Hero of Olympus

by Hero of Olympus (retail) (epub)

  He reached a narrow opening between two hovels. Squeezing himself into the gap, he forced himself further in until it widened out into a passage between stone walls. The overlapping roofs of the houses on either side left it in deep shadow. Before his eyes had adjusted fully to the gloom, his groping hands found the doorway he had been looking for. He hammered his fist against the wood.

  ‘What do you want?’ demanded an unfriendly voice.

  ‘To talk with you.’

  ‘Heracles?’

  The door was opened by Thyestes, who had a short sword in his hand and wore a bandage around one thigh. The room behind was small, with two beds, a table and three chairs packed into the tight space. Thyestes glanced down the alley, then pulled Heracles inside.

  ‘Get him a drink,’ he commanded.

  Atreus, who had been standing behind the door with his own sword at the ready, sheathed the blade and picked a wooden cup from a shelf. Dipping it into a bowl of wine on the table, he handed it to Heracles and nodded to one of the chairs.

  ‘To talk about what?’ Thyestes asked, sitting opposite him.

  ‘Your rebellion,’ Heracles answered.

  * * *

  Charis entered the cool, shadowy temple. The lamps on the stands before the statue of Hera had gone out, and though daylight filtered in through the small, high windows beneath the ceiling, it took a few moments for her eyes to get used to the murk. She closed the door behind her and crossed to the lamps. After she had refilled and relit them, she placed them back on their stands and looked up at the rudimentary wooden figure looming over her. It was nearly twice her height, with plain features, short, fat legs and small mounds for breasts. It failed to capture anything of the breathtaking beauty of the real goddess. Neither did it encapsulate any of her ugliness – her cruel jealousy, her bitter vengefulness, or her disregard for anyone but herself. But she was a goddess; she did not need to care about others.

  As she looked at the expressionless face, she wondered what Hera knew about her meeting with Heracles. Probably everything. Charis had been reckless, but somehow she did not care any more. Her mistress was wrong to persecute Heracles. He was a good man who did not deserve to have the blood of his own children on his hands, or to be as mercilessly tested as he had been. Yet, despite all the Queen of Olympus had thrown at him, he had overcome every obstacle she had put in his path. He had earned victory, and if Charis had betrayed her mistress for his sake, she did not regret it.

  She removed her cloak, folded it neatly and laid it on the mattress against one of the walls. Standing again, she looked at the familiar mural above the place where she slept. It depicted a woodland scene in which another goddess, Artemis, was hunting a bear. Her silver arrow protruded from the animal’s chest, and its mouth was open in a last, silent roar of agony before death brought it down. The unwitting visitor might wonder why another goddess should be honoured in a temple dedicated to the worship of Hera. But those who understood would know the bear was, in fact, the young nymph Callisto. A virgin follower of Artemis, her beauty had fatally caught the eye of Zeus, who had transformed himself into the image of her mistress and seduced her. The unfortunate child became pregnant, and in her jealous anger, Hera had turned her into a bear, knowing that Artemis, the famed huntress, would kill her.

  As she studied the faded, smoke-dimmed picture, she became aware of the door opening and shutting again. Turning, she saw a bent figure in a black cloak shuffle slowly across the flagstone floor. As the woman approached the effigy of Hera, she sank to her knees and bowed her head. Charis recognized her at once, though the shock of seeing her in the temple left her momentarily still and silent.

  ‘Mother? What are you doing here?’

  She heard a low mumbling, but could not make out the words. Stepping closer, she realized she was praying, her voice slurred and indistinct. She wondered what had brought her to the temple after all these years. Had Heracles gone back to her and said something? Perhaps he had brought her here himself, persuading the guards to let her into the citadel. But then, where was he? She looked behind herself. The door could not have been properly shut, for it had swung open to let in the late afternoon light. There was no sign of Heracles.

  ‘Mother, can you hear me? It’s Charis, your daughter.’ She had tried several times before to penetrate the drunken haze and let her know who she was, but never to any avail. ‘Did Heracles bring you here? Do you want something to eat?’

  The kneeling figure continued to mumble, ignoring her daughter’s offer. Cautiously, Charis took hold of the top of the old woman’s hood, slowly pulling it back. But instead of grey wisps of hair barely covering a sunburned scalp, she revealed a head covered with shiny black locks. She stepped back in shock.

  The kneeling figure gave a slow laugh and rose to her feet, gliding effortlessly upwards until she was a whole head taller than Charis. She shrugged the tattered black cloak from her shoulders to reveal a gleaming white dress, edged with gold. A pale light emanated from it, pushing back the shadows so that the walls and pillars of the temple were illuminated. She turned to stare at Charis, her face beautiful and terrifying beyond compare. The priestess stepped back, then bowed her head and fell to her knees.

  ‘I trusted you, Charis,’ Hera said. ‘I trusted you to repay my kindness with loyalty. Have I not been kind? Did I not give you the ability to prophesy? Did I not save you from the clutches of that drunken whore you called a mother? Without me, Charis, you would have become just like her, used by men from an early age until one of them murdered you, or wine and poverty did the job instead. I gave you life. I gave you power and influence. You have lived in safety in this temple, wanting for nothing. What do you say, child? Have I not been kind?’

  ‘You have, my lady.’

  ‘And did I not forgive you, after you lied in my name and sent Heracles to the Amazons? I should have killed you then, but instead I showed you mercy.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  ‘Then why have I not earned your loyalty?’

  Charis kept her eyes fixed on the goddess’s golden sandals and white feet, visible beneath the hem of her dress. Yes, she had earned her loyalty, she thought. Just not her love.

  ‘I see,’ Hera said, quietly. ‘Your heart has become enamoured of Heracles, despite my warnings. He appeals to your physical needs, your feminine weaknesses—’

  ‘No,’ Charis protested, looking at the goddess. ‘I have never thought of him like that.’

  ‘Whereas I am too cold a mistress for you. What do you expect from an immortal, Charis! Embraces? Sweet kisses? Perhaps you should spend some time with my husband, if that’s what you wish for.’

  ‘No, mistress. I took a vow to be chaste in your service.’

  ‘To honour a vow requires a loyal character. You have proved to me you don’t have that quality.’

  Charis lowered her head again. Had she done the right thing? Hera was every bit the cold mistress she confessed to be, yet Charis had sworn to serve her faithfully, and since donning the robes of a priestess, she had never gone without or been made to suffer. Yet her spirit told her that Heracles was more worthy of her devotion. His selfless courage and his heart of kindness had deserved her empathy. She had no regrets, even though she now had to face the consequences of what she had done.

  But her decision to assist Heracles had been made even before she had dreamed of his next labour. The night before she had suffered the vision of Cerberus, she had been given a worse revelation: the revelation of her own death. The prophecy had not been sent by Hera, for the goddess only allowed her to see events that affected others – and this dream had been about herself. In it, her killer had been faceless. But she knew it had not been Hera.

  ‘What will happen to me?’ she asked.

  ‘You aren’t worthy to be my priestess, Charis. It’s a shame. You had such potential, yet the mind that harboured it had too many weaknesses. I tolerated your visits to your mother, hoping you would tire of her obnoxious character, but it just
made you softer – too soft. So I have chosen your successor,’ she said, turning her gaze to the open door of the temple. ‘Someone who does not lack ambition. Someone who wants the power I can offer, and who will obey my every whim to the full.’

  Charis saw a figure silhouetted against the daylight. She entered the temple and closed the door gently behind herself.

  ‘Admete?’ she asked, turning to Hera. ‘But she’s the king’s daughter.’

  ‘I have no father or mother,’ Admete said. ‘Only the goddess.’

  She wore a plain dress and sandals, and the belt of Queen Hippolyte sat proudly around her narrow waist. There was a nervous look in her young eyes as her gaze switched between Charis and Hera and back again.

  ‘She’s not ready,’ Charis said, turning to the goddess. ‘She hasn’t been taught the correct rituals or prayers. She doesn’t know the rites—’

  ‘She is ready,’ Hera said, firmly. ‘Now, remove your priestess’s robes.’

  Charis shook her head.

  ‘But my lady—’

  ‘For once, do as you are ordered!’

  The goddess’s eyes flashed with anger and the flames in the oil lamps flared up, driving the shadows back into the deepest corners of the temple, before receding again. Charis loosened her dress and let it fall around her ankles, kicking it away so that she stood naked before the goddess.

  ‘And now, Admete,’ Hera said, smiling at the girl. ‘Prove your loyalty to me. Prove yourself worthy of being my servant.’

  Charis felt a sense of alarm. She turned and saw Admete standing closer, a dagger gleaming in her hand. Her eyes were wide with fear, but they were the same eyes Charis had seen in her dream.

  ‘Don’t do it,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t start life with this on your conscience. Walk out now, while you still can.’

  Admete shook her head – barely a tremble of the flesh – then lunged. Charis held out her hand, and the blade slashed across her palm. It was not a forceful blow – there was little determination in it – but the pain was searing. Withdrawing her hand, she held it against her breast in an attempt to stifle the pain. Then the child struck again, releasing a desperate grunt as she sank the point into Charis’s side, below the ribs. She gave a shriek and felt her muscles weaken. Only the greatest force of will stopped her from falling to her knees.

  ‘No, Admete! Please!’

  She staggered backwards. The blade flashed again, piercing her stomach. Her scream rang from the walls of the temple. She fell, landing on the hard stone floor. As she stared up, she saw the look in Admete’s eyes transform from fear to hunger. She had crossed into the unknown, and now she wanted more. As Charis tried to push herself away, the blade thumped down, biting into her inner thigh. She screamed again, the sound weaker now, contained by the thick walls of the temple.

  She rolled onto her front. She could feel the sting of the wounds and the warmth of her own blood pouring onto the flagstones. Reaching out, she pulled herself slowly forward. Admete plunged the knife into her buttock. Ripping it out again, she sank it into the small of her back. Charis felt it jar against the base of her spine, and cried out before falling flat on her face, the last of her strength gone. Once more, the dagger bit, driving down between her shoulder blades, burning hot as it parted the flesh.

  ‘No,’ she croaked, coughing on the blood rising into her mouth. ‘Mistress, stop her.’

  Then her hair was pulled back, lifting her head from the floor and exposing her neck. She felt the blade touch against the soft skin of her throat, and closed her eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE MOUTH OF HELL

  Heracles awoke to the sound of birds in the trees around the crossroads. It was still dark, but he could smell the approach of dawn and see it in the faint paling of the sky above the hills. He sat up, his body stiff and full of protest at any movement. Sleeping on the hard ground had not helped, but he was also aware of the many old wounds he had accumulated during his labours. After wiping the dew from his eyelashes and beard, he got to his feet and walked over to a tree to urinate.

  By the time the sun had made its presence felt – turning the eastern sky to blue and coppering the bellies of the clouds that drifted in furrows above the mountain crests – he had added more wood to the remains of last night’s fire and relit it. Taking the small pot that he carried, he filled it with water from a nearby stream and added some oats, heating the mixture over the flames until it formed a thick, steaming porridge. He ate it in silence, watching the farmers emerge from their stone huts to start the day’s work. A few wagons passed by – on their way to Tiryns or Mycenae – and their drivers mumbled greetings to him, as some of them had done as they returned home the previous evening. If they wondered why he had made camp at the crossroads, they did not ask. Around midday, an old woman dressed in a black dress and shawl left the nearest farmhouse and shuffled slowly to where he sat in the shade of a tree. Silently, she gave him some freshly baked bread, and after acknowledging his thanks with a nod, returned to her home.

  He leaned back against the rough bark of the trunk and watched the four roads converging on where he sat. The occasional wagon or peasant travelling on foot caught his interest for a moment – sparking hope that one of them might be bringing him the potion Charis had promised – but none seemed very purposeful, and all passed him by with little more than a nod or a brief word. Then he saw what looked like a small cloud of dust, visible at a distance along the northern road. He stood and watched it closely, until he was able to discern two horses emerging from the heat haze, galloping at pace and drawing a chariot behind them. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he felt a sickening jolt of nerves in his stomach. It was Iolaus.

  He was clearly heading towards Tiryns, but on what business? After their last meeting, it was doubtful he would be looking for his uncle. For a moment, he considered slipping behind the tree and letting him pass by; but his sense of pride baulked at the thought of hiding, and so he sat back down between the roots of the tree and pulled the upper jaw of his lion-skin cloak further down over his eyes. Iolaus could not fail to recognize him, but if he thought he was asleep, he might not feel the obligation to stop.

  The drumming of hoofs and the rumble of wheels grew closer. For a moment, he thought they would pass him by. Then they began to slow. A shout of whoa! followed and Heracles heard the chariot roll up beside him and come to a halt.

  ‘Uncle,’ Iolaus said, cautiously. ‘Uncle, wake up.’

  He felt a sandalled toe nudge his calf muscle, and pulled his leg away with an angry snarl.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here, Iolaus,’ he said, glaring up at him, ‘but Tiryns is that way.’

  His nephew looked down at him, his uncertainty written in his expression. He was as handsome as he had always been – perhaps more so with his rapidly maturing looks – but the realization only made Heracles angrier, knowing that Megara had given her heart to him. His fingers curled into a fist as he imagined punching the face that, only a short while ago, he had always been pleased to see. But he forced his anger back down.

  ‘You agreed to Charis’s plan, then?’ Iolaus said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s why you’re here, isn’t it? For the potion.’

  Heracles sat up and frowned questioningly.

  ‘She told me everything,’ Iolaus continued. ‘After you sent me away, I travelled to Tiryns to speak with her. I’m still your squire, Heracles; you haven’t relieved me of my duties yet—’

  ‘I relieve you now.’

  ‘And I refuse. I want to help you complete your labours – I will help you – but I knew you would reject any offer. That’s why I went to Charis. If she knew what the next labour was and was willing to share it with me, I thought I might still be able to assist you in some way.’

  ‘You can. Go back to your cosy little nest in Thebes and leave me alone. I don’t need your help.’

  ‘Yes you do. Charis told me everything.’ The determin
ation left his voice and he seemed to quail at the thought of what had to be done. ‘You need all the help you can get.’

  ‘Not from you.’

  ‘Damn it, Heracles! Let’s not go over this all again. Besides, Charis sent me to fetch the potion you need to… to transport your soul to the Underworld.’

  Heracles rose to his feet and thrust his palm towards Iolaus.

  ‘Give it to me,’ he growled. ‘Give it to me now.’

  ‘I don’t have it.’

  ‘Then you’re no good to me.’

  ‘I don’t have it here. Charis sent me to the same woman that Megara visited to find out about the mushrooms. She mixed the potion – a black liquid in a clay vial. I took it to Taenarum and hid it in the cave that leads down to Hades’s realm.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘It was the only way to make sure you’d let me come with you,’ Iolaus said. ‘I can drive you there much quicker than you could walk, and I might yet be able to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’ Heracles echoed. ‘Would you descend into the Underworld, where no living man has ever gone? Would you face the horrors of that place, with the ghosts of the dead surrounding you on every side? Would you enter, knowing that the fear of that place will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life – if you come back?’

  ‘Yes, I would. For you I would.’

  ‘Why? You take my wife from me, yet you’re prepared to follow me into Hell.’

  ‘I want you to be free of your burden. I want you to be the man you were before.’

  ‘That man died along with my children,’ Heracles replied, turning his back on his nephew.