Having pulled off this remarkable feat made it all the harder when his mean cousin Eurystheus insisted that this labour could not count as one of the ten, because King Augeias had offered Hercules a reward if he could do it. Even the fact that the King went back on his promise afterwards made no difference. In addition, Eurystheus ruled that the slaying of the Hydra should not count either, because Hercules had the help of his nephew who, as Hercules cut off the monster’s heads, seared the bleeding necks with a flaming torch so that new heads could not grow out of them. In consequence the unfortunate Hercules had to take on two more labours.
No. 11 was to fetch three golden apples from the Garden of the Hesperides. This was the most difficult task yet, as no one even knew where the garden was. For ages Hercules wandered around trying to find out, until some nymphs tipped him off to go and ask the Old Man of the Sea. He caught this slippery customer and kept him bound in his own seaweed till he disclosed that the Garden was on an island in the Western Ocean, and that Prometheus would tell our Hero how to get there. Prometheus was still chained to a rock in the Caucasus, having his liver pecked out every day by an eagle. Hercules shot the eagle and rescued him. Naturally, Prometheus was jolly grateful and he suggested that, as Atlas was the father of the four Hesperides maidens, Hercules might persuade him to go and get the apples for him.
Hercules thanked him for the idea and crossed the Med. to Egypt. The Pharaoh there was accustomed once a year to sacrifice a stranger to his gods, and on seeing Hercules he thought he looked just the goods for the job. But it proved the Pharaoh’s unlucky day. Hercules kept mum, allowed himself to be bound and led into the temple; then he snapped his bonds, gave a big horse-laugh and sacrificed the Pharaoh on his own altar.
After killing the odd giant in Libya, Hercules went on to Morocco where by this time Atlas had become frightfully tired of holding the world up on the back of his neck. Actually I’ve never quite understood how he did this; unless he was upside down. But I can only tell you what the chronicles say he was doing. Anyhow, when Hercules offered to hold up the world for him if he would go and get the apples, he jumped at the chance of handing over his burden. He then went off to get the apples; but he must have been a bit soft in the head to bother about that as, when he came back with them, he said that he had no intention of taking the world on his shoulders again. That put Hercules in a very nasty spot, as he looked like being stuck with the world for good. However, he said to Atlas: ‘All right, old chap, but just hold it for a moment, will you, so that I can bind some cords round my head to ease the pressure,’ or words to that effect. Being a stupid great oaf, Atlas fell into the trap. As soon as he’d taken the world back Hercules roared with laughter and went off with the golden apples.
No. 12 was the most terrible labour of all. That beastly man Eurystheus ordered Hercules to go down into Hades and bring back its guardian, Cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell with fangs that dripped poison. Hercules had himself purified at Eleusis, then Hermes took him to Cape Tainarom, the southernmost point of Greece, where there was a cave leading down into the Underworld.
Most people would have been scared stiff at the thought of entering Hades, but he does not seem to have minded a bit and barged in as if he owned the place. Coming upon an old friend chained to a rock he released him, then he killed one of King Pluto’s bulls so that by lapping up its blood some of the poor ghosts down there could get a taste of life. When the herdsman tried to interfere, Hercules seized him and would have crushed his ribs in if Queen Persephone had not come on the scene in time and begged him to let the poor chap go.
Soon afterwards he found himself face to face with Pluto, the dread lord of this grim domain; but far from getting cold feet he fitted an arrow to his bow and shot the King of Hades in the shoulder. God though Pluto was, he roared with rage and pain; yet so impressed was he with the courage of Hercules that he told him that he could take Cerberus away provided he used no weapon. Our hero then seized the terrible mastiff by the throat, threw it over his shoulder and carried it off in triumph.
When he cast the monster at Eurystheus’s feet, his horrid cousin was so terrified that he freed him from all further obligation on condition that he returned Cerberus to his kennel.
Anyone would have thought that after completing his twelve labours Hercules would have been only too happy to settle down to a quiet life. But not a bit of it; he continued to roam the world doing mighty deeds as the champion of mankind against every sort of horror. He sailed with the Argonauts in search of the Golden Fleece, and had many other adventures too numerous to recount. During them the good Athene always sought to aid and protect him, but Hera’s malice continued unabated.
He fell in love with a young woman named Iole, the daughter of King Eurytus, and by triumphing over the King in an archery contest won the right to marry her. But her papa got the wind up that Hercules would treat her as he had his first wife, so as a get-out accused him of having stolen some cattle. Iole’s brother, Iphitus, had become frightfully pally with Hercules and set out with him to try to run the real thief to earth. Hoping to spot the stolen herd, they climbed a high tower and while they were up there that hateful Hera caused Hercules to go mad again. Not knowing what he did, he picked up his friend and threw him from the tower-top to die smashed to pieces a hundred feet below.
When Hercules got his wits back he was most terribly upset, and for months on end hiked from one temple to another, seeking pardon for his act; but no high-priest would give it, and the Pythoness at Delphi refused even to listen to him. By then he was so fed up that he snatched from under her the sacred tripod on which she sat to prophesy and made off with it.
When Apollo heard about this he became absolutely livid with rage. Hurtling down from Olympus, he demanded his property back. Hercules refused to give the tripod up unless he was pardoned for Iphitus’s death, upon which the beautiful god and the stalwart hero came to blows. Zeus had to be fetched—no doubt from demonstrating the facts of life to some pretty popsie. Having separated the combatants he decreed that Hercules should be cleansed if he sold himself into slavery for three years and gave the money he got for this to Iphitus’s children.
Hermes then led Hercules into Asia, where he let himself be sold for three talents to Omphale, Queen of Lydia. The sight of his mighty limbs soon gave this lady ideas, and she decided that she could find a much better use for him than chasing monsters and cattle thieves. Perhaps, too, Hercules had at last become a bit bored by that sort of thing. Anyhow, he let Omphale take his lion skin and club away from him and dress him up in silks and satins as though he were a court Eunuch, which he certainly was not. To please the Queen he even took up knitting socks and jumpers for himself; so his three years as a slave were passed in ease and luxury, and he might have fared far worse. But at the end of them he suddenly felt a revulsion for that sort of life and rather ungratefully walked out on Omphale without so much as a ‘thank you’, to seek fresh deeds of daring-do.
While in Hades, he had been given a message by the shade of Meleager for his beautiful sister Deianira, the daughter of King Oineus. Now, somewhat belatedly, our Hero went to Calydon and, having delivered the message to Deianira, fell in love with her. As the gentle reader may guess, he did not win her without a struggle; but he triumphed over his rival, a river god named Achelous, and carried Deianira off as his wife.
He then spent some time going round to even up the score with the numerous kings who from time to time during his long career had done him dirt. Among them was King Eurytus, the father of his former love Iole; and having killed the king, he made her into a slave girl.
Knowing what chaps usually did with slave girls, when Deianira heard about this she naturally refused to believe that Iole’s job was simply to mix Hercules’s drinks or wash his undies, and her jealousy led her to take a step that ended in the most ghastly tragedy.
Soon after she and Hercules were married they had had to cross a river that was in flood. The Centaur Nessus was standi
ng on the bank offering to carry wayfarers across on his broad back. Hercules scorned his offer and swam the river, but he let Nessus carry Deianira over. The Centaur gave her one look and decided that she was just his dish, so on reaching the far bank he attempted to take her by force.
Hercules heard her shout: ‘Help, Hercie, help! This big bum’s trying to do you-know-what to me,’ or words to that effect; and being a marvellous marksman Hercules shot the lecherous Centaur from a distance with an arrow that he had dipped in the poisoned blood of the Hydra. Nessus, writhing in his death agony, determined to get his own back on his slayer, so he gasped out to Deianira: ‘Dip a shirt in my blood, sweetie. If ever you get a hunch that your old man’s going off the rails persuade him to wear it. It’ll act as a charm. He’ll take a run-out powder on the other dame and come back with a present for you.’
Now that Deianira was having kittens about Hercules being up to no good with his old flame Iole, she sent it to him with a message that it was the very latest thing in gents’ shirting and she thought he would look fine in it. All unsuspecting, Hercules put it on when about to do his ‘thank you’ sacrifice to the gods for having helped him put paid to King Eurytus. But the blood of Nessus had been envenomed from the poisoned arrow, and as soon as the shirt became warmed through by the sacrificial fire before which Hercules was standing it began to burn him. Next moment agonising pains shot through all his limbs. In vain he tried to tear the terrible garment off. It stuck to his skin and became a white-hot shroud that caused his blood to boil.
Realising that there could be no escape from death, he tore down the nearest trees and stacked them up into a funeral pyre. Then he flung himself upon it and persuaded his armourbearer, Philoctetes, to light it beneath him. His last words were: ‘Hera, thou art avenged. Give me a stepmother’s gift of death.’
So perished the greatest of the Heroes. There came a terrible storm of thunder and lightning, during which Pallas Athene descended in her chariot and bore the immortal part of Hercules up to Olympus. By then even Hera’s hatred of him had burnt itself out. She welcomed him among the gods and gave him for wife her daughter Hebe, the spirit of Eternal Youth.
* * * * *
When Robbie finished reading, his large brown eyes were glistening, and he was almost in tears. ‘Poor, poor Hercules!’ he thought. ‘What a terrible time he had. His life had been one long series of combats with powerful beasts and hideous reptiles. All his love affairs had gone wrong, the Kings he had performed great deeds for had cheated him out of his rewards and he had spent the best years of his life doing penance for crimes committed while he was not responsible for his actions. Then, to cap it all, he had died in agony. Still, after all, he had come out all right in the end. Athene had seen to it that he should be given a place for all eternity on Olympus, and no man could have asked more than to have for his own the lovely Hebe who would remain for ever young and gay.’
This last thought put a different complexion on the matter and cheered Robbie considerably. He needed no telling that he had neither the strength, the courage nor the quick wits of Hercules; but as against that, he did not expect to have to fight any fire-breathing dragons, and he did have one thing in common with the Hero—namely, the same patron. Whatever trials and tribulations might beset his path, he felt confident that Athene would arrange matters so that he, too, came out all right in the end.
Next morning, hardly able to contain his excitement, he was at the Czech Legation well before ten o’clock. Confidently announcing that he had an appointment with Mr. Havelka, he sent his name up. When a reply came down that the Minister would not be able to see him for some time, that did not in the least damp his spirits. It did not even occur to him that Havelka had not actually promised him a job and might not have found one for him. He sat down opposite a large portrait of the President of the Czechoslovakian Republic, and just let his thoughts drift.
Three-quarters of an hour later, a middle-aged man with hair cut en brosse, a blue jowl and a small paunch, who looked as though he ought to be wearing a Gestapo uniform and carrying a gun, entered the hall, halted in front of Robbie, gave a jerky bow and said: ‘Cepicka.’
‘Oh—er—yes.’ Robbie quickly stood up. ‘My name is Grenn. How d’you do?’
‘Mistair Grenn,’ nodded the other, then went on in Czech: ‘Pan Havelka tells me you speak our language. He regrets not to receive you, but he has a great deal of work. He asks that you place yourself in my hands. Come with me, please.’
‘By all means,’ smiled Robbie, turning instinctively toward the stairs. It was only as Mr. Cepicka turned in the opposite direction, towards the door to the street, that Robbie noticed that he was carrying a hat. When he reached the door, he put on the hat, with the remark: ‘It is not far, so we will walk.’ Much puzzled, Robbie caught him up and strode along beside him. Sekeri Street debouched on to the broad Leoforos Vasilissis Sofias Boulevard, on which the British Embassy lay, but was nearer the centre of the city. Twice Robbie attempted to start a conversation with his companion, but the gorilla-like Mr. Cepicka replied only in monosyllables. Having covered a few hundred yards, they reached Constitution Square. Maintaining a stolid silence, Cepicka walked purposefully across it and entered a turning just off Karageorgi Street. A little way along it, he turned into an alley that broadened out into a small courtyard. In the centre grew a gnarled olive tree; at the sides there were two small private houses, a shop that sold bales of coarse silk, and a travel agency. Cepicka marched into the latter and said abruptly to a tall, thin young man behind the counter: ‘Comrade Krajcir. He is expecting me.’
‘Yes, Comrade Cepicka,’ replied the young man quickly, with a nervous smile. ‘Please come this way.’
He ushered them into an inner office. There, behind a desk, a plump man of about forty was sitting. He had very black hair that grew low on his forehead, dark eyes under bushy brows, a rather round face and a dimpled chin. He stood up and shook hands solemnly with Cepicka, who said: ‘I bring you the young man about whom the Comrade Minister spoke to you on the telephone.’ Then he turned to Robbie and added:
‘This is Comrade Marak Krajcir. He is in charge here and will provide for you the employment that you asked Pan Havelka to find for you.’
Comrade Krajcir smiled, displaying a gold tooth at the left side of his upper jaw, and held out his hand to Robbie. Taking it in a firm grip, Robbie bowed over it, murmured his own name, and said how happy he was to know Mr. Krajcir.
The blue-jowled, unsmiling Comrade Cepicka announced that, having executed the orders he had been given, he would leave them and, with a curt nod, made his exit.
The more amiable Krajcir invited Robbie to sit down, asked him if he was willing to start work right away and, on receiving a reply in the affirmative, informed him of the office hours he would be expected to keep. He then proposed a wage that was little more than a pittance, but added that a handsome commission would be given on all business brought to the agency.
It was barely ten minutes since Robbie had left the Czech Legation, and all this had happened so quickly that his slow mind had not yet taken in its full significance; so, ever eager to please, he agreed enthusiastically.
Only after having been introduced to the other members of the staff, and finding himself rubber-stamping a thick pile of travel folders, did it fully come home to him that he had been had for a mug.
Mr. Havelka happened at about that time to give a thought to Robbie, and he smiled in his little black beard. He felt that in this matter he had good reason to congratulate himself on having eaten his cake and kept it, too. He could take kudos from his superiors for having caused the British Ambassador to lose face by taking his nephew into his employment, yet he had placed Robbie as a stooge in the Czech Travel Agency, where he could not possibly find out any secrets.
That was what Mr. Havelka thought and, had he had only Robbie to deal with, he would have been right. Understandably, he had not taken Pallas Athene into his calculations and, as she was o
n Robbie’s side, before Mr. Havelka was very much older he found, to his fury and alarm, that he had been entirely wrong.
6
The Amateur Cracksman
That night Robbie again seriously contemplated throwing in his hand. He had thought himself such a clever fellow to have talked Havelka into promising to find him a job, and it had never for a moment occurred to him that the job would not be in the Legation. But he now saw that, even if Havelka had believed his assertion that he had Communist sympathies, the Minister would never have been fool enough to give the nephew of the British Ambassador any employment which might enable him to secure knowledge of secret transactions.
In vain he racked his brains for some other line of approach by which he might ferret out the truth about the Czecho-Greek oil-tobacco deal. He could think of none. Yet, having had such high hopes of achieving, for the first time in his life, something worth while by his own initiative, to admit defeat after less than a week of endeavour would mean a humiliation almost beyond bearing.
After much cogitation, he decided that he could at least put off swallowing that final bitter pill as long as he continued to work at the Travel Agency, and that, while there, it was just possible that a new way of trying to achieve his object might occur to him; so next morning at eight o’clock, he duly reported for duty.
Comrade Krajcir’s staff consisted of a Mrs. Sebesta, a greyhaired woman of uncertain age, with a determined chin and an ugly wart on her left cheek, who acted both as Krajcir’s No. 2 and his secretary; a tall, young man with thin, receding fair hair, named Rudolph Pucik; and Ludmilla Duris, a brunette in her early twenties with a good figure, who would have been decidedly pretty had not her brown eyes been small and close-set. The last two took turns in answering enquiries at the counter and, when not so engaged, in sorting folders and addressing envelopes.
Mayhem in Greece Page 8
