Calus’s mount was fast and had soon caught up with the others. Heracles glanced over his shoulder and counted around a dozen Amazons in pursuit, with several more further back on the road. The closest were still gaining on them, and he considered dismounting and bringing a few down with his bow. But they were not the kind to flee at the first show of resistance, and even if they did not overcome him at once, all they needed to do was pin him down until the others joined them. Dismissing the notion, he spurred his horse onwards.
Ahead of him, Iolaus gave a shout and gestured. The thick belt of trees that separated the fields from the shore was looming up before them, giving new heart to the riders. They urged their mounts on towards the shadowy eaves, but then disaster struck. The air filled with the hiss of arrows. One of the horses ahead of Heracles reared its head and its hind legs collapsed beneath it. He watched in horror as Megara was thrown to the ground and rolled into a ditch at the side of the road, where she lay still. Iolaus, who was almost at the entrance to the wood, turned his horse and rode back, but Heracles reached her first. He leaped to the ground and ran to where she lay, scooping her up in his arms. Her furs had protected her from the worst of the fall, though one arm and leg were streaked with dirt and blood. As he carried her from the ditch, she opened her eyes and looked at him groggily. And then he heard the cries of the approaching Amazons and the whistle of another volley of arrows.
Instinctively, he turned his back to shield Megara. Four or five sharp blows thumped into him, but none could penetrate the hide of his cloak. Fortunately, his horse remained unhurt. Lifting her onto its back, he told her to ride for the trees.
‘What about you?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to gain us some time. There’s no time to argue – go!’
She bent down and kissed him on the forehead, then kicked her heels back. Quickly drawing his bow, Heracles fitted an arrow and took aim at their pursuers. The foremost was thrown from the back of her horse with a scream, his arrow buried in her chest. Two more fell before he was forced to snatch the club from his belt. The leading Amazon charged at him with her spear couched beneath her arm. Heracles stood his ground, his imposing bulk forcing the horse wide. As the rider lunged at him with the point of her spear, he brought his club down on her extended arm. The bone snapped and she fell heavily to the ground.
Ignoring her screams, he turned towards two more Amazons who were riding at him with their spears lowered. The sight of their horses bearing down on him at speed was enough to test even his nerve, but he knew that to turn and run now meant certain death. Instead, he gave a roar of anger and ran forward. But before he could reach them, he heard the thudding of hooves behind him and was passed a moment later by Calus’s mount. The slave held a sword above his head – taken, perhaps, from one of the dead Amazons at the wall – and was shouting at the top of his voice.
His unexpected appearance caught the Amazons off guard. As the one to Heracles’s right tried to switch her spear across to meet Calus’s attack, he swung the heavy blade into her chest. There was no skill in the blow, and little force, but it was enough to throw her balance and topple her from the back of her horse. The slave gave a triumphant shout and waved his sword over his head. The second warrior dashed at Heracles, her spear point skimming off the side of his cloak. As she passed, he swung his club into the side of her horse, crushing her thigh against its flank and sending both rider and mount crashing into the ditch at the side of the road.
A loud cry was followed by a clash of bronze. Heracles turned to see Iolaus charge into two more Amazons. He cut one down almost instantly, his sword slicing open her throat and nearly severing her head. As she fell, the second rider turned her horse about and fled. The other survivors still carried their bows and had remained at a distance from the melee. Seeing the defeat of their comrades, they loosed a hasty volley of arrows, then turned and fled towards the larger group of Amazons approaching at pace along the road.
Three were targeted at Heracles, who shielded himself with his lion skin and felt them thump into the thick hide. But a fourth arrow found its mark in Calus’s chest. He slumped back over his mount, then rolled off to the ground and lay still. Heracles heard a cry of dismay behind him and turned to see Megara riding out of the trees towards them.
‘Calus!’
‘He’s dead,’ Iolaus said, glancing at the body and then back at the horde of pursuing Amazons. ‘At least he’s a free man now, and his ghost has gone down with honour into the Underworld.’
Megara stopped her mount beside Heracles and offered him her hand. He pulled himself up behind her and spurred the animal into the trees. He only hoped that someone was still awake on board the galley to hear the sound of hooves and send a boat to meet them.
Then he felt Megara’s hand take his and pull his arm around her waist. And despite his wounds and the closeness of death behind them, he smiled.
Chapter Four
BLIGHTED RETRIBUTION
All her life, Charis had dreamed. Even as a child, she had dreamed of things she could not possibly have known, seeing them in her sleep a day, or a week – or more – before they actually happened. She dreamed of some of the men who would visit her mother, knowing which ones would take a special liking to her and pay her generously, and which ones would refuse to give her her dues, or beat her horribly before leaving with a cruel grin on their lips. She had tried to warn her mother more than once, but she hated to be told – said that the work had to be done regardless, or they would both starve.
It was one of the reasons her mother had given her to the priestess of Hera, in exchange for a bowl of soup and some wine. Not just because she was hungry or had an insatiable liking for drink, but because she disliked her daughter’s uncanny knowledge of things that were going to happen; and because so little of it was good. She could not tolerate it any more, and Charis only had herself to blame.
Strangely, her dreams were never about herself. She had not foreseen being given to the temple, or the harsh regime she would be subjected to there. But the priestess had quickly recognized her young novice’s gift, seeing in her a successor and training her rigorously in the ways of the priesthood. But if she was a stern mistress, she did not exploit her young charge as others might have – bartering the girl’s visions for treasures to enrich the temple. No, the old woman had preserved her talents for service to the Queen of the Gods. And when the priestess died – on the exact day Charis had dreamed she would – her apprentice took her place. At the age of thirteen, Charis had become the high priestess of Hera.
That was more than ten years ago, and she had served the goddess faithfully ever since. Until a few weeks ago, when Iphicles had come to speak with her. The king’s adviser told her how Copreus had induced Heracles’s madness and deliberately brought about the deaths of his children, and how he had also taken Megara hostage to protect himself from her husband’s vengeance, leaving her in the hands of the brutal Amazons. Admitting he had been wrong to despise Heracles, Iphicles wanted to help his brother rescue Megara, but could only do it with Charis’s help.
Hera – from whom she received her dreams – had not given her foreknowledge of Copreus’s deeds, or Megara’s imprisonment. Yet Charis, like Iphicles, had come to sympathize with Heracles, for reasons that were personal to her. And so she agreed to claim that Hera had told her to send him to Themiscyra for the next labour, to fetch the golden belt of Hippolyte. The next day, Iphicles disappeared from Tiryns, leaving no clue as to where he had gone or why. Charis suspected he could no longer help Eurystheus in his persecution of Heracles.
Why had she allowed herself to be persuaded by him? The moment Heracles sailed to the land of the Amazons, she knew she had made a terrible mistake. It was not foolishness alone that had led her to it, but rather a confusing of where her loyalties lay. Hera had been kind to her, giving her a gift of prophecy that had saved her from following her mother into prostitution. Yet she had scorned her benefactor for the sake of her husband’s basta
rd. And since then, she had not dreamed once. For the first time in her life, the goddess had removed her favour from her.
She looked up from the side streets of the outer city. The stars were few and faint, hidden by the radiance of the brilliant moon. Its light filled whole stretches of the narrow thoroughfares, but also made the shadows deeper and more impenetrable. She had gone there with some of the temple offerings – a few oatcakes and some meat, wrapped in a cloth – and a skin of wine, taking them to an old beggar woman in one of the hovels Heracles had made. It was more a guilt offering than an act of charity, driven by the knowledge that her fate would have been the same as the beggar’s, had it not been for the gift of prophecy that Hera had given her. And though she visited her every night, the old hag had never once thanked her, or even acknowledged she was there. Was it shame for what she had done, or was her mind so far gone that she no longer knew her own daughter? Charis hoped it was the latter.
As she wandered back between the tightly packed houses, no longer quite certain where she was, she heard a noise behind her. Turning, she thought she saw a movement in one of the doorways. She narrowed her eyes against the blackness, fancying that there was a shape there, tall and indistinct. Then a stray dog came trotting out of an alley, straight towards her. It was large and filthy, and she drew back against the wall, wary it might bite her. But it hardly seemed to notice her as it passed by, pausing to glance over its shoulder at her before carrying on its way. Thinking it might be heading to the main thoroughfare that led up to the city walls, she decided to follow it.
Its head hung low to the ground as its lean body jogged along ahead of her. She followed as quickly as she could, aware now of a presence behind her and hoping that the stray would lead her to safety, or at least to an alley that she recognized. It turned left and, to her relief, she found herself in a wider side street with the moon directly overhead, filling its length with silver light. The far end bent left again and out of sight, but the dog disappeared into an opening on the right. She looked behind herself and was certain this time of a figure in the shadows. She wondered briefly whether to run ahead to the bend in the street – which she felt sure was the direction back towards the gates of the lower city – or to keep following the dog. She chose the latter, if only because she would not be alone. But the right turn led into a narrow passage, with an awning overhead that left it in darkness.
She stumbled on a short way, scuffing her shoulders against the rough stone walls on either side and realizing she could no longer see the dog or hear the soft pad of its footsteps. She knew she had to go back, but as she turned, she saw a man at the other end, silhouetted by the moonlight. With a growing sense of panic, she ran back along the alley, only seeing the wall a moment before she collided with it and fell onto her backside. Putting a hand down, she found a piece of broken wood in the dirt and closed her fingers about it. Then she heard a sound directly behind her.
‘It’s a dead end.’
She found her feet and backed against the wall, staring into the darkness. He was only a few paces from her now, his features lost in shadow. Then she noticed the dull gleam of a leather breastplate beneath the folds of his cloak, and saw the pommel of his sword jutting up from his belt. A soldier! For a moment, she felt an overwhelming sense of relief. But it was short-lived. Something about the way he was blocking the alley told her that he did not want her to leave.
‘Lost, are you?’
‘No!’ she said, too abruptly. ‘I’m on my way home. It’s not far from here, and my husband will be looking for me.’
‘No he won’t. For one thing, you don’t live around her. For another, you’re not married. Do you think I’m stupid?’
Her heart pounded hard inside her chest and she was almost overwhelmed by the desire to burst into tears. The thought of screaming did not even occur to her. All she could think of were the alleyways of her young childhood, where she would wait in silence while her mother accommodated men in the darkness. Most often she would return with a piece of bread, tearing off an end to give to her famished daughter. But sometimes there would be harsh words from the shadows, followed by the sharp smack of a hand across a face, or the thud of fists against flesh, then her mother’s screams. She doubted the soldier standing before her would offer her bread.
‘I just want to find the main street to the city, that’s all.’
He knelt down before her.
‘Then I’ll take you. It’s not far.’
He was so close, she could smell the sweat in his armpits and the sour taste of bad wine on his breath.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’ll cost you.’
‘I can pay. As soon as we reach the gates—’
‘You’ll pay now.’
He grabbed at her arm, pulling her towards him. She swung the piece of wood at his head, but he knocked it aside and it disappeared in the shadows. Then he took her with his other hand, locking her arms against her sides with his horrible strength as he forced his mouth against hers. She twisted her face away and suddenly found her voice, letting out a piercing scream that filled the narrow passage and soared up into the chill night air. He slapped her hard across the cheek, and the shock of the blow silenced her.
As quiet descended once more, he pinned her against the wall and kissed her again, his coarse beard rough against her lips and cheeks. The power in his arms was overwhelming as he tore away her brooch and pulled the cloak from her shoulders, exposing the white robes beneath. He did not notice that she was a priestess, or he did not care. Instead, his hands covered her breasts, squeezing them roughly as his lust took control. She began to cry, a helpless four-year-old once more.
But crying had not helped her then, and it did not help her now. He seized her shoulders and pushed her down into the dirt. She looked up at the awning over the passageway and saw the moonlight through the weave of the material. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, and she saw his half-naked body as he undid his belt and gathered his tunic up beneath his breastplate. He was grinning, too – an ugly, broken-toothed smile in a face that was older than she had expected. Then he lowered himself towards her and took hold of the hem of her dress.
‘Mistress, help me,’ she whispered, squirming at his touch.
‘Isn’t nobody can help you now,’ he leered.
Then his back arched upwards and his eyes bulged from his sockets, staring at the wall behind her. His jaw fell open and a flat, pointed tongue eased out of it, spilling dark liquid over the front of her dress. She looked at him in horror, realizing the tongue was the point of a knife that had been inserted into the base of his neck. He gave a sigh and his body went limp, only to be pulled back and thrown aside before it could fall on top of her.
She looked at the outline of her saviour, and realized she knew her.
‘Stand up.’
The voice was stern and authoritative, filled with all the indignation of a wronged goddess. Charis pushed herself to her feet as she had been ordered, and looked at her mistress. Hera’s hood was tipped back to reveal curls of black hair that flowed down to her shoulders, and a pale face that blended breathtaking beauty with terrible power. Her features were clearly visible in the darkness, as if possessing an inner radiance, and Charis could see the displeasure in her expression. Tearing her eyes away, the priestess bowed her head and looked down at the soldier’s body.
‘Thank you, my lady. You saved my life.’
The goddess gave a short laugh and tossed the dagger into the dirt.
‘Saved your life? Who do you think told this scum there was a helpless priestess wandering the backstreets of Tiryns?’
Charis looked up.
‘But—’
‘But what, Charis? You betrayed me. You lied in my name to save Heracles. Heracles! You sympathize with him because he built an old hag a home and gave her a few scraps of food, not even realising she was your mother. You think that he has a good heart and deserves to live. Yet in your compassion for him, y
ou forget his very existence is an insult to me. He is Zeus’s son by another woman; as long as he lives, I will be an object of scorn among gods and men. Yet you have the gall to help him.’
Hera’s expression was stern and unforgiving. Unable to hold her gaze, Charis lowered her eyes again, the brief spark of her indignation snuffed out by her undeniable guilt. She recalled the last time the goddess had appeared to her, when she had first revealed the reasons for her hostility against Heracles. It was not merely because he was her husband’s bastard – there were plenty of them walking the earth; it was because he was Zeus’s favourite. That the King of the Gods could love a mortal child more than Ares and Hephaistos, the immortal sons Hera had borne him, was insult enough; that he intended to offer him immortality if he completed the labours – a place on Olympus with the rest of the gods – was beyond the pale.
Yet the very fact that Zeus loved Heracles also gave Hera an opportunity for vengeance. She had burned with anger at her husband’s many infidelities, which had caused her both public humiliation and, Charis suspected, private heartache. Now, at last, Zeus had a weakness that she could exploit. If she could defeat Heracles and thwart her husband’s will, she would gain a victory that would repay him for all the wrongs he had done to her. Her divine wrath would be sated. For her anger had never been about Heracles, a mere mortal, if one with a frustrating ability to overcome the labours she set for him. It had always been about Zeus.
‘A priestess cannot snub the will of her mistress, simply because she empathizes with a man’s plight,’ Hera continued. ‘You are my servant, Charis. My slave! Your first thought when you wake and your last before you sleep should be about me. Your every word and deed should be committed in my service, because when the priesthood fails in its devotion to the gods, then the people’s faith will fail with it. And what are people without the gods? Songs without music and frescoes without colour – empty vessels, existing without meaning. I should have let this man kill you.’
Hero of Olympus Page 8
