WRATH OF THE GODS Read online

  As Heracles followed the herald up the road towards the walls of the citadel, his thoughts fell to his surprise encounter with Megara. After murdering their children and trying to kill her, the last thing he had expected as he returned to his hut was to find his estranged wife waiting for him. Indeed, he had believed she never wanted to see him again.

  After he had killed Therimachus, Creontiades and Deicoon, Megara, like everyone else, had assumed her husband’s madness had been sent by the gods. Then, a few days later, a handful of mushrooms in the kitchen of their home had aroused her curiosity. Taking them to a witch, she had experienced for herself how they distorted the mind and turned even the most innocent things into ferocious demons. And whereas she had eaten a single dried mushroom that had lost much of its potency, Heracles had consumed several at once.

  Mercifully, the gods had taken away his memory of what had happened that night, but Megara was able to guess at the horrors that had possessed his mind and caused him to commit such atrocities. So she had come before him in the squalid hut that was now his home and told him it was not his fault. Even if she could never forget what he had done, she could no longer blame him. And he should no longer blame himself, either, she had said. For the witch had told her the mushrooms only grew on a single mountain, and were jealously sought after by those who desired to walk with the gods. Such rarities had not turned up in their kitchen by accident: someone had put them there with the deliberate intention of sending Heracles out of his mind.

  The thought had kept him awake long after Megara had returned to the home of the cousin she was staying with. Why would someone want him to butcher his family, unless it was to see him destroyed? Indeed, after discovering the bodies of his children, he had tried to commit suicide. Though he had failed, the life that remained to him was worse than death; an anguished nightmare of guilt without end – until he had realized that the guilt was not his to bear. His were the hands that had killed his children, and he would not be cleansed of the sin until he had completed the ten labours. But their deaths were not due to any deep-seated flaw in his character, as he had believed. He had been driven to it by an unknown enemy.

  Last night, he had resolved to find out who had brought the mushrooms to his home and avenge the destruction of his family. In the meantime, there were still eight more labours to complete if he was to receive absolution. And he had not forgotten the words of the Pythoness. The labours given you will be like the layers of an onion. If you succeed in peeling them back, you will eventually find the truth. And the truth will set you free.

  He followed Copreus through the second gateway into the citadel. The first glimmer of dawn was lessening the darkness in the east, and a few slaves were emerging from the porches of the large merchant houses, ready to start the day’s chores. The high parapet of the acropolis rose up ahead of them. Ever since Heracles had brought the corpse of the Nemean Lion into Eurystheus’s hall, the terrified king had refused to allow him into his palace; and so it was from these walls that Eurystheus would address him.

  Copreus stopped and signalled to one of the escort. The soldier ran up a narrow passage between the walls of the acropolis and the outer battlements of the citadel, where another gate guarded access to the palace above.

  ‘You’re not a native of Tiryns,’ Heracles said to the herald as they waited.

  Copreus ignored him and stared up at the battlements.

  ‘You’re a northerner, like myself,’ Heracles persisted. ‘A Boeotian, maybe?’

  ‘What’s it matter where I come from?’ Copreus replied, sharply. ‘I’m a Tirynian now.’

  ‘Chaeronea, then? Opus?’

  ‘Trachis, damn it.’

  Heracles smiled to himself. He looked up at the battlements, but there was still no sign of Eurystheus.

  ‘You’re a soldier, too,’ he continued.

  ‘Are you a seer as well as a slave?’ Copreus snapped, a flash of anger on his grizzled features.

  ‘Warriors know their own kind. You dress like a fighting man – practical clothes, not showy like most heralds. And then there’s that sword you wear. High-ranking officials don’t carry weapons. Not many would be trusted to.’

  Copreus turned to face him.

  ‘The king places his confidence in me.’

  ‘Then there’s the limp in your left leg,’ Heracles persisted. ‘A spear to the thigh on some forgotten battlefield, perhaps? Or maybe an arrow.’

  ‘An arrow, just here,’ Copreus said, tapping above the knee. ‘I was a captain in King Ceyx’s royal guard. We fought off a raid by Thracian pirates, and as I was forming my men to pursue our enemies, an archer caught me below the rim of my shield.’

  ‘Strange that a man like you should end up serving a man like him.’

  He jerked his thumb towards the empty battlements.

  ‘I have my reasons,’ Copreus replied.

  ‘And the finger?’ Heracles asked, pointing to the missing third digit on his right hand. ‘How did you lose that?’

  ‘Should a king’s herald be questioned by a mere slave?’ Copreus asked, sternly. Then his expression softened with the nearest he could offer to a smile. ‘I lost it fending off the dagger of a jealous husband.’

  ‘You lost it over a woman?’ Heracles exclaimed, breaking into a grin. ‘Perhaps we have more in common than I thought.’

  The pre-dawn silence was broken by the slamming of heavy wooden gates and the tramp of marching feet. A column of troops appeared from the direction of the gates to the acropolis – twenty of them at least, led by Tydeus, the captain of the guard. He wore a black-plumed helmet and a bronze breastplate beneath a flowing red cloak. A drawn sword was in his hand. He barked a few commands at his men, who ran to form a double circle around Heracles and his escort. At a final command, they made a wall with their shields and lowered their spear points. Copreus pushed his way through the cordon to stand beside Tydeus.

  At the same moment, Heracles caught the sound of voices from the battlements above and heard the approach of footsteps. Looking up, he saw slaves fixing flaming torches into brackets on the walls. Then Eurystheus’s pale, rounded face appeared between two of the crenellations. He tried not to look afraid, but despite the ring of bronze hemming his cousin in, he could not help but show his unease. Iphicles appeared next to him, his expression of cold hostility visible in the torchlight as he looked down at his brother. Charis, the priestess of Hera, was beside him, while on the other side of Eurystheus was a man that Heracles did not recognize.

  ‘Curious how the gods move,’ Eurystheus began. ‘It seems they don’t want to give you a day’s rest, Heracles. You’d barely left our presence yesterday evening when Thestor, here, arrived in the city. He has been sent by the king of Phegia, who has heard of your great fame – most notably of how you defeated the Nemean Lion.’

  Thestor – a young man with a black beard and long hair tied back behind his head – leaned over the ramparts and stared down at Heracles.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, looking across at Eurystheus, ‘if this man truly is Heracles, why is he kept at spear point? And why is he dressed in an old animal skin? In Phegia, such a man would be held in the highest honour, dressed in robes of fine wool with a golden brooch to match and––’

  ‘The man is dangerous,’ Iphicles interrupted, a hint of impatience in his tone. ‘If rumours of his feats have reached Phegia, then have you not also heard that he slaughtered his own sons in a fit of madness, after first trying to kill his wife? Only last night, he attempted to murder the king, a man he had sworn never to harm. And as for this old animal skin you sneer at, that is nothing less than the hide of the Nemean Lion, which he strangled with his own hands. Do you think, Thestor, that such a man as this would happily accept the plaudits of your king, or live easily among your nobility, dressed in your finest wool and adorned with your most expensive golden trinkets?’

  Thestor stared apprehensively at Heracles.

  ‘And yet, Iphicles,’ he said, ‘I’ve be
en sent to ask for whatever help this man can give us. We’re at our wits’ end and don’t know what to do. The beast I spoke of is ravaging the lands around Mount Erymanthus, where it has its lair. It smashes down walls and houses, and kills anyone in its path – young men and old, their women and their children. It has destroyed the crops and killed off much of the livestock – wanton destruction, without purpose or reason. Now those who remain have to barter what little they possess for grain from neighbouring towns and cities, or face starvation now that winter is here.’

  ‘What manner of beast is this?’ Heracles asked.

  ‘A boar, my lord. But not any ordinary animal. It’s as big as an ox and many times more ferocious. Since I was a boy, there were tales of a great beast living high up on the mountain, an animal capable of goring bears and lions to death with its long tusks. It would kill anyone it found who’d strayed into its territory, but it never ventured down as far as the foothills. Not until now.’

  ‘Why hasn’t it been hunted down?’ Heracles asked. ‘A dozen men with hounds and spears could kill any boar.’

  ‘Not this one! Our king sent a party of his best huntsmen against it, along with twenty young nobles and his two oldest sons. Only four men returned, badly wounded and out of their minds with fear. The boar caught them unawares, tearing through them as if they were nothing more than wheat sheaves. The hounds leaped on its back and locked their jaws about its legs, but it threw them off easily and killed several before the rest fled.

  ‘The men fared worse. The survivors said the speed of the monster was incredible. Most of their spears missed, and the few that sank into its hide it barely noticed. The same with the arrows they poured into it – all they did was make it angrier.’

  Heracles had hunted many boars, and was familiar with their vicious nature when threatened. He also knew the tendency of warriors to exaggerate the size and abilities of their enemies after a defeat. But he did not think Thestor’s tale of a monstrous boar had been embellished. Something strange was happening across Greece, and after facing the Nemean Lion and the Hydra he was not surprised to hear of another fiend bringing terror to the land.

  Indeed, he sensed the ruthless hand of Hera at play. The goddess hated her husband’s bastard and would do anything to kill him, though she feared the wrath of Zeus too much to have anything more than an indirect hand in his death. But she would happily expose ordinary men, women and children to the fury of a monstrous boar, if it lured Heracles to their defence. And hopefully his own destruction.

  ‘Will you help us?’ Thestor asked. ‘They say you have the strength and courage of ten men. Even with the things my lord Iphicles says about you, any man who can deliver us from this boar will be welcomed in Phegia. The king wants his sons avenged, and will offer you the creature’s weight in gold if you can rid us of it.’

  ‘Heracles is to receive no payment,’ Iphicles announced. ‘His labours are a penance and should get no reward, financial or otherwise. As King Eurystheus’s slave, he is ordered to travel to Phegia and stop the boar from troubling your land any more; but the reward should be sent to his master, the king.’

  Thestor glanced from Heracles to Iphicles and Eurystheus.

  ‘As you please, my lords. I will leave for Phegia at once, and I’d be honoured if you would ride with me, Heracles. It will speed your journey.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Heracles said, noting that Thestor was ready to risk having a madman in his chariot if it would deliver his homeland from the boar. ‘But I can make my own way to Mount Erymanthus. There’s a friend I want to see on the way.’

  ‘Not yet!’ Eurystheus said, as Heracles turned to go. The spear points hemming him in edged a little closer. ‘This boar may be large and fearsome, but no more so than the Hydra or the Nemean Lion, and you were able to defeat them. So the gods have decided to make this a test worthy of your abilities.’

  His thick lips spread into a smile and he signalled for Charis to step forward. Each of the previous labours had been set by Hera through her priestess, given to her in dreams and visions; and as Heracles watched Charis approach the battlements, it seemed his fears that the goddess was behind the appearance of the boar were to be proved true. The priestess tipped the hood back from her black cloak, revealing her fair hair and pale face. She had a high forehead and straight nose, but her usually cold eyes seemed almost pitying as she stared down at the man who had already survived the three impossible labours she had set for him.

  ‘Before Thestor arrived, I was lighting the lamps in the temple when I became aware that I was not alone,’ she began. ‘A voice came from the statue of Hera, telling me that you were to hunt a great boar in the mountains of Arcadia. But you are not to kill it. The monster must be brought back to Tiryns alive, to be sacrificed to the goddess. Only then can the labour be counted complete.’

  Heracles was aware of the grin on Eurystheus’s face and the look of disbelief on Thestor’s. Thin-lipped, he looked from Charis to Iphicles and then, lastly, to Eurystheus.

  ‘If that’s what the gods command, then I will bring the boar back alive.’

  He turned on his heel, pushed aside the spears of the soldiers before him, and marched down to the gates of the citadel.

  * * *

  The eastern mountains were silhouetted black against the first light of dawn as Iolaus rode his chariot away from the slums of Tiryns and out into the open countryside. Thick clusters of stars were still visible in the purple heavens, while above the mountain peaks a few strands of cloud were tinged orange by the light of the approaching sun. Birds were singing in the trees that lined the road, and from the dark fields on either side he could hear the bleating of sheep and goats in their stone pens.

  The night before, he had waited in the shadows of the hovels until the door of Heracles’s hut had opened. Megara had stepped out into the dusky half-light, and Heracles had stood behind her in the doorway, a mixture of sadness and confusion written on his face as he watched her walk away. Iolaus went after her, intending to escort her to wherever she was staying. More importantly, he wanted to ask what had brought her back to her husband.

  But before he could catch up with her, she was met by two young men – clearly slaves – who led her away through the darkening alleyways. Seeing a skinny, begrimed boy lurking in the doorway of a house, he offered him an apple to follow her and find out where she was going. When the boy returned for his payment, it was with the news that the two men had driven Megara away in a wagon. Fortunately, the boy had been resourceful enough to discover that the two slaves belonged to a wealthy landowner who lived on a large farm in the foothills of the mountains.

  Returning to the hut, Iolaus almost had to beg Heracles to tell him the purpose of Megara’s visit. The grudging answer had stunned him. After digesting the information that his uncle had been deliberately drugged, he probed him about who he thought would do such a thing. But Heracles was in no mood to face questions from his squire, so Iolaus had laid down under his blanket and tried to work out the answers for himself. As tiredness got the better of him, his thoughts had turned back to Megara. Remembering how she had looked as she left Heracles’s hut, he closed his eyes and slid into a restless sleep.

  He reached a crossroads and took the eastern track. The sun had risen behind the mountains, driving back the night and filling the clouds with a golden light. The tops of the tallest trees blazed yellow, as if on fire. On the hillsides, goats and sheep bleated noisily as the herdsmen drove them up to pasture. The white-walled farmhouses gleamed pink out in the fields, and the small black figures of the farmers could be seen starting their days’ work. On the sloping foothills ahead of him, Iolaus saw a large, two-storied house surrounded by vineyards and orchards. A wisp of pale smoke was rising up from between its flat roofs and he could hear the whinnying of horses. In the courtyard before the large portico, several men were loading items onto a small wagon.

  Iolaus cracked his whip and urged the chariot forward. Turning from the main road onto the
track that led up to the house, he was soon pulling into the wide courtyard. A slave rushed forward and held his horses.

  ‘Is this the house of Ormenos, son of Paion?’ Iolaus asked, recalling the name of the Tirynian landowner who had married one of Megara’s cousins.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ the slave answered.

  ‘Then you have a guest staying here – Megara, the daughter of King Creon of Thebes.’

  ‘Iolaus!’

  He turned to see Megara standing on the portico of the house. Her surprise turned quickly to joy and she ran to meet him. He jumped down from the back of the chariot and she stopped a couple of paces short, reaching out to take his hand in both of hers. The warmth of her fingers wrapped around his sent a thrill of excitement through him, quickly followed by a pang of guilt.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said, accusatively. Then she dismissed it with a smile and squeezed his hand tighter. ‘I have missed you. I didn’t expect to see you before I returned home, but here you are. The gods must have sent you to me.’

  ‘Perhaps. Or maybe I didn’t want you to slip away without saying goodbye.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve, after leaving Thebes without a word of explanation. I guessed you’d set off to find Heracles, but you could at least have warned me you were going.’

  ‘If I had, you’d have done everything in your power to stop me. It was difficult enough leaving you anyway – after all you’ve been through, you needed a friend at your side. Then you went back to the house where… where the boys were killed, and you seemed different. Stronger again. I hoped you didn’t need me quite as much, and that I might go looking for a few answers of my own.’