He clenched his teeth and felt the tension in his muscles, a tension that he longed to unleash on the goddess who had coldly overseen the destruction of his life from the heights of Olympus, all because of her divine pride and her jealousy over her husband’s infidelities. But as he looked at the small girl before him, he was suddenly reminded of his own children. He closed his eyes and thought of them, not as they were when they were alive, but as he had seen them in the Underworld. Though they had been formless ghosts, they had thrown their arms around him in love, remembering nothing of what he had done to them, knowing only that they loved him. It was enough. The dangerous anger that Hera had hoped to provoke drained from his body, and he raised his head to look at the goddess.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘You have lost, my lady. You tried to destroy me through the labours, but I completed them all. I have beaten you.’
Her smile looked more strained.
‘You conquered the Nemean Lion and the Hydra, you cleared out Augeias’s stables and you fetched the golden apples from the Garden of the Hesperides. You did everything that was demanded of you. But mortals do not beat immortals, Heracles. Only other immortals can do that, and you are not one of us yet. Indeed,’ she said, kneeling beside Cerberus and running her fingers through the mane of snakes, ‘if I wanted, I could command this creature to tear you to pieces right now, body and soul!’
She looked at him with such wrath that he believed she meant to do it. He gripped the club hanging from his belt, but in the same moment her anger melted away and the sardonic smile returned.
‘It wouldn’t be worth my husband’s anger. Besides, what are you but a pawn in a much greater battle? You may have won glory and the promise of immortality, but we both know you’d give them up in a heartbeat if it returned your family to you. So what have you gained? As for me, all but Zeus himself bow the knee before the Queen of Olympus; yet, when my back is turned they laugh at me. Not because of you, but because of my husband. The true victory belongs to Zeus, as it always will.’
She clenched her fist and stamped her little foot, sending a tremor through the earth that shook the doors of the houses and startled the horses yoked to the chariot.
‘So why are you here?’ he demanded. ‘To remind me that my victory is hollow? That I have gained nothing and lost everything? That you are a goddess and I am still just a man?’
‘Quite the opposite,’ she replied. ‘When your father gave you supernatural strength, I knew that, ultimately, he wanted you to join the gods on Olympus. No mortal has ever been allowed to become a god, Heracles. None! That was why I tried to stop him, by destroying you. But he used me for his own ends. Your strength was only a seed. It needed watering with heroic feats. Zeus wanted you to prove yourself worthy of immortality, so he let me set impossible tasks for the son he had chosen to be his champion.’ She gave an ironic laugh. ‘I was the immortal enemy by which you would show your greatness!
‘And now that you have completed the labours, nothing can prevent Zeus from making you an Olympian. I will never like you, and I expect you will always hate me, but nevertheless I have something for you – a peace offering, if you will.’
He frowned, doubtful that one who had made his life such a misery would want to present him with a gift.
‘What is it?’
‘When I asked how you entered Hades’s kingdom and stole his favourite pet, I already knew the answer. You took a potion that gave your body the appearance of death, convincing your soul to descend into the Underworld. When I set the labour, I knew Kharon would recognise you were not truly dead and forbid you passage across the Styx. But you surprised me again – you offered him your strength as payment. And now I give it back to you. If we can never be friends on Olympus, perhaps we will no longer be enemies.’
She looked at him and bowed briefly. Then she held out her hands over the dirt track and lifted them slowly. The dust that lay over its rutted and broken surface rose slowly up into the air, forming a thin veil through which the goddess’s child-like form was still vaguely visible. Then she cast her arms in a circle about herself, sending the dust cloud whirling in every direction. Heracles threw his forearm across his face as the particles of dirt blasted his bare limbs. There was a sound like a strong wind, and he heard the doors of the empty houses blown open and the horses whinny. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the gust died away.
As the cloud settled, he lowered his arm and saw that the goddess had gone, leaving only the strangeness of the encounter behind. After a few moments staring at the spot where she had stood, he patted himself down and went to fetch the bucket. Dropping it into the well, he waited for it to fill up, then dragged it back out. His muscles still felt heavy and the weight of the bucket did not seem any lighter, leaving him wondering whether Hera’s promise had been nothing more than a spiteful trick.
Trails of smoke were rising from Tiryns when he arrived that afternoon. With the approach of winter, those who could afford to were keeping their hearths well fed to fend off the worst of the cold. Some homes, though, would never see warmth again. As he entered the deserted streets of the outer city, he passed the shells of the hovels that had been torched by Tydeus’s men before Heracles had left for Laconia. He still held himself responsible for the suffering that had been inflicted, though he had never tried to foment revolution. But his presence in Tiryns had given the people hope – hope that there was more to life than constant suffering. His attempts to make their lives better had inspired some to believe they did not have to endure the heavy hand of Eurystheus’s reign forever. They had paid a high price for their hope, but he intended to see that they had not hoped in vain.
He looked ahead to the top of the road. The city gates were shut and a handful of guards stood on the battlements, staring wide-eyed at the three-headed monster following in Heracles’s wake. The gates swung open before him as he approached and he passed through into the lower city. To his surprise, the streets were not empty, but lined with men and women. They watched in silence as he eased his chariot to a halt, though several cried out in horror as Cerberus squeezed itself through the gates behind him. The crowds fell back, but incredibly none fled. Then a soldier left the guardhouse beside the battlements and approached Heracles, giving the hound a wide berth. Heracles recognized the young officer who had tried to fight him many months before.
‘My men will feed and water your horses for you while you go up to the citadel. The streets are thronged, and it will be difficult for a chariot to pass between them all.’
‘Since Laconia, I’ve not passed through a single town or village that hasn’t been abandoned for fear of the hound that follows me. Aren’t the people of Tiryns afraid also?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ the officer replied. ‘They’re just as scared as everyone else. But their fear is matched by their faith in you. For your sake, they will endure the horror of the beast.’
‘Then answer me another question. At the end of almost every other labour, the people have been kept from witnessing my return. Why aren’t the streets lined with soldiers this time?’
The officer glanced at the handful of soldiers on the battlements and manning the gates, then looked up at Heracles.
‘Because they are needed elsewhere,’ he said, his voice hushed. ‘You are walking into a trap, my lord. Be careful.’
‘Why do you tell me this?’
‘Because you spared my life once, when you had every right to take it.’
‘Then I will give you another chance to live,’ Heracles replied. ‘Take off your armour, walk out of the gate and don’t return.’
‘Thank you, my lord. But I can’t do that. I have my duty to uphold.’
‘Then you are a brave fool, son,’ Heracles told him, stepping down from the chariot. ‘Take good care of these horses. They belong to a very good friend of mine.’
He looked at the people lining the streets ahead of him. There were many distinctions between them: slaves and free, old and young, mercha
nts and beggars – all come to see his final, triumphant return. A large number were from the slums outside the city walls, there to see the man who had done so much for them, and inadvertently brought them so much suffering. He thought on the words of the young officer, that their faith in him was greater than their fear of the monster. He only hoped it was not misplaced.
Turning, he stared at Hades’s hound, the awful offspring of Typhon and Echidna, three of whose siblings he had already slain. It sat in front of the gates, the aura of the Underworld surrounding it like a shadow. The only light that was visible within that darkness came from the blood-red fire of its six eyes, which stared menacingly at the people on the street ahead, its jaws drooling as if in anticipation of devouring them. Yet it had remained obedient to the command of Persephone, to obey Heracles until the time came for its return to the Land of the Dead. A time that was fast approaching.
Heracles began the walk to the citadel – to confront Eurystheus for the final time and demand his freedom. He watched as the faces in the crowd on either side paled at the sight of Cerberus walking behind him, as they pressed back against the houses and tried to put as much distance between themselves and the monster as they could. And then a voice called out from the silent throng.
‘Hail, son of Zeus!’
For a moment, the words fell flat. Then another voice took up the cry.
‘Hail, son of Zeus!’
Several more followed.
‘Hail, son of Zeus!’
‘Son of Zeus! Son of Zeus!’
‘King Heracles!’
He turned sharply at the last cry and thought he saw Thyestes’s face disappearing among the crowd.
‘King Heracles!’
‘Son of Zeus!’
‘Hail, King Heracles!’
The chant was being taken up more widely. He wanted to tell them to stop, to shout over the roar of their voices that he could never be their king, but his protests would have been in vain. Few now seemed to care about the presence of Cerberus, so taken up were they by their fervour for the returning hero.
‘Hail, King Heracles!’
‘Hail, son of Zeus!’
Then the battlements of the citadel towered up behind them. The crowds parted to reveal rank upon rank of spearmen guarding the gates – two hundred soldiers at least. A familiar figure stood atop the gatehouse, his black cloak and the horsehair plume of his helmet blowing in the breeze.
‘Silence!’ Tydeus shouted, his voice ringing out above the shouts of the mob below. ‘This man is not your king, and anyone who dares say otherwise will pay for their insolence.’
The chants faded away, leaving a tense stillness in their wake.
‘And where is the king?’ Heracles called up to him. ‘Bring him out where I can see him.’
‘The king does not answer to the whim of a slave.’
‘I am no longer a slave, Tydeus. I have brought Cerberus from the Underworld, as he ordered.’
‘The labour is not complete until King Eurystheus says it is. Until then, you remain his bondsman and will wait on him. He will come when he is ready.’
‘He will come now,’ Heracles shouted, stepping forward, ‘or I will fetch him myself!’
The first rank of soldiers lowered the points of their spears and formed a wall with their shields. On the battlements above, a company of archers notched arrows and half drew their bowstrings. Many of the men threw wary glances at Cerberus, sitting a few paces back from Heracles.
‘Come back in a week, Heracles,’ Tydeus said. ‘He will consider your request then.’
‘I don’t have a week.’
Heracles looked at the ranks of soldiers and realized Eurystheus had no intention of facing him. Most likely, he was already preparing to slip away from the city, abandoning his throne for fear of the man who had been his slave for two years. But Heracles would not let him – not until he had admitted to his face that the last labour was complete.
He glanced over his shoulder at Cerberus, but the hound remained where it was. Slipping the club from his belt, Heracles grabbed the edge of his lion skin and strode towards the line of spearmen.
‘Kill him!’ Tydeus shouted.
The archers released the first volley. Heracles dropped to one knee and swept his cloak about himself. The arrows rattled off the lion skin, failing to penetrate the hide. In an instant, he was up on his feet and charging the line of spearmen.
The ranks tightened before him as anxious but determined faces prepared to meet his onslaught. Then he was upon them, feeling a sudden surge of strength as, with a single sweep of his club, he smashed half a dozen shafts from the hands of their owners. He gave a shout and charged into the line of shields, sending several men tumbling to the ground. A soldier lunged at him from the right, the point of his spear aimed at Heracles’s ribs. Pulling the weapon from his attacker’s grip, he crushed his skull with his club. Another man rushed him from the left. With the first soldier’s spear still in his grip, he thrust the point into his attacker’s face. The man’s brains spattered over his comrades, who tossed his body aside in revulsion.
More men ran at him. Tossing the spear aside, Heracles gripped his club in two hands and swung it hard into the forearm of the first as he thrust his weapon at his chest. The man dropped his spear with an agonized cry and fell back, clutching at his shattered arm. A second was caught under the chin, half tearing his jaw from his face and snapping his head aside with a sickening crack. Heracles felt a sharp pain as a spear thumped into his back, the bronze turned by the skin of the Nemean Lion. He turned and punched his assailant in the face, breaking his nose and cheekbone. Grabbing him by the front of his tunic, he raised him above his head and hurled him at a group of spearmen, knocking several from their feet.
But many more were closing around him. Taking courage from the fact Cerberus had not joined the fight, they prepared to rush him from all sides at once. At the same time, he felt the draught of an arrow as it passed within a hand’s breadth of his cheekbone. Two more bounced off his back, and a fourth cut across the flesh of his upper arm. Realizing he was going to die beneath the spears and arrows of a hundred lesser men, he raised himself to his full height and stood with his club at his side, gore dripping from its head as he prepared to make his last stand.
Then a figure ran out from the crowds that had followed him from the streets of the city. He held a sword above his head.
‘King Heracles!’ Thyestes shouted.
Suddenly, hundreds of voices were raised in unison, echoing Thyestes’s cry. Some of the crowd raised swords that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Many more held daggers, or pulled axes from beneath their cloaks. Atreus was among them, and there, too, was the officer from the gate, ready to fulfil his duty to the people of his city. A handful of soldiers were with him, their black cloaks and helmets thrown away.
‘King Heracles!’ Thyestes shouted again as he ran at the spearmen, who were already falling back from around Heracles to form a defensive line.
But it was too late. Though a hail of arrows poured into the charging crowd from the archers on the walls – felling several – the spearmen below were caught with their ranks in disorder. One fell to a well-aimed thrust from Thyestes. A second was hacked down by his brother, who proceeded to lay about the soldiers surrounding him. Many others fell in the first onslaught, before they were able to form a ragged line and fall back in defence of the citadel gates.
The men surrounding Heracles fell back with them, leaving him an easy target for the archers on the walls. Covering himself with his cloak, he stooped down and picked up a shield from one of the spearmen he had slain. He looked about himself as the crowd surged past him – some picking up the weapons of the dead guards, others shouting for revenge against the men who had enforced the rule of Eurystheus for too long. Among the rebels was one of the soldiers who had followed the officer from the gate. Heracles recognized the gawky youth who had been assigned to watch over him when he had first arrived in Tiryns.
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‘Perimos! Perimos, come here and make yourself useful.’
‘Yes, my lord?’
Heracles threw him the shield.
‘Take this and cover my left side. Quickly now!’
Perimos nodded and crouched beside him, holding the tall, rectangular shield before them both. A couple of arrows thumped into the thick oxhide almost at once, but most of the archers on the walls were picking easier targets among the throng of people now storming the gates.
Heracles took his bow, slipped an arrow into the string and scanned the walls. Disappointed that there was no sign of Tydeus, he took aim at one of the archers. A moment later, the man toppled back from the walls with an arrow protruding from his chest. Spotting another leaning between the crenellations to shoot at the attackers below, Heracles released a second arrow. The archer gave a strained cry as it passed through his neck. He raised his hands to the black shaft, pawing at it for a brief moment, before falling forward onto his comrades below.
An arrow smacked into the dirt by Heracles’s foot. Glancing up, he saw a grey-bearded archer pull back behind one of the crenellations to reload. As he leaned out to take aim, Heracles released his own arrow. The point passed between the man’s eyes. He span round and plummeted from the other side of the battlements.
Another three archers fell before the rest sank back behind the safety of the walls, their withering volleys reduced now to cautious pot shots. Seeing that Thyestes, Atreus and the rest of the crowd were driving the king’s guard steadily back to the gates, Heracles shouldered his bow and took up his club again.
‘You did well,’ he told Perimos, who was wide-eyed with fear at the murderous chaos that surrounded them. ‘Now, draw your sword and join the others. Gods willing, you’ll be able to call yourself a man at the end of this.’
The young soldier nodded, then pulled his sword from his belt and ran to take his part in the fighting. Heracles turned to look at Cerberus, who was standing and growling at the scene of violence before him. As a creature of both the physical and spiritual realms, Heracles guessed he could see the ghosts of the fallen as they left their bodies and stood in confusion as the battle raged around them.
Hero of Olympus Page 31
