her head. ‘I’ll deal with them.’

  Three of the bandits were beginning to stir from their unconsciousness. He tied up the first two and threw them in a heap at the foot of the olive tree, where he retrieved the silver ingots from the man who had first attacked him. The man with the flattened nose was quicker on his feet and had to be felled with another punch before Heracles tied him up and flung him down beside the others. After gagging them with strips of their own cloaks, he tore off more lengths and gave them to the woman, who had already bandaged her own cut.

  ‘Here,’ he said, sitting on the grass verge and removing his tunic.

  She sat down beside him, eyeing his broad chest and shoulders with their tightly defined muscles. Then she signalled for her daughter to bring the wine. The girl poured some onto a cloth and bathed his wounds, while her mother tore the bandages to the right length and began to bind them.

  ‘Myrine likes you,’ she said.

  The girl smiled at him, but he could only think of the look on her face when he had raised his fist against her. He dropped his gaze to the ground.

  ‘You have children of your own?’ the woman asked, tying off the bandage around his shoulder.

  ‘I did,’ he said. ‘Three boys.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What happened?’

  He reached into his belt and took out the two silver ingots he had retrieved from the bandits.

  ‘Here, take these. You can come with me to the next town and I’ll find a good inn for you and your daughter. There’ll be other pilgrims going down to the coast; you can join them, then find a ship to whichever part of Greece you come from.’